Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.

Like a treacherous jungle, the world shaped its self to resemble the untamable, unforgiveable, and unimaginable creature that pounced on every crest of supple, innocent victim’s souls only to be dragged miles through painful, elongated trenches, and then expended in its entirety to recommence restructure in all new patterns of mutilated destructed forms; completely rearranged and in search for the light to guide culpable souls into worthy positions with better conditions and purer intentions.

From the inception, slithering wildly the legendarily discreet elapid serpent anticipated the fierce panthera. What was thought as a tyro odyssey, was underrated, uncreated, and translated to total transformative, love abated, accommodative, grief impregnated, planes alternated, affirmative gamboling games.

As a barbarous being, all and every cutthroat, bloated, anecdote of overdrawn, theatric fervor entered this imprudent, illuminated, and aggregated thing to fill unanswerable questions and unexplainable connections by intersecting other frantic, energetic, idiosyncratic reoccurring addicts with realms of disintegrated, hardheaded, nerve racked dreams.

The exterior scaled, degenerated able soul entangled and sacrificed minded controlled logic against the mystic, enigmatic, acidic beast. Pushing forward in the battle of cosmic evolution, a mistake making, empathic fool, inflicted from predicated illusions of heart wrenching, exploding, brooding agape for aspired end resulted, expanded frontiers.

What the scrawny, deluded fool missed were the all purposeful and most numerable senses that embrace every now where infinity spirals out related creation in the ever expandable universe that all the scavengers, hoarders, trackers, hunters, carnivores, herbivores, and the water possessed serpent misuse every now and now and now and now and again to address the real issues that are eschewed, abused, and viewed as insignificant tools that could never resolve unbearable fights within things, beings, or feelings of desertedness.

Miscommunication is everywhere and nowhere. Uncontrollable senses are everything and nothing. A constant fight within and without means nothing. Nerves we suppress and addictions we abuse. All to fill a space that exists at uncontrollable rates and lighting speeds. What is strategic logic without perceived cognizance? This is constant tumultuous idleness, sacrificed thoughtlessness, crude awareness, and unmanageable apprehension only exploited to rationalize a beast with labels, feeble doubts, to dwindle realities, and to fuel the unpeaceful balance.

The brute, that the restless, powerless, and distrustless serpent inhabited welcomes the transformative living immortal beings into the now of the hare who weakens the logic to lessened and opened tempos of the lines, spaces, and levels of the all and great smash of vast, immense potentiality of authenticity.

Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful   qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But ****, I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?  
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.

Oh, how you ***** me!
How you betrayed me!
You took away our romance!
Berated me,   
Degenerated me
At every turn of the dance!

Now, when you lied,
How I did cry.
How your mis-deeds turned me out.
I tried to forgive,
Tried to forget.
I tried to figure all this out.

Time and again
You hurt me so.
Everytime you strike with a low blow.
Shame comes to me
In memories.
I try my best to let you go.

You live to lie.
I wonder why
There is no truth inside your heart.
Your acridine,
Oscillate, shine.
You went right through me like a dart.

Where were you
When I needed someone?
You wrecked the soul  of who I used to be.
You rocked the loom.
And weaved love's tomb.
You have been the death of me.

This is the time.
I know I'll find
The strength I need to tell you so.
By this night's end,
Freedom begins.
I know I've got to let you go.

singing her melodies of torment
hiding in a chamber of lead
awakened and degenerated
yet no one seemed to care
left lies and lost love
pulling the final thread
the heaven's bled a river of red
from the fall of her severed head

Those of like mind
Stepping down corridors
Toward blurring red signs
Each extrusion an exit
Hapless movement
Containers transported
Memories and anguish
Containers transported
Into meadows of ease
Between trees minus leaves
Nothing but a reflection
Degenerated façade
Ashes vaporized with
Consciousness, my boiling
Water

My uncle died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.
It made his brain dissolve itself in nine months.
I stood next to the once-stalwart man,
With mechanic's hands,
Lying in his hospice bed
That smelled like disinfected death.
During his short stay there I heard him say
"What's happened?"
In his faltered, degenerated state.
"What's happened?"
He repeated, as he saw his withered arms,
While wearing a diaper,
Gazing around with half-empty eyes,
Grasping for some shred of light
In his shattered ruin of a mind.
The life he once made for himself is gone,
And somewhere within himself he knew it.
Somewhere that held on until his final breath,
As he shrieked with pure fear
In his final sleep.

