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Kara Jean May 2016
The world is not complex
People just say it is to hide their *******, excuses for self justification
Let us give them our admiration for their condescending inspiration
Lonely is fun when your enticingly crazy
Never entirely board when your consumed in self argumentative rambling
A gesture I call exciting
I don't deny the chaos erupting from my skulls siding
Nor should anybody
I have a tendency of getting delighted the moment I put my animosity on display
It's kind of like my you have a "blessed day"
Yes I'm ok
I have daily meetings with the counselor in my head and he
said this is progress
I added more
Wk kortas Nov 2017
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.

Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location*.

You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
elle Sep 2018
Turn your need up!

plastic bags slide cross the floor of this ***** bus
pavement swimming down below
as we ride through new snow
(churning now to gray)

“Turn the heat up!
my feet are frozen"

and my dreams too.
into pictures that frame the world outside this bus
hypnotizing,
colored-dread.

A fevered sleep
so far away and weeping-

cold woke us today and from now on

(but for now I’m on this bus)
starved for more,
more waiting in your hot car

icicle clinging to your siding, wood in your fire burning,
a fixture of the season

since the innocent incentive to stick around has died
I’m sorry,
I keep waking you up all night.

..start a journey in my head
to find myself plastered to your skin in bed
and these ******* squeaky floors..

I can’t let go of you
How do you say goodbye so softly?
How do you say goodbye with half-closed eyes?

Turn your need up!
Cling to me!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara/the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-*****,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?
stephanie Jan 11
step into the cold night
my boots crunching in the snow
to the spot behind my house
where i can smoke without feeling
completely judged.
listening to soft beats in my ears
my hands are cracked and cold
lifting the fire to my teeth.
the stars are out, though
and i can see the moon above the trees.
i’m by myself in this corner of
siding and snow
my feet are starting to freeze to the ground
but somehow it’s worth it
when i can see the faint snowfall
in the light of the midnight street lamp.
6 minutes of crisp freedom and solitude
i think i might have another one.
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
Black Gods come from things w/in the Body & the Heat
of the poet from Space facing the Dead beautiful heady snooch         going to the Earth
in her bare feet;       Queen for years of the Bright White
places
things do;            Young thought **** art Green left big America
said Golden living hereto,                            beauty's mind-poetry
finds the Goddess Sun's ancient money,       Puck City War
**** death
hard *******,         great start to w/ ***** & the future seas ******
skin
calling up her room,           female hands;        
words of the poet's six kids,                               six hairs times six
fire thinking noun street wife lost real call knew the dream baby;
the Middle blue door true to the lives of a better history of the Moon & Sky making the stock boy Igor childless & drunk,
an American told him to open the universe w/ his hands of gold;
heard time English human father ***** water heaven
cold drinks write bad Greek siding w/
what kind of person is born to children, counting three yellow stones
turned inside out     & walking;  
the heart's work full of the truths of the high curves of Medusa,
leaving small Holy widely read books feeling ****,
son of spiritual stars in the state of nature's walking Hole,
Barbie a *** kid wild in the Brown Year of the red painted cat-lady
writing w/ her mouth; the guy running to her arms is her best friend
going deeper into the century's form of the invisible mother standing
w/ her lips full but keeping the French windows
closed where Ivan's Sweet Secret Society's yucky Russians
                         speaking dogs'                            ****** soul's
brain story's perfect music for girls in the field
of evil voices smoking a lot & dancing;
                         the guy's reading matters
                                           in the mirror
of modern poem,             revolutionary
under the big, big banner of
the Bund, asking reality to talk to her sister-turned-stripper
wearing the walls of the House of Sand sensing
fingers of Christ's career free Clubs Eating School
        Kissing Dead Strippers;
        here the standard ***** waits for the robot to be brought
into the heat of her legs;
she married the pretty Silver Lord's
falling tree;     the       air & land rich w/ the smell of Magic's
powerful science of mom and daughter's **** birth dreaming
on the floor,
                            the painting of prophetic gods
in the garden of language;
unknown & sacred, turning to Alchemy
w/ a friendly blonde sitting beside the wall of Park Avenue,
                             living atop the machine origin of *******;
in bed watching the cops at six o'clock, surely    their eyes
& toes were the genius of Mary's angels   & w/in the meeting
she fell down where the poet wrote of cool,    buried loved
on sight & hairy, leaves on her knees in the windy knowledge
                                                       of angels glass tabletops
asleep
in the center of the burning daughters,
fat so as it is written starting in the flesh of Bettie
changing into a monster in flames;           paradise w/out Einstein's
drinking the news talking about being leather,
pregnant & broken, guns holding her tongue,
the stranger kills w/ his teeth,            naturally
the radio deserted the public                      playing w/ a gun,
he ***** a teenager holding ladies at bay w/ food;
Gypsy wrongs for the smoker's corner,  sounds move waves
                         in the Christian temples her **** is watched,
  ***** stupidly,          she takes Chinese Computer Courses,
reading the lights of Skinny Bob's Muses & kissing him
upon his return to the witch taking the town by
ode enough & she being empty, felt alive & stood
in the plastic south wind;       I Remember
her abstract **** walking through the ground snow
in one stocking, the adversary going to the dance
of her corporate clothes, her bottom met simply on the planet
of Crazy ****,  meaning she understood the Hidden Shadows
every second ever speaking
calling her to bring the ghost beats & feeling her laying
down on knowing Stars Caught in her lover Dawn's
sweaty *******,                          sexually Eve & Jack give
thanks to the cut,                           live & unseen thinking
of the early ****
of the goddesses standing straight     in the single picture
of *****'s ****** on the warm streets leading
to the mad love of mankind's plurality looking strangely
& moving the older Jewish happy faces turning its glory
literally in half,    she began, Hey!                 Mistress of the opposite
                   happening
beneath the much wider falling Autumn leaves
                                  from the Trees on the Hills
j Jan 27
it’s really late and you look annoyed at being awoken at such an early late hour but you also look so soft and small? and yeah, i’m freezing but i’m suddenly warm at the sight of you?

