I wield my words viciously

Like a knife

I slash at her

As I **** her

Hold her down and penetrate her

Blood showers from my blade

As I overwhelm her

But slowly my ravishes

****** after ******

Turn into love

And I wonder

What have I done?

I, too, sometimes wish you could see the pain amongst my merriment, At least for understanding sometimes, maybe. I’m sort of like this stolen piece of art, I was dragged into this side of my mind with out choice. Only because of certain things in my life that have happened to me. They always said it was good to explore things on your own for once, but not this, this is the side of me that I wish was expendable. This is the side of me I wish I never knew. I have a certain type of pain inside of me that I wish for it to just vanish, but it isn't that easy once it decides to make you it's home. It's hard to cope with these feelings, even if you are happy at the time, because it's always those 3 AM thoughts that ravishes your conscience. The whole “What is wrong with you?" "Are you insane?” "Why do you write of such things?" questions are completely overrated. It flusters me to the max when people ask me why do I look at things so deeply; maybe you would too if you had been through a lot of trauma, if your mind was consumed daily by memories; always feeling so nostalgic, you regret taking all of your happy memories for granted, because though you're making some beautiful ones now, they will never be more beautiful than the ones before, and that I would say, could be apart of the hurt I feel inside. No one should ever take anything for granted, and before you know it, your life has flashed right before your own eyes. It's not just the good memories that pop up either, there are the dark, time consuming thoughts that eat you alive too. Those are the deadly ones, the ones you have to watch out for. The ones that make me hurt. That is the side of me that I hate the most, because no matter how happy I could be, they still find a way to ruin me in a way, but I swear, one day, one day in my life at some point, I will have finally destroyed this side of me. Oh, Is it ever going to be battle; me against my own self, how contradicting does that sound, but there has always been a war inside of me.

There is so much more behind that smile, that smile I give off; sometimes it's real as can be, and other times, it acts like more of a warning sign, but it's the fact that I am good at hiding my emotions, but in the end; I'd rather feel numb, than nothing at all. To feel nothing at all is the worst feeling imaginable, you feel so dead; like you're not even here mentally, just physically trying to make it through each day. I wish to never feel that way again, but then again, sometimes you cannot simply help the way you feel, and that is my weakness; I dive too deep into an ocean that I cannot swim in, that ocean is a thousand thoughts dragging me under, to where I cannot simply breathe straight; these are those 3 AM moments you just wish you could be asleep, so that at least maybe your dreams could take the bad things that pop up in your head, away from drowning you in it's sick, consternated pool. It's hazy down here, where I cannot see so clear, and the only thing left for me to do is keep reaching up above the surface, hoping someone will grab my hands. I do not depend on other people to make me happy, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn't mind having someone to help save me from myself.

Loping down at Winter
the raven
ravishes the light,
broad black beating wings spread
feeding on
tiny hidden corpses-its beak
hades' daggers pummelling the frost.

it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
   jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;

on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,

like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
  shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,

   dreary men taking out *******, throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
   painted, grisly caravan of steel and
      worthless scraps —

past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
  to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
    a gap in between,

    because you need it,
    and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
    of afterthought.

   because you have to walk my side
    of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
   lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
      the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
                peak up to the very last
   traceable steps where i found you
      and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
    stills itself into all the mood of the     Earth:

    all moony and
                 fretting in the disquiet.

Follicle Poem
December 6, 2013

A mental relapse occurs.
I see hands plowing through my head of hair
They continue to grasp at the roots,
as if attempting to expose a truth hidden underneath.
But what secrets could bequeath a hair follicle?
Well, one might tell a tale.

Scared of the dark, a 6 year old Wynn laid awake in bed.
He prolonged the inevitable destitution of a dream state.
No longer wanting to accept a reoccurring nightmare,
he took to a dreary exercise of staying awake in the dark.
One hair follicle today may tell of how,
on that night it did not rise in a panicked state.
Wynn had finally conquered his fear of the dark.

