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 Nov 2015 Lawan
Vamika Sinha
No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch
 Nov 2015 Lawan
The Dirty Vanilla
They recall far too well

They keep count
of the exact amount of
milk and sugar
in her Earl Grey tea.

They take note of
how she won’t allow
bar fruit
to swim in her drink.

They catalog the precise shades of
white, pink and red.

They never forget a body
or face.

They were unobservable last night
at dinner
with so much light mirroring
the windows

Completely unnoticed
while we staggered
between the bums and youth
of downtown.

When we danced,
when she laughed,
with her cool fingers
slick on my skull,

when the downstairs neighbors
banged on the ceiling

when she said that I was…,

I was alone with her.

But this morning,
too many hours after cocktails,
with her skin fuzzy bright
all the sun leaking in,

I could feel the metallic glint
of their stares.

Close but not too close.
not close enough to hold on to but
close.

When they took the air,
I could feel black feathers
beating my ribs.

The crows,
they know and always remember.

We eat breakfast at the diner
two blocks up the street
I shew shewed them away
while she was distracted reading the menu

but I saved the crust of my toast
to feed them later.
 Nov 2015 Lawan
Mila Berlioz
Excuses
 Nov 2015 Lawan
Mila Berlioz
"Why do you sleep so much?"
"Are you tired? You don't do anything anyway"
"Why do you lay there alone?"
"Come out of your room for once!"

To all of them, I cannot tell them I'm depressed as an answer.
I cannot open up to everyone who asks me one of those.

I, myself can't answer those questions, I guess my only answer would be, "I'm depressed as ****".
Is that even enough as an answer? Is it a valid excuse?
Am I enough?

I guess I would just answer:
I sleep so I don't have to deal with life.
Yeah I'm tired, I can't do much, I'm not good at much stuff, but I'm so mentally tired that it all becomes physical.
I like being alone so I don't have to deal with being so insecure because of how awkward I am.
I don't and I won't come out of my room; real world can't come in.

I guess those are just lazy excuses.
It's not enough.
I'm not enough.
 Nov 2015 Lawan
aviisevil
forsaken
 Nov 2015 Lawan
aviisevil
one day you might find me wandering
wondering...
in dreams and lies
beauty of your eyes
forgotten words and whispers
as I have lingered
beyond reasons
across the seasons
touch me
and I will wither
fall into pieces
like ash drifting in the air
I will be everywhere
and you will know I never left
only you never saw me burning
as I was turning
into nothing without you
Notes (optional)
 Nov 2015 Lawan
Aztec Warrior
BECOMING CONSCIOUS AFTER EATING A YELLOW MOON**


yesterday I ate a yellow moon
as it rode low, and slowly
encountered a twilight sky.
it tasted like vanilla crunch.
but you know, eating the moon
gives you a headache,
like the kind you get if your face
was slammed against the wall,
then kicked in the gut
when you were down.
the kind of headache
I’ve had since I was three;
at least that is what I was told.
I can’t remember much
about those early days.
besides the headaches,
I have been deaf since ten
and I carry a limp as well
as a glass eye
from having philosophical
discussions with each cellar step
as I bounced down.
I now find it hard to open the cellar door
cause I swear I hear crying
coming from down there.
I know it must be me
sprawled on the blood soaked floor
and I think I might go crazy
if I saw myself.

~~~

you know what’s really crazy though?
for the longest time
I loved him; would follow him
do everything I could to please him.
bring him his pipe
or the newspaper
get him coffee.
except on those days
where his eyes were red
and he stank of ****. thenI would plead:
“oh daddy. don’t be mad at me.
please don’t hit me. no,
no, not mr. johnson, that
hurts so much.
I’ll be good. I promise.”

~~~

even now, I think I love him.
I never meant to push him back,
to knock him down the stairs
I guess if I had called
the ambulance right away
everything would have been okay.
but the judge said that it was wrong
to stab him so many times;
to cut off his johnson
and stick it in his mouth.
somehow though,
I never understood why.
it’s not like he begged
for mercy
and he never once cried!

~~~

I am home now,
back from another conversation
with electricity,
sitting in my room
at St. Mary’s starring blankly
at this huge, yellow moon.
as I savor its vanilla crunch,
I am trying to understand why
I feel like I am to blame?
trying to remember if I ever smile;
work up the courage to hate him.

(Written under this pen name)
~~redzone 10/29/02
Posted as Aztec Warrior 10.31.15
I have been reading a lot of poems that deal with abuse of one shade or another and wanted to add to this conversation. This aabuse is far too widespread and need to be forced into the light of day and STOPPED.  So there are no misunderstandings, I personally have never been abused. I know of and am friends with many who have been and continue to suffer in open and internal ways too numerous to mention. I hope that perhaps knowing you are not alone in this will be helpful.   Aztec
 Nov 2015 Lawan
Carl Sandburg
GRIEG being dead we may speak of him and his art.
Grieg being dead we can talk about whether he was any good or not.
Grieg being with Ibsen, Björnson, Lief Ericson and the rest,
Grieg being dead does not care a hell's hoot what we say.
  
  Morning, Spring, Anitra's Dance,
  He dreams them at the doors of new stars.
 Nov 2015 Lawan
Rachael Judd
Pain
 Nov 2015 Lawan
Rachael Judd
I'm in pain
I cry when I wake up
And I cry when I drift to slumber
There is ache inside my heart
And my soul is lost in an abyss of darkness
There is no feeling in my fingertips
And no beating left in my chest
I'm in pain
 Nov 2015 Lawan
ahmo
black & blue
 Nov 2015 Lawan
ahmo
Purple is always construed for
those void of black and blue
but how can we see the rainbows
without the hungry,
*****,
permanently scarred faces
too?

I suppose an assumption of positivity
is about as fair as
being handed a stacked deck
where the dealer reeks
and his horns
lacerate the connection
between you and your home.

So smiles will be frowns,
and ups will be downs.

You can't ask
about
pierced noses
without asking
about pierced veins
stained a dark shade
of purple.
 Nov 2015 Lawan
moss
ninety hours
 Nov 2015 Lawan
moss
ninety hours and I still can't sleep
can't close my eyes, no not a wink
melatonin still does not seep
into my brain. I'm on the edge, the brink
of plummeting fully into this wretched insanity.
I am no longer inside of my body, though
it does not make sense. what is this calamity?
this beast that eats my sleep continues to grow
day after excruciating day.
attempting to live, I fill my veins with caffeine.
all my nights I hope and pray
for some powerful force to pry away this screen
that keeps me away from my dreams
where at least my pain isn't real
and at least people aren't deaf to my screams
when everything is what I deeply feel
including my heart dragging its feet along, loosely tied to my lungs
and my head. all I hear is thump-thump
the throbbing as I fall down the rungs
of a ladder I'll never be able to climb
and no one I know understands how
I spend hours under the moon, calculating the time
to see how much I might get "if I fall asleep right now"
but I never can because my mind is boisterously loud
and though I plead with it to just calm down
it's volume remains as that of a needy crowd
so in the sleepless noise, I continue to drown...
I have chronic insomnia, and the longest I have been without sleep is ninety hours. I did not, however, write this then because I was not even functioning, making that impossible. I wrote this yesterday when I was at about 34 hours.
 Nov 2015 Lawan
s
Untitled
 Nov 2015 Lawan
s
i find that my fingertips and
your visage are nearly inseparable;
as i trace, you smile, and the wrinkles
in your face remind me that
even the most beautiful things
can be laced with imperfection
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