in the middle of nirvana, ashima wakes up
she doesn't know how she reached this sphere
full of silver lights and black silhouettes
everyone she knows seems to be present

greyly shimmering leaflets are floating
through the air, gently, like mist
and red fireflies are clapping their wings
the crowd of shadows is starting to sing:

"ashima, you have come a long way to us
we are the voices of nirvana, listen
nirvana is the deep core of your soul
the land of your most secret wishes

sometimes, in your dreams, you reach out
when you are waiting for a train and the
rays of the sun are reflecting your thoughts
you never find us but we know where you are

you may call us your wishes, we belong to you
as ****, as branko and your mom do
are you the imitation of your dreams, ashima?
or do your dreams imitate you, our girl?

certainly, you will become the thing you dread
we know that you took revenge recently
when you were slashing the *******'s throat
as his blood was slowly flowing into the sheets"

in the middle of her apartment, ashima wakes up
she becomes aware of a crinkled and dark leaflet
it is more than twenty years old, informing about
something that ashima can not read anymore

the letters on the leaflet have become dust
ashima is taking a deep breath and sighs
her pitbull branko is strolling towards her
his wet tongue, ashima thinks, feels cute

(1)

The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;
The white-smocked boys started working.
The head of his cadaver had caved in,
And she could scarcely make out anything
In that rubble of skull plates and old leather.
A sallow piece of string held it together.

In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.
He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.

                (2)

In Brueghel's panorama of smoke and slaughter
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Finger a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death's-head shadowing their song.
These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long.

Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.

You picked me from the masses
Taken from the grasses
"I'll remember you forever"
So I'm stored between the covers
Pressed and crushed within the pages
Just like all the others
And over time, I am dried
No more tears left to cry.
I am just another leaflet
In your book of memories

Our father liked to play a game.
He would count each hawk
preying, circling above veiny tree lines
graying like shadows of industry.

There’s a redtail, he would say, look
at its proud chest and talons of mastery. Our
eyes searched for the creature, noses
pressed to cool glass and 65MPH speed.

Sometimes we’d catch the bird with two eyes, one eye
or none. Meanwhile, our father never took his eyes
off the road, fixed on painted yellow lines stretching
to heartlands down New York’s I-90 West.

With age my eyes became engaged, detecting
the slightest movement peripherally. Rods
in retinas distinguished plump plumes from leaflet
tufts, razor beaks from thorny stags, white breast from

billowing plastic bags. My sideways scan
of leafy fringe is an artifact of habit
when traveling down state roads of this infra-structured
nation. I search for evidence of its natural relation,

beyond all that is manufactured by the jelly-
spine of convenience, beyond wheels spinning
at deafening speed, beyond the grubby hands of greed.
Still, our connection to place is still here and Earthly,

coexisting in delicacy, like the hawk’s nested-blend
of twig and trash. I trust there is a chance for us yet,
despite cloudy puddles of progress, despite integrity
lost in capital gain, despite a forgotten native name.

She faded into the oblivious shadows of night,
The mardi-gras converted from dawn to daylight.
Where she danced elegantly in ballroom raves
She etched her body to the rhythm flowing in waves.

Her hunger was lustful in her eternally gazing eyes,
She kept her secrets beneath beauty's seductive gaze,
But when heart beats drowned out the soulful harmony
Penetrating eyes hummed on gullible  minds uncertainty.

Her burgundy lips etched on life's needing of lustful kisses,
Eager thoughts on this chardonnay on lips it glistened.
Drained off needing, she rested them peacefully in death
Never noticing until departed that they are exempt of breath.

Invigorated she released the energy of life on the dancefloor
Day descended into nights embrace, so she left out the backdoor,
Upon the streets she smiled at the masks hiding her secrets
When an invite did fall in to her hands, her next feed on a leaflet.

1.
i may call it a leaflet
i may call it a handbill

but don’t you notice
a large number of gossips
is natant in the air

do you admit that the fuming heart
that’s  glorifying the plate
should be made a must-read
for any seed-bed

the sun tells that to keep-fit
the health of the clouds
the instigation of the perfumed-soap
is required

with that pituitary
some neighing of horses
that is fastened tightly with cork

now see
if you can offer pregnancy
even to the barbie doll

by the by
it should be informed here
if the question of roaming in the woods
is raised

the highly-educated bathroom
feels very helpless

and taking repeated somersaults
in the sunshine
in the rains

the folding umbrella
also have got very much out-of-temper

Hello all my wonderful friends and talented poets, I am seeking advice on the following poem. I find it challenging to edit. Thank you all, for your help in advance.