"Something felt different today," said Follicle #567.
A new shampoo.
But more than that, strange scissors.
"Who is this new person cutting Wynn's hair now?"
remarked one hair follicle,
"I wonder what happened to the usual lady?"
She had passed away.

An emerging chest hair observed the extended family has grown recently.
"Darker relatives who look different and live in other regions of the world.
Who are they and why do they get treated differently?
Nobody has heard of the ***** region in the southern hemisphere,
or armpit land where our hair family members supposedly smell weird."
The perspective of a follicle in puberty.

"The loud sound of electricity and gears grinding scares me.
There is a storm which ravishes our lands.
First, a foamy cloud surrounds us.
Next, comes a sharp stinging sensation,
not a pleasant feeling to be set free from your roots.
A tidal wave crashes, washing away my follicle friends and family forever.
Then, the lightning strikes - dooming us all."
A ****** follicle's worst fear.

"We are a persevering bunch.
We cling to our conventions and grow, grow, grow.
But recently Wynn has done something new.
We thought he was feeding us honey,
so treacherous.
Sticky goop and stiff paper will be the end of us all.
Nobody wants to admit follicles are second-class citizens to smooth skin."
Waxing prematurely takes the lives of several million follicles annually.

"A rebel group of follicles known as the 'In-Growns' are up to no good.
They scheme with the pimples, plotting when and where to strike next.
I worry about Wynn - wish he could know we aren't all so ill-intentioned."
Follicle culture is derived from parenting, not just biology or anatomical location.

"The last of my kind, I have been contaminated with chemicals.
My color changed to blue.
I've heard the ancient legends about follicles once turned blonde.
We need to appease the summer sun god.
The others have all shriveled up or been brutally betrayed by the locals.
In hiding, we worry the scissor insurgents will discover our locations.
All I wanted was the freedom to express myself,
to be seen for who I really am - not just some color."
Follicles experience discrimination for numerous reasons.

"Drugs.
I can feeeel them in my DNA.
Something about me has changed and I like it.
Living life on the wild side these days.
I don't shower and don't care if I am greasy.
Every other follicle’s fears are irrational.
I'm gonna spread the word and grow out a bit.
Because that's what they expect of me, isn't it?
I mean, what good could come out of a drugged up follicle,
other than more waste of scalp space?"
Follicles who use drugs recreationally receive negative labels and harsh stigma.

"The wavy goodness from a gel rub,
is the highlight of the week.
We are fine, fresh, and fierce, ready to set the standard for follicle fashion.
If you are one of those lower class follicles,
who can't afford gel.
No worries - some might trickle down...
Just kidding!
Spray supports our monopoly on hair care products."
Fashionable follicles are extra sassy and have socio-economic privilege.

The relapse ends.
My head suddenly feels heavy,
swarmed with the hair follicle chronicles.
And the hands running through my head of hair become inspired.
They begin to tell their tales of times passed in Wynn's life.

Perspective means everything.

I.
I have fallen in love with
the mid-June evening skies, and
It's volatile shades of grey
Like a temperamental canvas of inky blacks
And blotted blues, lines of translucent paint drizzle down
From the canopy of clouds, marred and bruised.

II.
Lovers separated by atmospheres and seasons,
A torrent of raindrops ravishes
It's earthen companion,
caressing the jagged scars across it's parched skin.
I have fallen in love with
The heady scent that permeates the humid air;
The love-child of storm and soil
Infused by the sweet, rich aromas
Of a 6pm cup of chai.

III.
I have fallen in love with
The rivulets of rainwater that
Trail silver maps across the ridges and contours of bottle green fronds;
And the dewy droplets that adorn the Gulmohars and Cassias that are strewn beside my bare feet;
Like a bejewelled carpet of scarlet and gold.

IV.
We are words
Ricocheting off one another,
Relief, catharsis and a safe space after a long day.
We are the comfortable silences, the content sighs,
And the barefaced truth
Between mother and daughter.
I have fallen in love with
The tapestry of words that we weave.

