in better times, I remember I
began getting quite arrested, like
a ****** susp., by
Harmonía, which keeps serving
to this day as a source of both psychic sunlight
and real enjoyment (sometimes)
which is somewhat funny co[ɑ]mbined
with the fact it was a summer month I
started getting more in—volved in thI̲s diversion
summer twenty fourteen
which means she's something I have bE̲E̲n exploring
for... um... already more than
a decade, like rotten souls of autocratic rogues
["decayed"]
but it's a mite bigger story
given the fA̲ct I'd known
and been sort of into her some years before then
she can be so diverse, from natural
to artificial & including parts of both
plenty of heartbeat types & tempos
and vibes: from nice & mellow
to harsh & evil, from bright to dismal
from refined & regal to energized & feral
she can pep up automotive-buzz-replete strolls
she's there for you in times you feel low
and any kind of insult is something she won't
ever do, unlike a lo[ɑ]t of people; I can hardly be called
jolly, like a harlequin lo[ɑ]cked within walls
of a go[ɑ]ddamn mental
["Harley Quinn"; "Gotham"]
asylum, but I'm undisputably
glad there was an o[ɑ]pportunity
for me to be introduced to her
and all the gO̲O̲d 'bout her cited through the verse
is why I'm glued to her, like a woman's fourth
point of contact
["glutes o' her"]
not a single day of mine is thrO̲U̲gh sans her
but if you think I'm alluding to[—]wards
a close other, you have sure
misunderstood the verse (some of it)
[Unlike Pluto has a tune being, as it's stated by him, "a love song as a metaphor for alcoholism"]
[it's called "Ethel", which is a homophone for "ethyl"]
————————————————————————————————
for I'm not one with a people-oriented frame
of mind, but a music nerd
with a broad extent of taste
for music, but one whO̲ prefers
mostly middle-paced
and boomy forms
of it, such as midtempo bass
midtechno, EDM glitch hop, moombahcore
drift phonk "*******", like a *****'s brain
moombahton, & 2000s reggaeton
but some years ago, when old & new reports
of injustices of the human world
next to the discontent of daily adult-hood were serv—
—ing as ****** fuel in terms
of the ignition of the stupid urge
to get something (boo!) destroyed
to bring against injustice-contributing jerks retribution earned
a craze for more dark-sounding, brutal sorts
of tunes was formed as a substitution for
destruction, like any amusement's purp.
["distraction"; "purpose"]
along with music, another gO̲O̲d means for
getting through the murk
has been, like when a whip's coming thrO̲U̲gh keen curves
sideways with its wheels sliding through the course
of it, creative writing, putting words (mislead)
["creative riding"; "ᵖᵤᵗᵢⁿ words"]
into this seductive-looking form (indeed)
————————————————————————————————
and I really was thinking after the last-done work
(that killing joke tale)
that I won't manage to craft one more (usual thoughts)
took 3 & a half months burned (for the most part)
and the thought of o[ɑ]bligation to wha[ʌ]t's been saving
me from ending up in a darker place in
order to undertake an—other rhyme creation
(hopefully not the last one, but I can't be sure)

You left our bed at morning’s sigh,
A fleeting kiss, a soft goodbye.
The stars still clung to dawn’s sky,
Now tears and time just linger by.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

The bangles hum your name till dawn,
The shadows sway, their light withdrawn.
My soul’s a flame, its spark long gone,
Your absence weaves my fears till morn.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

The sheets still hold your fading warmth,
But cold winds chant a lonesome storm.
My heart, once full, now frays, forlorn,
Each clock’s slow tick a wound reborn.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

No message comes, no whispered word,
No echo from that town unheard.
My wedding joy, now grief’s own bird,
This bridal bloom, once bright, now blurred.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

I light the lamp, I breathe your name,
The night returns with wind and flame.
Alone, I bear a wife’s soft shame,
Yet in my heart, you’re still the same.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.



© Susanta Pattnayak

Summer Cut

The sun hangs low, a golden sigh,
As dusk rolls in across the sky.
We’re side by side in evening’s hum,
The mower growls, the constant drum.

You push the line with steady grace,
Sweat like diamonds on your face.
That tank top clings in all the right ways—
I pause my task, caught in a daze.

Your hips, the sway, the strength, the fire—
Even in work, you spark desire.
Each pass you make, each blade you bend,
Turns labor into sweet pretend.

I watch from far, heart in a race,
Wanting more than just this space.
Your body glows in fading light—
You, the heat, this perfect night.

We finish slow, the yard laid bare,
Your fingers pulling loose your hair.
You glance at me with that old spark—
And just like that, I lose the dark.

The hose runs cold, but the shower waits—
Steam will rise, as passion wakes.
Hands will find familiar skin,
And what we start out here, begins within.

The grass is done, the stars climb high—
But darling, it’s your moan, not the sky,
That I’ll replay when day is through—
You, the night, and all we do.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

The Space Between Sand and Skin

You kissed me in camo beneath morning light,
Orders in hand, boots laced up tight—
New ring still warm on your finger’s grace,
Gone too soon, with fire on your face.

You left for a land of endless dust,
While I stayed back with memory’s rust.
The house is haunted not by ghosts,
But echoes of what I feared the most.

Your scent on sheets, your laugh in rooms,
Wake the war drums, old perfume—
I tried to bury all that hell,
But love like yours became the shell.

Nights drag slow through sleepless fights,
Flashbacks lit by bathroom lights.
I count each breath, I grip the floor,
Then whisper your name like a whispered war.

But God—when you’re back for those fleeting weeks,
No words, just skin, no need to speak.
You crash into me like the ocean’s roar,
I drown in you, beg, and ask for more.

Your body—battle-hardened, bold—
Takes me places I used to hold.
In that heat, we shed the weight,
Of every bomb, every twist of fate.

Then gone again—you disappear—
And I’m left clutching what feels like fear.
But this time love is my parade,
And in its arms, I’m less afraid.

Come back to me, my fire, my flame—
Each day I wait, I whisper your name.
You wear the uniform, I wear the scars,
But we still meet beneath the stars.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Something Beautiful After

I didn’t expect to want again. Touch had become a memory, a ghost I nodded to in passing—familiar, but too far.

Then you walked in like a secret I didn’t know I was still allowed to want. Not loud. Not demanding. Just sure.

Your hands didn’t ask questions—they knew answers. Like they’d waited their whole life
to map this skin I’d buried under silence.

You kissed me like it wasn’t a reward, but a right—like you’d earned it just by seeing me
and staying.
Staying when I trembled.
Staying when I burned.

This isn’t a rebound.
This is a rise.

There’s something holy in how you undress me—not just my body, but the layers I kept hidden even from myself.

With you, it isn’t just passion—it’s permission.

To want.
To ache.
To feel everything again.
Lips like an offering.
Fingers like truth.
Breathless doesn’t mean broken anymore.

You don’t heal me—you remind me I’m already healing. That I’m not ruined, I’m ripe.

And now—now I know the difference between being needed and being wanted.
And God, you want me. Like fire wants air. Like night wants skin. Like I want you—with everything I was once afraid to give.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

it
i
it remains empty, so empty.
would you write into it endlessly,
would you writhe inside of it fervently
please ugly please