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"I have turned around twice with my eyes sealed
and the woods were white and my night mind
Saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal
And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course
to look-this inward look that society scorns
Still, I search these woods and find nothing worse
Than myself, caught between the grapes and thorns."
Anne Sexton, Kind Sir-These Woods

Examine the looking glass
And confront the sleep-deprived coward,
Who wastes away his hours
In a forsaken tower.

Uncomfortably sporting skin I deprecate,
The skin of a hypocrite I've endeavored to escape.
Hankering for an empathetic reader to
Not pass these words by,
Because by circumstance, they can relate.

What state of mind would an artist
Be in without an audience?

One that is unfulfilled, starving, and jarring,
His or her work habitually
Unnoticed in enveloped darkness,
Then discovered a millennium later
Like a caveman's carvings.

But I am hardly an artist,
And that which is inducing your eyes
To sway left to right is not worthy
Enough to be classified as a work of art.
I am certain my mediocrity has worsened thus far,
Or it may be that I'm simply playing a card.

Either way, I would not blame
The aforementioned, hypothetical reader
For not making it this far.
My apologies, the blueprint I had in mind,
In the process of writing,
Became unintelligibly marred,
Like an optimistic womb-man
Relinquishing a newborn
From her blood-splattered ******.

A month or two ago, my oldest brother Tay
Directed a question towards me.
He inquired as to whether or not I loved myself.
I was ashamed to give him an earnest answer.
Yes I could have lied, but a lie only does so much concealing....
I have said too much already,
And I realize what you're reading is much too revealing,
Loathsome and lonesome as I am...

For Anna, poetry was primarily
A psychological exorcism of inner demons,
And for me it's the same.
I also throw parties for them,
Which are organized by someone very close to me,
He goes by Pity.

It's possible that he has inspired
The spontaneous, salty droplets of water
Emerging from my eyes while I sleep,
Explaining why I've occasionally awoken with damp cheeks.
His most cherished companion is a former Christian
Hell-bent on personal redemption.
It's quite easy to see how my interdependent desires,
Thoughts, and actions are in continual contradiction.

I dabbled in a taboo I'd never thought I'd stoop to,
And consequently I'm confronted with
The stigma I've been reduced to.
I pursued a thrill until it
Transformed into an obsession,
Now I glance at the looking glass,
Unable to bear my own presence.



Originally written in 2013
Revised in 2014


(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
gabrielle boltz Feb 2015
something
in the way you say
"i love you"

sounds wrong.
off.
unintelligibly dishonest
     in a way that
          i can neither
               prove,
                    nor disprove.

you bring me flowers,
     kiss my forehead

but white roses
     are forgiveness -
          or at least thats
               what nana said -
and your lips
     are a desert
          when i always
               preferred the beach -
                    but you know that.

subconsciously
     i'm searching, begging, yearning for something,
          anything; obvious evidence
               that this is

         all
         in
         my
         head.

because it could be.

i could be as crazy as i feel.

                          but i have no such evidence,
                                and

     something
     in the way you say
     "i love you"

     sounds wrong.
     off.
     unintelligibly dishonest
          in a way that
               i can neither
                    accept,
                         nor deny.

but i have to
because otherwise

          there is nothing left.
and if there is nothing left,
i was wrong.
chachi Sep 2010
Down the road a sign is flashing
its neon glow the single spot of illumination
in this darkness. Flashing intermittently, unintelligibly
illegible to me from this distance. My eyes so weak
the night so powerful the sign so far away, so meek,
alone. Is it as lonely as I am?

But then it stops. Not slowly
all at once. One moment On, Off, On, Off,
Off, Off, Off... I wait.

My friend come back, come back
tell me why have you stopped flashing?
I was never able to get close to you
not even close enough to read the message
you sent into the night for me.

Did your owners turn you off?
are you asleep? are you hiding?
why? For what reason did you leave me
alone standing in the dark
no single spot of illumination without you
here, were you afraid of what was in my heart?
Lucky Queue Aug 2014
the bass and horn and drums blare
all in a sudden wave of noise that ebbs
and flows
washing over the barbican center in resounding and quieting washes of color
and sound and music and flavor and passion and life
and reverberating through my bones
the geeks and nerds around me get up to retreat from the music or else head closer
the ones in front of the band whoop and shout
as the guy by the mike announces unintelligibly
perhaps the song and band
but will anyone remember once the passion and music is over?
no matter
all i care about right now is the faint sushi like taste in my mouth, of cucumbers and tuna, from my sandwich
and the disappearing,
fading buzz from the back of my plastic seat
as the music and the noise from the band
ever so slowly
quickly
dies
9.8.14
wow its been a while since ive written, but i got a sudden burst of inspiration from the band playing here
its lunchtime in london and wikimania is exciting
hopefully more poetry will spill out soon
SOLD TO THE DEVIL
Life to human perception it’s logic,
I see Life as a gift, life is precious,
Preset death for life to end is evil,
Who has a right over life?
Only he who gave life is trope,
Human, Nature, Love and Command
God made it that way,