Overlooking the back parking lot of this hospice
A playground stands, built by hand.
The children probably look over here
And wonder what this place is,
What happens here.
I'd tell them that
These are things you don't need to know.
Now go stay outside and play
While the sun is still up.

Forrest Jorgensen ©

A desperate, burgeous experience,
Warm red light sneaks through the flimsy curtain
With briefcase and notes, no interference
From reason or conscience, not too certain
About scaling the walls of nihilism
And entering the warm head of dead-space,
Expanding my languid realism,
Rushing the end like a three legged race.
In the dying ashes of apathy
I accidentally caught a glimpse:
Dark and degenerated, flayed clarity,
Depravity... Empathy... Caustic rinse,
To the bone, the skeleton is not white,
I relate most to women of the night.

that poor girl
waits & waits
   for someone to save her

her degenerated spine
crackles and moans
as she becomes nearly bent in half
   losing all support
she will soon be spineless
   an invertebrate
all because she didn't have the backbone
to save herself.

The spirit of Christmas has been frozen
with filthy black snow from your soulless heart
I'm just another broken little soldier
that with feminine claws you tear apart.

Your the feline clouds that drops relentless despair
disjointed, angry and closed from feelings
I would tear my legs from my torso to be there
when the angel of death sees your dealings.

This decaying forgotten realm you left me in
this country of the despised and degenerated
passport stamped by angry feet, whilst starving
in this cyber world I should not be craving


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

a good poem comes
from a destructive soul

agony
   pain
     heartache

every emotion
ripped to shreds

   spewed words
filled with contempt

   words that burst
from outlined fonts
to explode
before the eyes
of the willing

we seek those
who are desperate to grasp
just one sentence
of pure and utter
depravity

we don't want
   sing song

we want descriptive
paragraphs
that come from
a war torn
soul

we want
battered feelings
left to wither
and die
among the fingertips
of a keyboard

we want the depressed
degenerated
perverted
mind
to produce
a colorful, kick in your face
strangulating
paragraph
that swirls, flows
and cascades
into the thirsty heads
of the *******.


we want good poetry.

and we want it now.

Éktoras: “I come from a transposed departure that Achilles infringed on me, which in turn is based on the fearsome Acheans who will make my sorrow sensitive. My destiny was a scourge that dragged me through the outer walls very close to the upper chest where I was mortally wounded by Achilles! However, from the heroic vapors of Delphi, I was helped by Apollo. Thus it has been possible to specify that your Lymphoma is the clinical inquisition of all of us who have been assisted by Apollo in the field of Ares and that his physical examination vigorously continues with the blood tests that must be scattered in the vehement fields of the Aqueos. I know that bordering extra-lymphatic confines will no longer be protected by your Falangist comrades and that your diaphragm will lift the universe of all nations that lose and groan the pain of a hero. The painless pretenses will go through squares of distension in organs that lie on the infected tips of the Dorus. That the distances will be appeased by Apollo ..., antagonizing them as if it were the Omphalo turned into a disguised Lymphoma, which afflicts the defenses of the world and its relentless atmospheric destruction, just as it was in Santorini when Erebus moved like a spit to the core of the Kassotides in the presence of bad content in the Marmaria of Delphi, eternally in the pain of an infected world, and the bad stench of the Lymphoma that grew at colossal steps impossible to house them in their body, just as if they were a swallowed son of Zeus for the same well-accomplished sweating event. Vernarth on my back I carry your Lymphoma like a lost Universe of Pain that is constituted in its desertion, dissemination in extranodal ..., where everything deceives the revival of the physical, but always escorted by the vicinity of the Castalia of Apollo. Your shield has attached itself to the fat Ursido and the Taurus, forming the inaugural grooves of the Shield me, and of the bronze that protects the mediastinum of your body between the sternum and thorax. "My Beloved Vernarth, you have resisted the heat of 25,000 thousand degrees similar to the rays of Zeus in your entrails, making everything that invades rise in you where there is no more space than to reside with a sword that removes everything exceptional and fleshy, that It has degenerated because history has degenerated because of your Victory! Achilles has done in me what God came in me with his nations after the Mashiach did trace that region of my mesenteric artery, which is still alive in me ..., and where Achilles could not reach with the eagerness to cut my breath "Vernarth, I have come to your equanimous feet with mine and with their inaccessible bare feet, for your Kenosis that I do not doubt that it will not be deliberative when trying to drag you like me through the outside walls"

