Strange GrowthStrange Growth8 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
after a day
the ploughed field has
a fine crop of seagulls
HeldWe loved like arson:Held8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
glow floats around like smoke, and distorts us,
restless, and tangles around the rafters,
the room imbued: remnants of star-fuelled lust.
We loved like fireworks, comets and fireflies.
We traced paths through constellations for hours,
across freckled skies, tasting the stars
with every kiss. The night went on for miles.
Now a cathartic still whispers, lingers
as the room burns orange in the morning's
luster. The carmine light bares a warning:
To keep my distance, or I'd clash with hers.
I leave her to draw the blinds, casting shad-
ows like prison-cell bars across the bed.
StorytimeStorytime11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Scalding bathes for Lolita
shake her body up.
And arsenic drinks,
the coroner thinks,
were responsible for the scars.
Now little mother spanish
and stoic papa cry.
Mourning and lamenting,
sister Nola dies -
of suicide, they say.
Two children in a day.
Another wake, funeral cake,
now everyone\'s asking why.
A week goes by
and Lorelai, their sitter in arrears,
\"When those children called
I wished that they would die!
So I bathed the youngest quiet,
after tepid poisoned tea,
and strung her sister,
up on the willow tree.\"
after dinner, afterlifeafter dinner, afterlife8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
After Dinner, Afterlife
If it were you and I,
both of us
bearing crosses on our backs,
and lifted high upon our crimes
(like a Bible story
or a fairy tale from some
damned, banned book)
we'd surely be honoured
at the gates of Saint Peter,
with medals, wine, wings
and songs of praise
for our lives within fables
and our ability to conquer
with only a blind mule -
and a switch.
the plasticized quantum theorythe plasticized quantum theory8 years ago in Open More Like This
une voleur honteux
slip of the tongue
in each saturated pore
spectrum rehearses its symphony
crooked whispers of a flute
a glimpse of blue infinitude
quiets the confines of los alamos
¿quién es él? eso piensa
paralysis in the peristalsis
jewel in the vitreous humor
until it watercolors
the poison of psyche
papillae the plagues
oxidizing ash and ember
a quivering effigy
splinters the moon
the mirrored hand exhales
swept the epileptic ceiling
dissolving tendrils of mahogany
detached from the retina
tranquil, the deception
the film frame fades
captured in the mercury
NdinonziMy name is Rufaro. I'm turning nine soon. I like going to school, even though I have to walk a long time to get there, because I can meet my friends. Some of them are from other villages, and I wouldn't see them if I didn't go. I like some of my teachers. Ms Machegutu is very nice. She says I'm a good pupil, and maybe I can go to high school if my grades are good. I don't think I will, Baba doesn't make enough money. He gets drunk very often, Amai says it's because times are hard. I don't understand. Times have always been hard.Ndinonzi7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My name is Tendai. I'm 22. I've been living in the capital for 4 years now. Even though I have my A-levels, it's hard to find work. The people here are smarter than I am, some make fun of my accent. But I work hard. I don't smoke, and I don't drink a lot. I always have some money when I go home for my parents and my aunts. My little sister can go to school, and she is always very happy when I bring her a new dress. Last year, I met some guys that sell Katshasu.
a letter to...this grey weather complimentsa letter to...6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
made too loud.
40 hour weeks
feeds of unfelt,
dry & blinking.)
today, cute shoes,
and matching toes,
for a daily
all shades of
and that selfsame,
no bright inbetween
I'm coming up
EucalyptusEucalyptus8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
her skirts are so thick
if you spun her upside down
she would open up like a rose-
violent yellow pumps
and bubble ankles on
lanky blue legs, waving like stamen in the rain.
she's pollinating all over the room
a good thing to ask would be
why have I waited so long.
Do you remember burning me around your neck? I singed your hair, but didn't say anything.
It just curled from my fingers.
I sit far away now-
wrapped around my new love like a cat,
telling ghost stories and missing your shoulders,
flicking back and forth against the subway walls.
I got a letter today
a train schedule
another reminder of my
residence in the wings.
why have I waited so long?
I remember the day
you sat in my livingroom
somber, surrounded by fruit,
while I ran back and forth
miserable and sweating, trying to
find something appropriate to wear at the funeral.
you played at his memorial
and I watched
leaning back on the carpet and forgetting
entirely where I was.
For I have SinnedFor I have Sinned9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I once had
An affair with Jesus,
When my legs were swollen
And my eyes looked like heat
It was kept quite hush-hush
Afraid that Hashem would find out
And no Holy Mary's or hall-
would save me . But his voice
Beat wildly with the
Promise of a fake honey heaven
Complete with wings that would
Be glued onto my shoulder bones.
