6 months at sea, on a cold cargo ship..
2000 containers, stacked as even as the dishes in grandma's cupboards..
Checking the lines, tightening the bolts that the sea slowly loosens..

At the days end, bunk time, a precious 12 hours till next shift..
Plugging a laptop into an old jack in my bunk..
Only 3 text emails a day, routed through the sat-link on the bridge..

I check the local listings in Miami, hoping to find an email friend for the voyage..
I notice the name Jamie on the local listings, I knew a Jamie once, a girl from school years past..

I type hello, pleasantries enclosed, hoping for a reply..
The next day a reply, small talk, Jamie's sweet..
She isn't the same Jamie I knew, but we connect and keep writing each day..
Jamie and I get close, writing long emails, few secrets kept..

5 1/2 months pass, Jamie fills my mind each day..
Only 2 weeks until i come home, counting hours now..
I email Jamie, let's meet when I get home..
The screen goes blank, Jamie doesn't reply to my message..
3 days, nothing..
What did I say, what went wrong, why..

Saturday an email waits, it's her..
I'm sorry, I've been so sad this week..
I've let you think something about me that isn't true..
I lied, and I won't be able to hide it if you ever saw me..
And… Well… I love you… And I selfishly led you on..

I'm in the dark I said, I don't understand at all..
I don't care what you look like, how did you lie..
Jamie hesitates.. 5 minutes pass..
Because I'm a guy, not a girl like you thought..
My name sounds female, but is a guy's name too..
It just happened, then it was too late to tell you, we got so close so fast, you would have stopped writing..

Are you serious.. What, you're gay..
Yes…
I slam closed the laptop..
3 days pass, we arrive home tomorrow..
I'm calm now, I thought things through..
I email Jamie one last time..

I'm still upset, but I guess I understand now..
When I get home tomorrow we all leave the back of the ship, walk the block away to the parking lot..
You can sit in the park by where we walk past, if you want to see what I looked like..
But I have no words, I'm still so confused..
I just want to go home..
So tired..

We dock at 7am and all head down the walkway to the parking lot and our cars and taxis await..
Feeling so sad, my head looking down counting cracks in the sidewalk, to keep from crying..

I notice a guy standing alone away from the walk just watching everyone leave the ship and walk past..
I glance a second time, he's still looking toward the ship..
His face is red, with tears, I know it's him..
He never saw me walk past..

I stop, turn and look towards him..
He sees me, and somehow knows it's me to..
From the distance between us I see him mouth the words, I'm sorry..
I silently say, I know..

I drop my bags to the ground..
Walk up to him and we hug, sobbing for a long time..
Let's go home I whisper..
But you're not Gay..
It doesn't matter I say..
When it comes to my heart, I don't care..

by Lj Mark 2015

you make me melancholy

you are here and you are whole
my initials are printed on your cellophane skin
you paid to have someone else mark you to say
"this is the last time"
"this is my home"

you have made me into a saddened poet
and nearly a mother
our names used to run together justlikethis
now they are separate creatures
ensnared to each other by &
and that is better
we appear at parties, an institution
wedding guests in patchy blazer
and swollen dress
people take photographs of us
i hope someday to see them captioned
by someone who never dwelt in that moment with us

you are thinner this time around
more delicate, i worry someday i will cling so tightly in need of you that you rust beneath my fingers
like i sent you around a carousel and you came back astride a horse and in an ill-fitting suit
longer hair, thinner face, fuller beard
sunken eyes
i made you into a watery corpse
and i'm sorry

i lie on my side and bite sea green glass bottles
think about the child i'll bear you
suffocate and cannot dream
i cry tears of frankincense and battle the dead inside me
calling for me to join them for a day
boy, pray for my life

i can be cold and altruistic
and all i want to do is pen songs
that is fine with you
you have become a mortician now
in dress, in manner, in aspiration

i missed you terribly
i know i am incessant
you stumbled through a curtain and onto my doorstep
i welcomed you with flat palms and clenched teeth
i love you
and i'm sorry i smoked you out the first time around

i told you in a rainy place we've been before
we took it as a sign but i'd already made my mind up
when we lay sunken in my floor, and i breathed with you without hesitation
**** it, why'd i ever let them take you away from me
i'm sorry, friend

we blew kisses to our stars and now i'm making you a father after all your friends
in your veiny hands you'll hold our only child
i'm so sorry for what i did, and what i'm bound to do
you'll be back soon, i miss your sunken cheeks and the way you say goodbye
i need to rest my bones, you make bitterness taste like home