Lost, and no one is searching.
Not for me,
                   definitely not,
I'm just an "Orphan", and so you seem to see.

I'm scared of the upcoming events.
I'm at a loss for words that are heavy—lead...
Leaflet
of page flips,
a collection of what I can't prevent.
I, it's my expense.
~
I, I bend until I break because of things like this.
No one gets it,
No one will ever get this.
People I live with,
Say that I just need to "believe in myself, and be positive",
Again,
They don't get it.

I just write a lot; I just write...
I have a lot on my mind.
I hate the idea of moving.

The sight,
of a suitcase makes me go blind.

I wish I could spill my eyes
~ like ink ~
There are words I need to write, words have become a monster in my life, crawling up my spine, like waves, ebb, and flow - walls of wakes. I'm drowning in this lake, the weight pressed against me—the cracked skull, and my peeling
mind,
Nothing feels right,
they're all I can think
~ of, words, words enough to make me sink.
Into my hollow chest deep,
and empty.
But inside
my lungs find
a return together, and my diaphragm
fighting—like the closing mouth of a dying-clam.

So far away,
To a University
and Dorm-room stay,
I'm quite a fog, no definition-no importance—I fade
In the grey.
I fade away, every **** day.
Take it all away?
Silly me...
"No, stop being negative", they will say.

It feels like another Foster home,
I just want to go,
disappear - collapse into the undergrowth.
But inside I've never been so low.
Famished, insatiable, and ravenous, the beast still grows.
Chewing through what I've created for you,
To -
Just cut my tongue, and slice my toes
trying to hold.
On to the walls as they slip from my fingertips,
I fold.
Into my brain - filled with holes.
Into myself, a mystery—a candle melting without a flame, a game, that gets dull, and so old.
I've lost again, on this, I've been,
'Ashton' without
a doubt,
My words, I know -
My words know,
no woe.
Losing your interest, I'm only a muddled groan.
A man who is such a child, has to find a way to become grown.

I've no certainty,
Certainly, I cannot keep...
What I cannot see,
I cannot see where I'll be,
Who'll stay? Nobody?
Who would want to stay in my life?
No one needs to say that I,
have become a joke,
and as I choke, I know,
I'm not funny...
~
Nobody?
Not even me.

Hey,
I guess it's okay?
They don't stay.
It's always been the same.
My mind's leaving me.
Nothing will ever change.
All my life, I've been drifting, deranged. Slowly, I fear that I may
never find a refrain ~
That I'll love to be in this state
of mind, so insane.
—They never really did, and slowly,
Through my fingers, they...
Slipped.
Away.
From me,
and my weak grip, white knuckles behind the bleed.
- I wouldn't lie, I tried -
everything...
but it was my weakness that gripped
so I slipped'
like they did.

I guess,
I'm just going to have to get used to this.

I swear, I've been,
Lost, now I'm even more lost when
...I'm searching.
I'm looking
From outside of myself—in.

My ribs open,
I'm an open book, but now, I'm a loose-leaf—dropped with a pen,
~
I, to not be picked up again.

My skin is paper thin,
Go ahead take a look right in?

See what's really inside of me?
That my heart is just too big, to bear its own beat.
Maybe -
Maybe - my wounds will bring you to me?

I have so much love to give,
I cannot keep it contained within.

My heart is exploding,
and I know it...
This life is no longer mine to live.

Why do I feel like this?
Everything is going great, it is.
Yet something is amiss,
I'm reckless, I try, and end up defective.

I feel like I am obsolete.
           and when I fall asleep,
                           I don't even want to dream.
Thinking about more than I can think.
I've been getting better at buying,
The lies between
the pages of a book without a spine - me,
getting better at hiding
that I, I'm just, weak,
I'm obsolete.
Hung up by the seams,
~
A nail in the wall holding me.
A puppet without strings,
The nail has a name, 'PTSD'.
Hang me in the hall,
Watch me drop down, and fall
~
On my face in the heat,
Watch my colors-fade-to-grey
as they blend in the bleed.

A painting of melting color, that drips, and drips,
No worth, I'm worthless...