Money, fame and celebrity for
Misery and vulnerability, life is no more,
Unintelligibly death barely noticed,
Why willing the riches of the witches,
This world is no more,
You sold your soul to the devil,
Questioning all the suffering your life
For unnecessary fortune to spend on your
Last quartern

What kind of a covenant signed through blood
And blood sharing of the innocent?
Is it the work of a devil or the word?
Only the blood of Christ for the covenant,
You sold your soul to the devil,

God cast the demon on earth for he knew
The power vested in us, with grace
We are blessed to defeat this demon
A noble purpose inspires sacrifice,
Stimulates innovation and advocate perseverance
We are blessed we are blessed
i struggle to dam an ocean but it presses up against the walls until they crack
and salt erodes my twisted face
the room blinks faster but the water won't stop rushing down
flooding this closed off space that doesn't belong to me
i block off my mouth against the tide of the sound that will
inevitably shake its way loose from my anchored chest
but i can't block off my mind against the tide of thought that will inevitably shake its way loose from my anchored head

water boils faster when salt is added
i struggle to dam an ocean but it presses up against the walls until they crack
and fog rolls into my eyes from the darkened shore
the scorching sunlight rises in my cracking chest
i open my mouth and the gulls cry
unintelligibly
they circle and they circle
their screams ringing, echoing, fading unnoticed

i reach out for something, anything to keep from being dragged away by the tide but find only sand slipping between my fingers and under my nails and salt in my eyes
and in my mouth
and in my throat
and in my lungs
and then there is only night
W Winchester Mar 2015
when I wanted to turn my wrists into christmas gifts and slice them with paper cutters to see if I could find a better tomorrow written in my veins

where were you

when I wanted to pour my tears into a Xanax and Clorox cocktail and get buzzed on the thought of angel wings tearing my back open

where were you

when I took a heart shaped box full of rotted sweets and poured it in the gasoline that lit our first kiss, watching the good intentions burn to ash on the pavement

where were you

when I tore up the tear-stained ink-heavy pages of love notes and tossed them into my backyard stream

where were you

when I took off the bracelet you made me and tied it to the traffic sign on the bridge where the police found me

where were you

when I was handcuffed to a bench in a stone holding room singing our song over and over again, screaming unintelligibly at every officer who asked for my name

where were you

when I called every night, wondering why you decided not to speak to me anymore

where were you

when I checked my messages and saw "*****" where I said "sweetheart", "******* ******" where I said "I'm sorry."

where were you

when I tied my last hope to a tree on the beach and swung from it

where were you

when I prayed the rope would snap just as easily as my heart did

where were you

when I stood on your doorstep in the rain, wishing that I didn't remember your address

where were you

when I was passed out on the curb, drunk and alone

where were you

when I was curled under a desk, screaming at the rain and kicking the locked doors

where were you

when I was at the cliffs, counting the jutted rocks and trying to measure the exact angle I would need to fall

where were you

when I finally decided enough was enough,
and took every piece of my glass heart and used it to carve a new person

But love,

where were you

when I needed someone to hold me while I was hurting?
me? bitter? nah
Ronald Jones Dec 2016
i am walking towards sunset and gower in hollywood, california

an aged man tap dances for me in the echoing garage of a foreclosure

a bug is sleeping between the quick and the dead when a raindrop falls on it, jolting it flamboyantly

a small boy with perfectly combed and pomaded hair, and carrying a briefcase, follows proudly his mother (?) down the sidewalk

a ***'s heavy load is thrown over his other shoulder in a bright spank of sun

a rare yugo parked in the driveway of a duplex, egg splatter drying across taillights and rear window

the crass bebop step of an old ******* nearing the ***** section of the sidewalk newstand

a sudden gust of wind flattening the fur of a standing collie

a silver/gray tourist bus passes slowly, the voice of the driver unintelligibly droning energetically

i open the screen door of roscoe's house of chicken and waffles, and see a vacant table by the window
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Thou Ethiopian muse of mine: attend.
Now let my words wound souls and after, mend.
It’s time to slay some golden calves and knock
Some gods from off their pedestals. Let’s rock.
(I’d like my veal in gold-dust, with a side
Of injured Afrocentric racial pride.
)

Moses cut an oppressor down, who bled…
Moses buried him in the sand, then fled.
(Every ****** son of Adam bleeds out red.)
Midian offered shelter to the killer.
I hope you like my prefatory filler . . .

Remember in the desert how the tribes
Put up with Moses’ scolding diatribes,
Yet quickly fell for Aaron’s baby bull?
They paid for it, the half and then in full
By wandering around for forty years
And drinking bitter waters (Moses’ tears).
They even whined about his sultry bride;
Not Zipporah—his later, darker ride.
Let Ethiopia rise. She still is blameless
And Moses’ second wife here lauded nameless.

Discerning Israel means: there once were slaves.
Egyptians know the God of Hebrews saves.
Yehudah is no more the chosen clan
Than Joseph is old Pharaoh’s right-hand man.
And who is freed from *******, and who’s not
Should make us pause—observe . . . then think a lot.