V.

I have fallen in love with
Coming home.

For all the imperfections that create this being
There is another scar you'll never see
The horror of myself in weakness
Will not be often;
No, for all that I reveal is my insanity
For my weakness is burrowed deep
And it will not emerge again
My imperfections may make me
But they will not change my already injured soul
I know the world is cruel
So judgemental and materialistic
But me
I still worship personality, a caring soul
Who see's goodness and ravishes it
Still I only want another person
Who the world considers imperfect
So that together
Our imperfections
Seem so miniscule
So pointless
We'll be happy because
In each others eyes
We're just
Perfect.

If I were to write your name my hand would shake,
So bad the ink from my pen would stain the paper.
Your soft voice burns my ears
A sultry cup of tea that ravishes my throat.
Your stale perfume makes me cringe,
But yet fills the fragmented pieces you broke.
Your words are endearing, captivating, sweet
But are dripping with mystery, and give me unease.
Am I apprehensive, invidious?
I see the dusk forest in your eyes,
Like your passion for the world, and every plant you see.
You say green is your favourite. It fits you.
Clean, organic, and environmental.
Perfect.
Imperfect.
As soon as I met you I could feel myself falling
Deep in my bones, running through my veins.
And as long as I live, I can never tell you that
I will love you longer than my heartbeat.
You tell me that we are one person,
But this time I feel we are two.

His voice confines me
Hot with the stench of stale wine
His hands rip through my hair
Entering the darkest corridors of my mind

I submit to his game
His nails dig deep into my flesh
His teeth draw blood
As he devours my neck

He snickers so wickedly
Watching my reaction to pain
Smiling, he bites my lips
As he whispers my name

Pain his sadistic pleasure
Nipping at my ear again till it bleeds
Lapping the blood from my neck
He is aroused and pleased

My will has surrendered
I forsake all control
Enticed with his mystique
He ravishes my soul

The darkness is his playground
He seductively draws me in
Touching as he tastes
He's awakened the temptress in my skin

My flesh is like fire
Each touch releases a climatic relief
Lost within my essence
His pleasurable pain drowns within my sea

My screams in the night
Fall upon silent ears
I am weak to his pain
This ****** pleasure I fear

He is  euphoric were alone
He is seductively teased
He towers above my small frame
As I cry out he is pleased

Pulling me tight in his embrace
He knows I won't resist
Famished he devours me
Biting down harder with each kiss

Skin scraped from my hands
I fall to my knees
He rages inside my essence
Filling me with his disease

All good has been depleted
Fulfilling all his sadistic desires
Each time he caresses my skin
My flesh bleeds like fire

This is how he loves
Enraged and fierce
I have fallen prey to his beast
My existence very clear

He lays upon my *****
Satisfied and pleased
I dig a dagger deep in his chest
Pulling his heart out with ease

I gorge upon the feast
******* with pain
The most intense ****** is reached
Forgive me, but I can't wait to do this again

The trees are stricken with a terrible illness
a certain shrillness that permeates
their perpetual stillness.
And I have seen them.
Their pitch dripped hearts buried underneath
Their brown and rough bark, our version of skin.
And I have cut them.
Looking for their sap, their form of our blood
Hoping to find it still sticky sweet with life,
Hoping it has not succumb to their illness
That is our men.
Men, with burly beards and chainsaws
That are the trees versions of sterile masks
And metal toothed needles
Chainsaw needles that pump poison into
The trees’ version of our arms
Their form of cancer that
Ravishes through what would be our
Organs.
Men with saws that are our version of chemo
Shaking off the leafs that would be
What we call hair
And I have seen them.
They fall down the same way we would
And are covered by our same dirt earth.

The sunlight ravishes
the land like an empty promises
ravishes the heart
Takes everything in its path
But there's a beauty to it
indescribable; unimaginable
but with time you appreciate.