I sat down to watch the radio

There was nothing on TV

I have two hundred channels

But there was sweet F.A for me

I could have watched one channel

And learned to fricasse

A chicken raised on wild grains

By a woman chef named Bea

I started checking channels

But I decided in mid flick

That I was getting tired

And I was also  feeling sick

So I sat and watched the radio

Since there was nothing on TV

I have two hundred channels

But there was sweet F.A for me

I worked on through the listings

English, French and some bad ****

There were movies on one station

That were made 'fore  I was born

Out of all the things I saw on there

The best show I could see

Was something shown in black and white

Made in nineteen sixty three

My TV s high definition

With cables left and right

But to find a show I'd like to watch

Was taking half the night

So I sat and watched the radio

Watching nothing happen fast

But as I sat there watching

I travelled bckwards  to my past

Still flicking through the channels

Trying to find something to see

I thought I'd found a hockey game

But it was all in Punjabi

So, I listened to the music

Watched the radio, passing time

Then I thought, why do I have this?

With what I paid, it was a crime

eleven channels showed the same

times 8 networks made

at least eighty eight tv stations

That didn't make the grade

Twenty two were pay for view

The French networks were ten

Then the networks there in Real HD

And so, it started once again

Pay for **** was fourteen strong

New shows added two

Weather, sports and info shows

Now I was at one eighty  two.

I could have bought alot of stuff

On informercials through the night

I could have bought Pro Active

But instead I watched the light

I turned back to the radio

With the station light in green

It was better than the tv set

And all the crap I'd seen

So, Tonight I watched the radio

There was nothing on TV

But as I sat there bathed in that green light

The music showed me all I need to see.

-Slightly sadistic 17-year-old girl seeks suitable mate
Re: matters of dystopic fantasties
- A cannibalistic companion, mayhaps
to soothe lingering curiosities held captive by the bright red and steady rhythm of dripping blood
Disclaimer: this advertisement (pronounced ad-vur-tiz-ment) is not a cry for help - but next week's definitely will be
"Hi, I'm not usually like this, I haven't really done this sort of thing before, but..."
thinking to self I would like to carefully extract your organs and construct a small fortress out of them. I would like to staple your mouth to my mouth. I would-
"Oh, what? No, I didn't say anything."
- I'm imagining you as more of a shadow, all tangible beings seem bleak to me - but could you still hold my hand???
"Yes, it's lovely outside. Beautiful weather."
- But when we venture outside its proven that our eyes are much too sensitive for the light and inside beckons as much cooler and safer, inside of me is dangerous - and inside of you is an inferno



(Please set me on fire)

it would appear the semi-colon
has an identity crisis;
it might appear
it can’t decide if it’s a dot
or a comma
and so does an acrobat act;
but really the semi-colon does more than that
for it does
complex listings the comma can’t manage
and can say things quite cleverly, like:
“All things are expensive; life *****.”
So really this semi-colon
is not a semi - but indeed a full-blown device

The friend request. There it was.
The gods must have sent it.
Here I am, two weeks in the past,
Staring dreamily into a picture of you.
Those eyes, garnished with thick dark eyelashes,
Staring deeply into someone you’ve never met.
That jet black hair. Shadowy curtains,
Keeping your heart-shaped face safe.
But those lips. Painted with pure blood daily.
The most inviting fruit before my own eyes.
Yours is a beauty I have only seen in French cinema.
Like Audrey Tatou, ordering in a restaurant,
With a smile of pure inviting mischief.
And I imagine…oh I imagine…
Am I ready to break this wasteland?
The scorching desert that is alone?
I can almost smell her foreign perfume.
But she is merely pixels upon a screen.
You snap out of it, son.