god. i’m sorry. honestly. scoot over, give me some space. don’t turn around, or we’ll be siding face-to-face. is it okay if i wrap my arms around your waist?

yes. thanks. but now i’m wide awake. your minty shampoo is loud i can almost smell its taste. if i nuzzle my face against your neck, does your breath hitches because my nose is cold or because of something else?

oh. you twist in my arms and turn around. the moonlight brings out the chocolates in your eyes and the soft tilt of your mouth; a sleepy smile. your hands are cold, but i don’t mind when your fingertips trace my face, down to my neck, down to my chest. a trail of what, i don’t know, but you leave it behind. a trail of petals? goosebumps? burns?

and then your mouth is on mine, and it doesn’t taste as devine as i thought it would. it tastes like mint, like your shampoo or toothpaste. your hands are on my face. you’ve got me breathless.

but you’re kissing me goodnight, isn’t that right? you part away with a sigh then turn to face the other side. we’re giggling for a minute, louder than the moonlight, but then you start to fall asleep, and i start to fall in love.
i’m not cold anymore
KM Hanslik Aug 2018
I wanna over-withdraw you like
the figures in my bank account,
numbers dropping like the autumn temps
me falling twice as fast
I want to glaze you over like the perfect picture
a remedy for broken panes & broken bones;
your fingers are just warm enough to
hold me through the winter
your eyes are just enough to
keep me once the spring comes
(keep me in this summer forever)
keep my spine alive with
sticky pretty half dark things,
keep it growing out of the top
of my head like lightning
coming and going and never staying
but if what we are is half as much (half as much as this feels)
I think I'd like to keep this
I think we are a time bomb
but we've enough time left on our clocks to figure out how to
reverse detonate,
we've enough time to
fill the cavities in our chests,
rest yourself against my collarbones and
plant flowers in my hair,
we are building up for
a big one, we are around 2 feet tall when we lay down
& we are another train wreck behind
the bullets that rattle rusted siding,
shake our homes clean from this disaster
shake us clean from ourselves;
we are
a slow one, slipping our hands around
barbed wire to loosen its grip,
I am another thing busted, dusty in the dark but
together we are reverse engineering
the blueprints that set our hearts in stone
we are chiseling away at it
tomorrow it will be
two and two together writing
a different set of scripts.

— The End —