The hot breath of nature rains
down on you like volcanic ash
it can burn but you get some
sick pleasure from it. You stay.
You stay because you know it can't
get much better than this.
This moment of womb-like comfort.

each instant breath (instantly breathing breath
from lungs so quick and slowly snuggles
every self of it between each new immutable
passing second eternally springing nubile moment
(between familiar newness) your voice was
pleasantly sticking into my ears the velvetest
caress(a fragile mostly caress. liked better and
more. failing lilting tears of) that lick incessantly
seemly unfaltering ravishes of minute fluttering
windsbreakinggentlypastthepartedslightlyunclosing
node­ of your (perfectly climbing your face) mouth
mine does. exponentially kissing yours

Fleeing
Tail between my legs
From the ravishes
Of your lashes
I take refuge in the ramblings
Of madmen long dead
Seeking to tap the will to power
That I may refute
Your imposing master-slave morality
Compelling in its distracting hedonism
Beckoning in its languid ambiguity
Suffocating my
Dizzying, radical freedom

Oh, noumenal world
Take me now.

One look at you
And I abandon
My categorical imperative
Doomed to the fate
Of a being-in-itself
Powerless to recreate
And renew its essence
Too busy being caught up
In your scent
I see what you are
And scramble to
The conclusion of
What you ought to be
With me

For you are beyond
That which empirical validation
Can encapsulate
You are
My Prime Mover
And life without you
Is nasty, brutish, and short
And Rousseau was full of ****

I flee
Because inner language
The beetle in the box
Can never be shared
Not even with
The most symmetrical of soulmates
And what we may share
May not even be authentic
What we believe
May not even be true
Nor justified

Are you not satisfied
With the power you already wield
Over me?

Please
My geisha
Do not let your lips
Be the antithesis to my pen.

Let us talk as we walk, you and I, come let us at least try,
Hold my hand as you blink at the barren sky,
Tears trickle by and I hear you sigh, “Lies,
I only see lies in these stale blue skies!”
It is a sign, my love, it is a sign that we are doomed to die.

The wild world spins while we drink green glassy gin,
Alone, all alone we sit in shadows of candles and waxy sin,
Around about us we hear the sounds of pain, a fearful din,
Orphans with wide-open mouths spit out rusty razor pins
Which strike true into our wavering hearts, (“Darling, can we ever really win?”).

Your ruby wet white lips drip with the salty saliva of sweet love,
You ask me the eternal question: “Will we fly to heaven like doves?
Let us fly, you and I, to the velvet skies above!”
Yet still I see your cherry stained lips caress a rough cigarette and away you puff,
Darling, the likes of us shall forever remain imprisoned as we are conditioned to spit and cough.

In the hot horizon a hulking hawk takes frightful fanciful flight,
Helpless and heartbroken, we play with our false paper kites,
Skeletal darkness ravishes the earth, no more will come the light,
The right arm of justice lays rotten and by it burns the sword of might,
It will strike and bite both me and you, and all those who are upright.

Once again you whisper hungrily, “What will become of me and you?
Is there anything we can seriously do before we are subdued?”
I say we all hope and pray today and together we stay or else we are surely doomed,
Gloom will come soon, you see Darling there is not enough world to spare or share in this here room,
Let us all awake and break out of this cocoon for we shall never change our heart’s true tune.



©Rangzeb Hussain

A  brisk  gale  wind
     blows  thru  my
clanking  gears-
thunder  shears-
and  my  riven ­ ears
then  hear  nothing:
but  thru  clairaudience
I  will  ever  be ­ a
master  of  everything
that   ravishes  the
world  beneath  your
feet.

The  pompous  skies
dri­nk  up  the  seas,
to  drop  thus  upon
my  eyes  in  beads;
and ­ as  I  pen  my
muse's  advice,  the
ink  disappears  from
the  s­heets;  and  watcher
dieties-in  the  third  choir
of  the  celes­tial  hierarchy-
now  have  useless  wings.