I'm just that foster kid from the streets.
The one that no one needs,
I don't want to be,
Believe me,
I woke up, and don't want to be me,
I just want to be free.

By: Ash

The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.

Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.

The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.

She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.

Leaflet through the door on a 5K run for charity.
Spam email on the benefits of the Paleo eating regime.
Pals posting photo's of culinary creations on Facebook,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

In Scotland, half the people in poverty are working families
struggle to survive day-to-day and the basics of food to live
being asked to work longer hours for less money
while the politicians say they have nothing more to give
and the "Queen talks about austerity while wearing a £1 million hat"
(I'll thank Frankie Boyle for his razor sharp insights on that)
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

Contrary to common misconception it doesn't always rain in Scotland.
This week its been 26 degrees, and Glasgow is awash in t-shirts and shorts, and beer gardens with bees. Cold beer never looked so refreshing.
West Enders in their top-down convertibles extolling the virtues of organic produce from Peckhams and their exclusivity price-point gourmet cheeses,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

How are you ever
Going to get out from under this?
It hunts with its nose
It is brave from lack of sleep

Onions, computers, red cabbage, loss
This tangle of things
Goes to sleep in a knot

Is that you in the picture?
Take as long as you please

Come around back now
Fierce and rambling, blasting a request
For mercy with an air horn
Pointing to an unspecified time and place

A leaflet addresses your problems
You lose your ability to use language
Thoughts stack up but cannot be forged
There is nothing to be afraid of

the little leaflet read out in bold letters:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

I thought about it
read the rest of the sheet
it told me how if I came to:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS
my life would be changed

so I went
the initial question still not
answered

I go the office park where it’s supposed to be,
go back into a maze of cubicles and white brick
walls, and then this simple wooden door reads:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS

I knock
the door flies open
and there’s Drew Harpy
smile of plastic
muscles of
silicon

he asks
WELL ARE YOU COMING IN FOR A NEW LIFE?

I say,
no thanks,
wrong door
and walk away

the little leaflet is still in my pocket
reading out:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

but,
I still didn't have
the answer

I encountered your spiritless body swaying gently
as your dangling tiptoes longed to reach the tips of the dandelions

I found tacked to the tree, the christian leaflet with the sellotape crucifix that asked
HAVE YOU FOUND JESUS ? , then saying WELL, HE'S FOUND YOU and your Vermillion lipstick scribbling on the reversed side.

Poor you, I could imagine you frantically searching for the sticky notes
( they were on top of the refridgerator Irene)

Poor you, I could visualize you searching for a pencil, realizing that they needed to be sharpened  (you coulda used my Swiss army knife Irene, it was in the rusting tackle box in the garage, sure it was covered in dried fish guts, but you coulda cleaned it)

Poor you, I could picture you finding the pen depleted of it's precious writing fluid, then exploding it's flimsy frame, beneath a lone rabid pink bunny assassin