And lo, the friend request.
My stomach leaps as I click ‘accept’.
She types. She compliments.
I compliment. We chat.
We exchange clips of Led Zeppelin.
She sends me gothic rock.
Moody and dark. The blackest of music.
I am never wearing colours again.
And I take the leap. I type some x’s and some o’s.
And she types them back.

Let us meet.
Where do we meet in this god-forsaken town?
Coffee. Easy. Neither formal nor gritty.
Just enough class, just enough mediocrity.
And she sways across the floor and greets me.
Her dress is of vintage design and flowing beauty.
Her glasses project her gaze into mine.
Ordering coffee, sitting with her chin resting on her hand.
Her smile is as warm as the sun.
Is she Mia Wallace? Is this Pulp Fiction?
My witty remark is quite crude and depicts violence.
A normal girl would shudder and frown.
She loves it. She loves that sort of thing.
This was lovely. Let us do it again sometime.

Next minute, we’re kissing passionately in amongst the bamboo.
She cares not for my bristles. In fact she likes it.
Her lipstick gets destroyed. She cares not.
So much drive for a ******.
We’re a secret. No one shall know.
She messages me. Tells me she is still drunk on me.
What we have is otherworldly.
Are we two aliens, a race from a far-off land?
Destined to be together? The last of our kind?

We touch, we caress. We burn CDs.
Trip hop, soul orchestras and shoegaze.
Hand-written burnt CD track listings.
The fact that she has written each word
Brings warmth. It creeps up from my stomach
And my arms can’t help but engulf her little frame.
She calls me a genius.
She loves every single note I play, every word I write.
I am a god to her. She adores me. And I her.
She watches me lovingly on the stage.
And before she boards the train home
I tell her. Three words.
I love you.
It’s the truth. And she loves me back.
Was it too early to tell her this? No, surely not.

Our love creeps and crawls up the stone wall.
An overgrown vine of pleasure and euphoria.
Kiss me hard, push your face so hard into mine.
It’s time. Relax. Just go with it.
Olive skin, so soft. Cover me with you.
Nothing can stop our intergalactic empire.
I stand atop an interstellar battlefield of victory,
With you at my side, my Queen.
If I could just float around space in a bubble
With you my dear, I would be happy
For an eternity.

And you say you’re leaving.
You don’t want it to change us.
It won’t, I promise.
You must further yourself by any means.
Broaden your horizons.
I will still love you to death.
I promise.
And away you fly, off into the sunset.

The phone calls start. You’re in a bad way.
An alien in a strange city, on your own.
What’s going on? The choice has been made.
Think of the money. Can you back out now?
Not just for me, surely. Stick it out.
That’s it, you’re coming back.

And through the drizzle, the plane lands.
You’re back.
In a leather jacket and black dress. My love.
I kiss you like I used to.
But it isn’t like it used to be.
Wait, no. No no no.
What has happened?
My stomach hurts. This pain is excruciating.
Piranhas are attacking my insides.
Make them stop.
The tears burn. I stifle them for days and days.
And finally they fall. What the ****?
It’s gone. It’s just gone.
We sit together. I glance over at your frightened eyes.
I am a murderer, waiting around the corner,
Sharpening my knife for the ****** in the alleyway.
We must end. I don’t know why.
The feeling’s gone. I can’t explain it.
This was like an epic jouney.
I thought it would never end.
You were perfect.
You were badass. You were kickass.
You were beautiful.
You were amazing.
You adored me. You loved me.
You were perfect.
We were perfect.
I loved you.

Now I don’t.

What?

J.A.W. 19/10/11 1:20 AM

I'm smitten
I'm in love
Track listings written
Hounds of love

On late the by-lanes one night,
unusual spot I green, a bottle
like any, but for words, may be,

on the label printed:
'Old wine. Hamlin. Best before: the future'

Scarred, the mouth, to fire
a rocket used, ringing in a day
when celebrating, a hero,
Goliaths thumped by a David new.

Hope, on the horizon, the word rising.

Threw it away, almost I, when
reversed comes, rolled up a parchment,
by ash burned, from the *******, a part:
a mix strange of clippings and retort.

Marked, astonished, the date, I: was it
from today, even of TV, a listings part;

'...mesmerized by the language of hope';
'Parks fill up as people gather to celebrate';
'Our democracy is alive and how'.