Éktora or Héctor addresses Vernarthl and applauds him at the initiation that was adjacent to the four sagites of Zefian and Wonthelimar, protocolizing the Ibics Rings of Nyons that Wonthelimar brought.

Ibico 1: "Wonthelimar brought purity, for all who needed him and out visiting in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive."

Ibico 2: ”Vlad Strigoi in the center of the ministry with the Chiroptera, and others of the mercurial ambrosia invoking the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus ”.

Ibico 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron, as if they were surrounding a Castalia for such solemnity."

Ibico 4: "The antlers of Wonthelimar, here carried the Oikos or Golden threads of Orfí for the Himatión and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the air atmospheres of the Alps and the Ida as a complement to Mycenaean-Valdaine, thus they were inaugurating solemnity and its Honorability ”.

Ibico 5: “everything became the fold of the brass that spoke of the fifth plasmatic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to praise him of the neurological hyper brain and the Duoversal of Vernarth twinned to the Mashiach, remissively rising by the medrones that were caressed by the hands of Héctor ”.

Ibico 6: "The sixth piece of crowns from Kafersesuh brought the pollinations of Lepidoptera, to the central stage of investiture under the gloom of Helleniká and Theoskepasti, where everything was the Inheritor of the older Ibix called Wonthelimar."

Ibico 7: “The dense voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus joined the Lenten fast in all the ascribed hoarse voices, inquiring the true phoneme-photon of divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron of the Ibex de Wonthelimar, up to the millimeter shoulder of the assembly of the square meters that will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera, and the Iridescent Nimbus that percussed between the Áullos Kósmos and the Vas Auric "

Acting either fake or like no one else is more real,
so how's it true that anyone really cares how i feel.
Senselessness, right in my home's illogicality,
how am i suppose to make sense of this reality?
And all that is ever not working is their broken mentalities.
Everything that I've set my mind for has been firing back,
and an original solution is something others simply lack.
Why am I feeling so degenerated, 
it's because my senses are irritated:
hurts to feel,
all smells rotten,
and every taste of color has been intimately forgotten.
All I see is problems and everything I hear is cotton.
Maybe it's just time to find a new moral doctrine. 
Don't be scared,
the numb pain visits me every night,
just be sure to buckle your seats and hold on tight.
You've been on a ride going through my mind,
and this won't happen at just any time.
And especially now don't forget how are these words are mine.
I was left here,
morals and chance chose my path,
and if you'd say any different you would face my wrath.
It's dark here, 
and if no light shows no light reflects, 
coldness and hostility is all I can detect.
Don't let me rot here,
like all the others before you,
I hope by now this is a fine picture I drew.
I hate here,
I'm the points that I make and each rebuttal is a step you take.
And wherever you're walking I hope you have not begun
cause the chances of my following you are slim to none.

"Fake news, fake news!"
The boy cried fake news every time a story
failed to paint him in the most positive possible light,
neglected to deify him in the most sunny way.
He denounced, decried and denigrated
reporters who would check with two more sources
if their moms claimed to love them
the way their ink-stained forebears did.
He attempted to discredit truth-seekers
who actually had stricter codes of ethics than doctors,
cops, actuaries,  
any profession really.