WELL **** YOU IRENE, **** YOU FOR LEAVING ME

Black and White Black and Yellow.           The second keyboard and a small pinpoint. B İzimi'i. Now the warrior story and the very bad woman. AAPP 3 / Bailey Lionesses and Natte Naidi,
In the 40 years since the leader of the Abyssinian diocese, a female leader marches to Tacitus, and the BBC and BBC leaders have been assigned to soldiers of Saudi Arabia's Gala soldiers. The young man and his grandson have cited the Syrians,
Churches, Muslim Plans and a series of generations. Black and White smoke in the BBC, BBC News, BBC News, Laptops, Food Supply and Arabia, the mouth of the mouth, the Welsh Orders model, many free programs
in the Arab Emirates, Tinkengi candy brush, and Latina Natalie,
                                                                ­             slim and slender.
Point out your song and song in the big throat!!
Africa, Australia, USA is part of the Geographic
Division of the United States, Europe and South America. George Griffin's words, livestock, martyrs Emperor Thomas, their friends and their families,
and the German light, the strong ideology and Christianity
that symbolized the Christian life, the bridges were gathered in Russia, England and the United States. In the morning fire and poetry, a brief booklet of the Uppsala, and a lawyer and former colleague respect the son of a dead man. In the second hour, the woman was a delusion, a god, a Roman god, in the same god, a Roman goddess of Rome. In the eye, the old trees are screams and high health benefits. The Mexican Mexican Mexican Museum, Vitamins and Minerals, filled with mountain chains, dense clouds and miraculous dreams. The beetles in my head were "in England, Guinea, the United Kingdom, the barracks, the raging, and the lives of marine life in the United Kingdom." Antiplical machines are the first payment for the first poem of the poem. It was posted on the special foot.                                  Black and White Black and Yellow.        The second keyboard and a small pinpoint.
B İzimi'i. Now the warrior story and the very bad woman.
AAPP 3 / Baily Lionan Nattenaidi     In the 40 years since the leader of the Abyssinian diocese, a female leader marches to Tacitus,
and the BBC and BBC leaders have been assigned to soldiers of Saudi Arabia's Gala soldiers. The young man and his grandson have cited the Syrians, Churches, Muslim Plans and a series of generations.
Black and White smoke in the BBC, BBC News, BBC News, Laptops, Food Supply and Arabia, the mouth of the mouth, the Welsh Orders model, many free programs in the Arab Emirates, Tinkengi candy brush, and Latina Natalie, slim and slender.
Point out your song and song in the big, big throat!!
Africa, Australia, USA is part of the Geographic Division of the United States, Europe and South America.
George Griffin's words,
livestock, martyrs to Emperor Thomas,
their friends and their families,      and the German light, the strong ideology and Christianity that symbolized the Christian life, the bridges were gathered in Russia,
England and the United States. In the morning fire and poetry, a brief booklet of the Uppsala, and a lawyer and former colleague respect the son of a dead man. In the second hour, the woman was a delusion, a god, a Roman god,
in the same god, a Roman goddess of Rome. In the eye, the old trees are screams and high health benefits. The Mexican Mexican Mexican Museum, Vitamins and Minerals,
filled with mountain chains, dense clouds and miraculous dreams.
The beetles in my head were "in England, Guinea, the United Kingdom, the barracks, the raging, and the lives of marine life in the United Kingdom." Antiplical machines are the first payment for the first poem of the poem.
It was posted on the special foot.Black and white Black and yellow.
The second keyboard and a small pinpoint. B İzimi'i. Now the story of the warrior and the very bad woman. AAPP 3 /
Bailey Lioness and Nattenaidi                        In the 40 years since the leader of the Abyssinian diocese,
a female leader marches towards Tacitus,
and the leaders of the BBC and the BBC
have been assigned to soldiers of the Saudi Arabian Gala.
The young man and his grandson have quoted the Syrians,
the churches, the Muslim plans
and a series of generations. Black and white smoke
on the BBC, BBC News, BBC News, Laptops,
Food Supply and Arabia, by word of mouth,
the Welsh Order models,
many free programs in the UAE, Tinkengi;  
candy brush and Latina Natalie, slim and slender.
                               Point out your song and your song in the big throat!
Africa, Australia, USA UU;
It is part of the Geographic Division of the United States,
Europe and South America. The words of George Griffin,
the cattle, the martyrs, the Emperor Thomas,
his friends and their families,          and the German light,
the strong ideology and Christianity
that symbolized the Christian life,
                                                        the bridges met in Russia,
England and the States United.                       In the morning,
fire and poetry, a brief leaflet from Uppsala
                  and a lawyer and former colleague respect the son of a dead man.
                             In the second hour, the woman was a deception,
a god, a Roman god, in the same god,
a Roman goddess of Rome. In the eye,
old trees are screams and high health benefits.
The Mexican Mexican Mexican Museum,
Vitamins and Minerals,                         full of mountain ranges, dense clouds
                             and miraculous dreams.
The beetles on my head were
"in England, Guinea, the United Kingdom,
the barracks, the rage and the lives
of marine life in the United Kingdom".
The machines antiplicas are the first payment
of the first poem of the poem.                  It was published in the special foot.

They decked their bodies on the hexagonal stairway,
That primed up into the heavens of boulders.
Decked boulders,
Eyes from the dead shoulders,
That ran the dust of time and concern,
With double ambiguity;
That ran the cobwebs of melodrama,
Of Purple voids
And dainty scars,
There were just blocks.

There was no God.
No Owl.
No leaflet or Foliage.