Of proportions messianic, news frothing
how new born, a leader is. Familiar all :
myself now, from one such, returning.

But curious, written, the words indeed:
'Monuments wear and rivers thin,
as boatmen sing the evening song,
miracle-workers and peddlers of
honey and mead, pipers at the gates
of dawn, not men of mettle and deed'

Of a piper, suddenly, as in a fantasy
a song, and heard I, helpless, wails
of mothers, a hundred .

Strained, to read, further my eye,
when tore up the piece;
Broke up green, a bottle on the street.

the fragments from your thoughts
dissolve into my numb limbs
wondering eye sockets shock skin and metal bones
as if to display the ever-growing feeling
of melancholy
the frozen voice of apocalypse chants
to my garden stone heart
a tiny glimpse into the void of yesterday
surrounding images of sounds and mescaline
being
drowned by smaller devils
ice-cold fingertips wash my face with delight
the over-turning silence tied
my fast paced tongue
dry salty smoke air
into that bell of mourning after
good-byes
the mutated shape of my heart
descending into your
vast and diluted throat
a violence that slowly asphyxiates the life out of
a part of me already gone
the distancing shadows
the murderer’s weapon soaked with *****
*****
images of pale dissatisfaction
the digestion of hello and
strange eyes bellowing across the floor
dragging in its carcass
the days of fresh blood
and stale conversations dreaming
awake
dirt tongues
fabric visions repeated on patterns
tv listings
exits painted over
walk-in closets regards left
on the table
un-opened
coming back
again
to the same house
and
closing your eyes
emptying the lies left across my face
(here)
it’s not your fault
too many scars
while listening
nothing is coming out of your mouth
(I am your body
crippled
ill tempered
disgusting
disfigured
and confused
by ugly lights)
for good

My immortal record player Technics SL D303 entrench's
something  recently acquired
possessing physical  music.
LP covers, with track listings
printed as intended,
to be read,
one records' perfection;
Jackie Lomax's début
got me  into his Three album
thanks again E bay.

"Let me be your home" she said
it's all she could offer,
just peace of mind and comfort of familiarity.
"Is the rent high?" he asked
joking, in a way,
also making her seem like she had a price to be haggled
they were in like
and liked things so.
Spaniards in space-
that's what these two were,
just a couple of conquistadors
navigating relationships and apartment listings
ended up in her heart
view of the lungs
things were good,
she made breakfast, he did dishes
they visited the brain every now and then
see the scenery
museum of neurons
they love that stuff
rightfully so
they lived quite happily ever after
in her heart
until the attack-
then things got weird,
but their love survived the paplitations and cholesterol
they could survive anything.

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are dead "Stop products."  And the question here
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By Arcassin Burnham

Pretending I am kissing the lips that
I am missing,
Love is at its peril if you think that I'll
be skipping,
Out on you.

Pressure builds up like receipt listings,
Thinking your Gonna leave me one day
And have me crying,
Not over you.

Love will be dying slow right now
because of the betrayal,
Peace in a hot dinner plate , I will not
Let it go stale,
Words I'll send to you.

The fat one in the ratty grey sweatshirt
thumbing through job listings
says to anyone,

“You wanna know
who’s the most beautiful
woman of all time?
Marilyn Monroe.
Oh my God.
Not my dating type.
But oh my God.
I’d walk twenty-five miles a day
to find someone
that’s got that
much meaning.”

And I,
listening,
for an instant,
burn for something
that I would walk
twenty-five miles a day
to find.

I am walking a tightrope
that I am continuously falling from-
my feet try to move but I see no balance.
Gravity and I have never really been friends
too busy falling, never keeping my feet on the ground.
So I walk-
jigsaw puzzle for my feet below and head above.
I try to conjure what it would look like
if I did in fact make it to the other side.
But I realize that's another part of me
I will never get to face
because my body will not ever let me-
my fear overpowers my skill
and I cannot hold on any longer
not with these two feet I own
or these two hands
too busy trying to hold up everyone else
long enough to make sure they're back on their feet.