Some tribes are pale-faced, others darker still.
And none can claim to grasp God’s perfect will.
Let **** haters rise—and leave the room.
Black racists too, be gone; and I’ll resume
My question: who’s oppressed, and who’s a grifter . . .
And how a curse descends, and what’s the lifter.
Perhaps you are a Hebrew . . . yet, some curse
Is evident in how you make things worse
By raging over long-past wrongs and rights
(Passive-aggressive lovers’ quarrel with whites…)
While Indo-Europeans watch the fun,
All Asia sighs, and prays God’s will be done.

Noah’s second grandson, Canaanite cow,
Oh golden calf, toward whom we’re forced to bow,
You sure can DANCE, and jump, and chant bad rhymes,
Cashing that blank check for slavery’s crimes.
The state commemorates your orator;
Content of character must come later (?)
You crack us up. Pure abomination
Promoted as artistic creation.
Your tag, your name—like ***** sprayed on walls.
Your neighborhood? Wherever garbage falls.
You’re born in freedom. Now you sample beats
Enslaved to violent nonsense in the streets.
That silly slang, new sneakers, dumb fashions
Showcase well your underlying passions.
Egypt’s kings? More like bad dangerous clowns
Revealing thuggish souls in sullen frowns;
Slurring unintelligibly your words
Which leave your lips like Lucifer’s own turds.
You’re laughable in your provocation;
Begging us to adulate your nation.
We must (MUST we?) celebrate your culture
And venerate what spawns from sinful nature.

You say you have it bad, you’re still enchained;
The Civil War unfought and and nothing gained . . .
You claim to be oppressed this day and age?
It seems you’re just excusing childish rage.
Go liberate yourself then, loudmouth slave.
Prove to the world that JESUS cannot SAVE.

Victims exist, others play the Race Card,
And seek a foe to blame when life gets hard.
Or worse: demand race-based reparations
Lining bank accounts with their frustrations.
Such money has been ransomed, in the form
Of public schools and welfare. Bring your storm
Of virtue-signal cries that I’m a bigot;
But spades will be called in spades—so DIG it:
Hope you can keep those Liberals on your side,
To con them as you take them for a ride.
Don’t compromise their cluelessness. Stay woke
To keep us laughing at your ethnic joke:
Ratcheting up the destructive drama.
Hate this whiteness? My reply: Yo’ mama.
For any son can knock up any daughter
Regardless of the racial myths they taught her;
We are one species. Sorry, but it’s true.
(Wish it were not, observing some of you…)

Muse of mine, Kushitic damsel, don’t leave.
You’ve heard me out thus far. I still believe
That there’s a remnant of Man’s fallen race
Who yet can be restored by God’s own grace
Regardless of their smarts, or style, or hue.
Fear GOD and live . . . for such were some of you.
Onoma Jul 22
the weak ancestry of your menstrual
flow leaked its curse under my roof.
as the moon became an aborted
metaphor--a witch left back scavenging
for a grade of being.
making evil little faces with no magical
reserve, froggies caught in your throat.
unintelligibly shrewd pangs clamoring
for screams deep in the sticks.
with a flightless broom dry heaving
between your legs.
suze suze Sep 2017
I wish to breathe the breeze that bounced off your face
Your thought haunting every point of my brain
From the sun that sees me at dawn
To  the glittering  moon,
To the sun that sees me the next dawn,
Everyone asks-
As to why I blush?
I whisper unintelligibly -
You are the reason.
The thief of my being,
The missing piece of my puzzle,
I wait desperately for you.
Elisa Cinelli Feb 2021
I saw you on a bench in my new upscale neighborhood
muttering unintelligibly and I
walked on by, pretending I hadn’t seen you
wondering if you’d recognized me even with your poor vision the way you do sometimes because you know my shape and the hot pink of my favorite sweatshirt

We aren’t in the beach now
where love and wine and money flow freely and music is the official language
no, this is the real world where I’m a loose feather floating up and away on the breeze you’re an apple that’s fallen to the earth

If only I had sat for a moment
I meant for this to be in sickness and in health
I thought I was better and you were worse but my eyes shifted quickly away from your silhouette so now I know we’re both suffering from separate forms of the same illness
I’m sorry
Al Drood Jun 2020
Shrivelled blossom falls
from dark green hedgerows
shaken by a foreign wind.
Dust flurries whirl and eddy,
dancing, spinning along
bone-dry lanes that lead to nowhere.

Across a beige, hay-scattered paddock
wide-eyed horses shake their heads,
and skitter from fence to fence.
In the distance a young girl
shouts unintelligibly to an unseen friend,
light livid on her white t-shirt.

“Hot day,” comments a passing old man,
“Enough blue up there
to tailor the Royal Navy.”
Under his arm a folded newspaper
screams silent headlines of drought
in some foreign land.

And within me a long-dormant memory awakes,
for this is not how things should be.
I hear innocent warnings sing
down the empty, echoing centuries;
“For Summer is i-cumen in,
and Winter is a-gone . . .”

— The End —