Oh,  mold  my  verna­l
features  into  a  candle
effigy— watch  them  gleam—
then  gro­w  so  low  by  high
degrees; and  the  wax  melting  by
the  heat  of  flame  -to  once  again­
downturn  my  merry  cheeks.  So  if
you  please,  masquerade  a­s  a  blessed
princess  -before   I  am  consumed  completely-
and  I  will  play  both  parts  o­f  the  duelling
princes.  One  a  man, the other  a  machine.

Go,  rendezvous  with  my doyenne madness!

Indeed  the  tryst  could  cause  my  discarnate
ghost­  to  scarper.  I  will  wrap  a  cloak  around
my Joy  and  Sadn­ess   
—pleased that I  might hide  my  spare  character; or  at  least  proclaim  thee
dressed  a  bit  sharper.

A life taken by hand
Doesn't free your soul
It ravishes the hell fire
Till your body turns coal
The bloodshot eyes
That once filled with love
Has no sign of remorse
Yet, staring from above
The sinking body wades
Lifeless without a soul
Dragged to the debris
And tied to a pole
Ropes dig deep into the skin
Like, those hell leashes
A final breath to let go
Whilst,
burning with the witches...


©Seema Sen, 2023

missing your touch,
needing your desire,
quenching the thirst that needs to be quelled
shivering hands needing comfort
my body aches for you
thrashing about in ecstasy as i think of you
your brimming dark hazel amber eyes entrance me into a drunken state of ****** stupor
as your body & voice ravishes me to the highest heights.

I've lost the burning in my fingers,
The spark within my soul,
The light in my eyes that lingers,
When a fire ravishes me whole.

My words have been driven away,
Replaced by derivatives and sines,
My erratic thinking and impulsive way,
Ridiculed by logical lines.

Slowly, my mind has been eroded,
Pounded, molded and reformed,
Until my eyes are totally blanked,
And my essence is forever lost.

For now my pen no longer moves,
In hurried chicken scratch,
But rather, in uniformed loops,
Making a perfect black stitch.

The night’s grim demeanor
Destroys the serenity of the moon
Ravishes the sacred
Hearts of the unfortunate few
Who dare brave the soulless vacuum

Where ignoble hate
Defines one’s belonging
Siphoning life from
Those around their fancied niche
To fuel their self-righteousness

Some fall victim to
The unreasonable, harsh wrath
Of the wretched demons
Whose empty skeleton bodies
Are devoid of happiness

But here you yet stand,
Angelic guardian,
Protectorate of the lonely,
You stand pristine, unmarred
Your smile banishes the treachery

Your beautiful smile
Transforms any place to a home
Captivates my heart:
You complete the person I am
And I love you more each day

Time weathered it 
Worn by salt and wind 
A testament to man and sea
And the sheer determination to survive.
Boats come in and out with the tides
Waves unrelenting...
Remember your roots
As the sea ravishes over rock.
There are few who stop to care,
But there is stillness to be found here

There is a magic in these misty cliffs
As the water crashes onto rockface
Sending turrets of spray into the air
And spiney fingers cascading down.
A race to reunite.
The ocean  moves...
A lobster *** buoy bobs up and down
The cliff erodes, ever so slowly

Seagulls sit on a cliff edge
perhaps resting, i do not know
A wave passes by
Teetering on the edge of explosion
I do not see it break as it passes out of view.
The surging ocean delights me
Dancing over rock
Having no care for destruction
Safety or form
It moves as it must
As it sees fit
Taking the best and only path.
Accepting its new form
in each moment
Giving life, Taking life
It cares not.
It must only move and this it knows 
You are welcome, but beware

There is a melancholy
piano,
with a whole bunch of dust
like a film
of fear
in your corner,
that you like to play
every night
in the purple dark.

But I sleep,
holding you,
and I don't seem fragile
or under
some
formal demand.

Maybe
there can be
two types of will,
one for fear
and
one for
contentment.

You win the day,
with your ability
to will
certain things
into being.

Purple dark
ravishes.

We lay on the bed
and I can smell your hair
not fragile at all.