I'm tired of not being in control
so as these emotions become too strong
and I become too weak
falling to my imminent destruction becomes routine.
Consistently pushing away anyone who tries to help
and any chance I get at happiness
I make sure it never ceases to exist again.
Control was never in my nature
so anger consumes me when I am the lesser
when the animosity takes over-
there is no coming back for me.
My mind goes blank
the only words I can spell out for myself
are regret, so this pen bleeds ink
just so I will remember these words
cannot be erased from someone else's mind
that these episodes will constantly become re-runs.
I'm getting so ******* tired of this show already-
always wanting to turn off the tv or change the channel
but I can't afford cable
this is the only show that isn't static in my ears
the only show worth watching.
Sometimes, I wish it would get cancelled
and fade away from the listings
so I don't have to see it anymore.
But the episode gets played over
I still cry at the sight of them-
I still let the plot lines dictate my emotions.

Control has never been something I was good at
but somehow this tightrope I walk
has become such an occupation
as if people are waiting for me to fall from it.
I walk steady now-
awaiting the moment I fall
I worry when I stick out my neck
for those watching my downfall
that this tightrope will become just a noose
and this show will turn into the news
reporting on what I could've done better-
repeating my mistakes like re-runs.
Time has been nagging at my feet again
I guess it wants to speed up my downfall.

boring, useless and impossible
i understand why these are not the first listings
in the job description
but they should be somewhere on the page

I think we all know
that a Maestro
is not only a car,

among so many others
there's
Mozart and Matisse,
Bogart and Cezanne,
Cagney and van rijn,
Kandinsky, Nijinsky
( the dancer not the horse )
and of course,
Monet, Manet, da Vinci, Turner,
Weyden, Haydn, Renoir and
Gauguin,

not one of them forgotten
by time except maybe
the car.

Bleak doctrines
wandering wisps of wit with
congested callous coffins
in their wake

waves watching
wishing
when silence strikes and speaks
longer listings that get louder as violence peaks

crudely unrefined
found in the darkness without a sight
one of a kind
the crack  in the dark and slip for the light

It feels like this.
When you're sinking further into the ocean
And all you can see is the sharks and the snakes
And you can only move with the shaking of finger tips

All the regret and could habe beens,
The should habe beens al wish I could be younger
Drags you further down
Until you're sea level of the floor

The coral and seaweed wraps you up.
Every scream of a name or two or three escapes
And travels to the surface to even
Being ignored by the seagulls

Or you're alone,
Soaking wet in your room
Can't even look at a mirror
Because every inch of you screams
Liability

Putting listings out for guys that aren't it but
Are a bigger picture of it all
But wanting to put a hit out
For your ownself

Make it easy, messy free.
A bullet to the head,
Three months to tell all them you tried.

Because you did.

You tried being kind enough,
Skinny and perfect enough.

You tried until it really mattered.
And you let yourself go.

You break and bend and you wish

You'd ******* ****

To try again

i hate the way you talk over me,
i feel invalidated and a rejectee,
i hate the way you make me feel,
like i am not even supposed to feel,
i hate the way you convince me
that my emotions are unreal.
i hate when you make me feel alone,
even we are together
and you're always on your phone,
i hate the way you prioritize other things,
like i'm always the last in your every listings,
i hate the way i cry at night,
and you seem not to care,
i hate that i'm sad,
and still blame me for it.
i hate that you make me second guess myself,
doubts and worries will then flood my head,
i hate the way you fail me multiple times,
then act like its no big of deal,
and i hate that they don't even rhyme,
i hate that i spent too much time thinking of you,
and you spent too much time avoiding to argue,
i hate that i often thought i was so special to you,
but it seems that i am just another shade of glitter and blue,
i hate that i say things that i hate about you,
and still find one thing to love even though..

at the end of the day, i still freaking hate you!

The questionable house-shares, cramped studios,
Dilapidated granny flats, with bedrooms anywhere
a bed could conceivably fit. There is no dignity
to be found here, nor a notion of feng shui.

Countless hours trawling through ads,
Listings and social media pages,
Innumerable miles traveled to view
places too small, expensive, uninhabitable

or just plain inhospitable.
After a viewing I'd drive back, south
towards the Wicklow mountains, to Bree where

I could rest my head awhile, before my landlord
sells. I will find a place here, oh yes,
This city has it's charms.