The callow boy cried fake news so much that
his most loyal followers shouted “fake news” out car windows
at TV reporters reporting on alligators that crossed the street,
fired drive-by potshots at newsrooms out of sheer lunacy.
The boy cried fake news so much
that he did protest too much, that his cries sounded fake,
that his credibility strained
against the press corps who produced
backing documents, audio recordings and multiple sources.
The boy cried fake news so much
it degenerated into cliche and ceased to mean anything at all.

The boy cried fake news at a time when the news
felt financial pressured into running clickbait articles like
“Eight Hanukkah Lessons I Learned from
Smoking a Menorah ****”
or the “12 Most *** Days of Christmas.”

Oh you know her?
She likes you
She wants you
She's into you
Go for it man
Go for it Zack
Go for it Bud
And then, standing,
Choking on the words I pretend to mutter
Sputtering with embarrassment at not being heard
But unable to speak louder
Caged behind a wall of glass emotion
Colorless
Odorless
Painless
The pane holds it in
So I let nothing out
Blank expression
Relaxed body language
Are you tired?
Yeah, I had a late night
Not a lie
But not the truth
Hide behind the sleep
Or the ****
Keep to myself
Who cares to know me?
Listen instead
Learn secrets
Maybe about you
Maybe about other people
Could be interesting
Uninterested
Wonder if I look that way to the customers
They tip well
or not at all
Hard to tell
Spiraling into control
Learning to live again
You've degenerated me
Back to the middle school
version
Timid
Shy
unsure
unconfident
Wanting to escape
Nothing to say
Nothing that would matter to anyone anyway

You’ll not see their like come race season,
Having left the premises to be replaced
By the preening breast-augmented and face-lifted set,
Shaking their heads and clucking sadly if one inquires
If they might have something
A touch smaller than a Franklin in their wallets,
Their smooth patter, replete with references
To Paris junkets and Milan catwalks
Occasionally interrupted by one of their more prosaic counterparts
(Hard-core players following the nags up from Belmont)
Stopping in to partake in one vice they’d sworn off earlier
While loudly disclaiming the other which had ruined
An otherwise perfectly lovely afternoon
(They’ll down their draughts in short order,
Most likely headed for the harness track
To drop a twenty on some longshot
Which bears the name of a long-departed grandmother.)
This time of year, though, they are ubiquitous
As the black and salted slush,
Sad souls slouching in after a bracing walk from Skidmore campus
Or some down-at-the-heels apartment on Alger Street,
Forlornly popping into some quiet booth
With the familiar long-distance stare seen in those
Beginning to grasp the truth that one
Is an object of prey in a very small pond indeed
(Likely a semester, no more than two certainly,
From having their undergraduate epaulets
Torn unceremoniously from their shoulders)
Being as quiet and unobtrusive as church mice
Until a half-dozen or so Coors Lites
Leads them to pontificate on the injustice of the universe
And if they have not decided to stagger home
Or degenerated into desolate tears of self-pity,
They are wont to dispute the existence of the Almighty,
Saying with a conviction which would be impressive
If expressed by Beelzebub himself
That he does not exist, that he cannot exist,
Though the body of proof cited in support of the proposition
Tends to be fragmented and rife with circular reasoning
(We know that they’re most likely drinking with false ID,
But they are invariably pedestrians—let them have their moment,
Only threats to themselves, after all.)
As for myself, I’m of the opinion that faith in the Hereafter
Is that rarest of bets, an absolute bet-the-chalk- dead- cert
Where you walk to the betting window clutching house money.

I lost myself
before i even had the chance to find out exactly who that is
Who it was
Who it never will be again

Ive changed
Ive misevolved,
degenerated backwards into myself
Into something i never wanted to be
A face i hate to see
But i see it every morning in the bathroom mirror
and the tears
feel like a circus parade
running over the bleak facade of a masquerade
and i cant take off the mask,

Because i dont want to know what lies underneath.

Im terrified.