She’s a fiction,
humming my soul’s frequency
while her fingers trace dead language
over my skin, an illusion to be
worshiped, a god to be honored,
a figure to hide from,
a curse the vengeance of which you seek out,
the destruction she reeks you bask in,
she’s a fiction and yet none more than me,
so perhaps we’ll be well together.
April Michelle Wolverton
The Late Mourn
Names, like sugarcubes, were of little importance then,
melting in the sweet,
and flowing as a fountain from the corner of my mouth.
This was how, draining steadily, I came to water the blooms–
pop, popping in!
Bones, stem, and peeling skin.
A clay pot, I was, for her suffering,
holding, holding, her frightened ash.
O, if I was a stone, inanimate and obscene,
I stood so without a rage,
for I feared not the drifting turn of her hands,
plucking, petals, petals.
But her sobs,
they became the train that broke my silence,
her heart, her railroad, thrumming to the echo
of the late mourn coming to keep.
We brought her the garden, planted her deep inside,
and stood quietly while the hands bent beneath the soil.
She is the garden, checkered with lillies, light,
and this red, red, room.
Michael Bernard Panasuk
Here’s a message
For all the souls
Trolling the universe
For an answer
To the meaning of life:
To put you on hold,
Our next answer tech
Will assist you shortly”
After eternity ends.
Poem written while
Looking into a mirror
Resounding in a puddle
That sloshes back and forth
In your shoe
Is the energy of all the waves
Of the world and the
Frayed ends of the
Fabric of freedom
Listen as I drop mirrors
Like clover to cover
Exercise the instrument
Forget the way home
Cradle myself in a
Basket of moonshine
Travel the guts
Of your thoughts
On my way to get lost
Invent the suicide machine
Then murder it with a toy
Vent the sky
Peel the sun
Eclipse the code
And read it in reverse
Sean C. Bowen aka yesk
i’m feeling like classic 3 chord punk rock
broken promises are fuel
here is a thought – you are defeating/i am breaking
my world intruded when i trusted you to teach me
even sweet surrender is rejected, and there is silence again
weakness is burden
i will die fighting
loneliness is a blessing and besides…it’s what i owe
the gent less touch is emotional violence yet i still also caress
this love…i mean…the cost of caring..i mean…
the thing is….
what i mean to say is…..
i’m trying to say that……
touch is welcomed pain
let’s fill our cups and drink to touching shall we?
here is a note to myself – “Sean, you are the queen of denial”
i can’t pretend to refuse to be a dominant male (ballad of a liar)
writing provides comfort for my afflictions
peas and carrots as forrest said.
happiness was outlined in chalk, i swear i seen it laying there!
this art of frustration is commanded not by me
kiss me or kill me but don’t you dare waste my fucking time]
it’s the same difference.
the way in which it stands is a losing battle
what do you say we talk about this over dinner?
we can drive to the city and see the flaming lips after
don’t forget the film for the camera
i have a better idea-
let’s stay home where it’s familiar
we can watch “a clockwork orange” for the umpteenth time
score a bag
and fall asleep by 9