There was just a dainty scar
That cervically opened
Into a white expanse of rugged and dusty fieldstones;
With the waves expanding their circumference
It was hard to keep the shells afloat.
Rosebuds, it looked like,
The little ***** that dug out of dung holes,
Everywhere on the white crystalline beach;
Rose budded footprints of an animaline saint.
It might just not be the little *****.
Then the dust rose up.
It amalgamated into the purple haze
That became the tender feet of cupids that embedded
Their rose-budded footprints along the shore of the sea
Sea that circumference the earth;
A Chinese fishnet flew out of the foliage
That, that is drugged in a an embrace
Gently over the ocean’s tiny footprints.
The fishnet was not targeted or focused on oars
But it was the Oars
That roared an echo
That conjured a Wraith
With Ate by its side;
They roared in unison
In a screaming echo of the overdue night before.
One with desperate fledging oars,
In a senseless sea
And,
In an endless churn;
Then the sky drifted apart
To clear the grey remains,
That of a nuclear battleground
Of the last world
It skid along a steep drift
And found a purple pathway.
The pathway took enough time to open them
The dingy awls of ancient machine plates.
Entwined and unforgotten,
These had made a rounder depth into its omnipotent boulders
Than the mongrel-ic infrastructure of the present world;
Mongrels of a primitive category of potential.
The wisdom that was as ****** as
A bloated hyacinth in its first blossom;
It took a speck of a quarter wink.
Chaos followed obstruction,
And the dust jostled out in the jiffiest.
It was a strange new octopi.
With blades for pearls.
With fangs for lustre
With gigantic dilation of a black void of pupil;
How could it run through?
It phantom-ed the serpent in one plunge;
And a single spasm.
Then it exploded.
A million nebulas bristling with a zillion kind of rainbows,
Rainbows of hydrangeas in elixiric daze at the tip of each finger.
And,
Starlets.
Then it was all purple.
Cosmotic falancho on a curly fledge.

Pressed perfect leaflet papers
printed in black-and-white.

Squares of thin tree bark
scattered on the table.

Your warm, rough hands
fitted in tight gloves.

Your wide smile
teeth like pearls all
clustered nicely and

I can't help but swell
a bit inside

admiring
the twist of your lips
and the flicks of your eyes
with a nose that changes
shape in the light.

But it's not your face
that intrigues but
the ***** in between
the space of skull

called a brain

which you use, delightfully so
expansive and ever expanding.

You have an eager fondness
for learning and retaining information

and it arouses me.

Like the frailty
of those printed papers
my tenderness

for you

envelopes, caressing
your knowledge like
a streamline submarine
diving through dark waters

slippery and unafraid

to get wet.

hot relenting days
transforms cooler evening
fronds alteration


sleepy rising sun
chill cloudless breeziness
leaflet spirals down


quiescent fridgedness
bare armed branch depleted
foliage beneath flakes

It was
the grace
of a daisy
With 23
that teach me
on this blessed
new day
that it shall not matter
to start counting
from
I love you
or
I love me
The revealed is
One
and the same
Divine reason
only

The leaflet reads:
“Be mindful of your desires,
be careful
where they come from
and where they’re heading.
Use drive to drive choice.
Be the one who decides
before you join in
and follow along.
Otherwise
the path to your freedom
is then walked down
bare feet and bare mind.
The good ol’ valley of yours.”
Inside your own head, own voice,
while taking a handful.

hot relenting days
transforms cooler evening
fronds alteration


sleepy rising sun
chill cloudless breeziness
leaflet spirals down


quiescent fridgedness
bare armed branch depleted
foliage beneath flakes

Bottle opener
Cracked vermouth
Naked lady
The kids grip their
Hearts
Like newly stolen candy

I'm a leaflet notebook
Fire parade
Fortune teller dressed in secrets
Kimono headdress
Ketamine lines

Upside down caligrpahy
Apple wine
Summer time
Open faced hamburgers
With the moon
On the infinite rise

Trickling melancholy
Purple moon
Hustlers under mailboxes
While grandma's line-up
To do the
Foxtrot

Sinister balloon
Of heavy-metal persuasion
Big titted foul players
Of foreign speaking
Soothsayers

Can it be that we
Are all out of players?
The ***** are in
The goals are scored
There's not a hand
Manning the board

Usurp the direction
Upend the powers that be
Peek through the keyhole
Discover the lies
Behind the masks of men
Who wear brightly colored ties

Music moves through
The meek feet of the weak
What're we all looking for
But the big vote
To take us all the way through.
Better butter down Sutter
Baby sitters been broken
The kids have gone missing

Instead of doves
We've got pigeons