And I suffocated under
The red light from his
I didn't believe in
Men nailed on crosses
But I needed a cross-heaven
With twinkle angels
And winged warriors.
I kept waiting to be kissed
By fate, to be swept up
In the arms of forgiveness
And to elope with
A man who had scars on his wrists
Like my own.
But he chose
Millions of women
In white and black,
With purer thighs
And glass eyes
their eyes closed.
in betweens -set of four-in betweens -set of four-9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
somewhere between the intake,
of calorie eight hundred and forty seven,
and nine hundred twenty two,
i had this un-categorized, salty thought.
but by the time i found a low carb pen,
i digested it.
in the midst of drags,
of cancer's pen,
and stained brown thought,
lie the tales of merry organs.
and with a warning i cough,
stories lost in smoky air.
winter gives me time to think,
with periods of waiting
for my auto to heat,
before i can be assimilated
on rounded rubber feet.
in between shots
of caramel friends,
stumble jokes that rip
through monotony and
it was during this time ,
a slurred slip
cost me her affections.
Sharing EdenSometimes, I think about John.Sharing Eden8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I grew up in my grandparents' garden. It was fairly large and brilliantly colored in a way Crayola could never compare. I spent my days running through the pods of flowers, jumping from rock to rock, or simply laying on the grass, watching the birds, the bugs, and the days go by.
In my childish mind, I thought that God had one day decided to add Eden to Heaven, but accidentally dropped that forbidden garden on the way home. Eden shattered into pieces, and those beautiful shards fell to the Earth. When He saw how beautiful those fragments were, instead of sweeping up the pieces, he decided to leave them there as samples of Heaven. He sent down angels to care for the gardens so that they would flourish even when the area around them turned uglier and uglier.
I thought my grandparents were angels. Unlike most people, my grandparents did not plant healthy flowers. They had the remarkable ability to reconstitute withered and dying ones; weeks were marked with
poke a bubble with a pin.poke a bubble with a pin.8 years ago in Open More Like This
"poke a bubble with a pin."
i worry about my kidneys
falling apart inside my gut,
and one day coming tumbling
out of my ass, or simply sinking
down through my torso and rotting
there, clung to my pelvis.
i'm on the edge of a fountain
in the center of town and the
worrying is not bettered by the
concerned and aggressive eyes (entire faces)
of guardians and relatives watching me musedly
grinning at the wonderfully innocent toddlers
tormenting pidgeons from a giant fortress
(splashing from the basin) lobbing shells into
by now familliar, halucinations percolate
and bubble (pop!) tie dye and twist ordinary
features into decco'd visual punch lines.
i hear what i know people are saying,
inside their heads, inside my head.
when can you remember the dreams that you
know you're dreaming, and expect an evening after
a beer a hit and a story about typing "what . . ."
and having to delete when i know what's going
to be said? you need to go crazy in love at age
MayflyMayfly9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When we were mayflies our wings were
worn from wire screens, but the tentative
beats of your belly chimed like iron.
And it occurred to me that through
the breeze of burning leaves our eyes
were open to wasps and weeds.
A low slung sunA low slung sun8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A low slung sun, the tide of winter
retreating with a colourful regalia
of leaf-shaped sailing ships, blown
by a North wind sweeping low, weeping
into newly bare-branch hands.
over my neighbors fence—
The sad sky blues a one-four-five,
deepening into that summerless groove,
jet-streamed smooth & shaped in streaks—
cirrusly in need of an audience, to applaud
that fall-song dirge of slow-death tones.
Uniforming.Hope is in the guest bedroom unpacking. It takes years to unpack in the guest bedroom. Actually, it just never ends. The mismatched pairs of socks keep multiplying, and the bed never molds to your shape. It is a slab of ambiguity that ensures that no guest ever feels at home. There's a pink cardboard Kleenex box on the nightstand and ruffles around the bed frame. It looks like a carbon copy of a Pottery Barn sample guest room. Those are dying rooms, not living rooms.Uniforming.8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Hope's brother died in the war, and they sent his armpits and toenails and nostrils back to the country in a box with a flag draped over it. He was just bits and pieces; he didn't have the glory of decomposing like my grandparents. He got blown up for no good reason; the war never even ended. It was postponed, like a soccer game on account of rain. The idea's still there, but no one can fight anymore. We just wait.
Jeremy came back from the war, but he was no better off because of it. His armpits were still in the right pl
Stop Naming Bits of EarthStop Naming Bits of Earth10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Let them keep their slabs of fortune and safety-
there is fine reason
we listen to songs
that make us sad.
Bus 57 to CedarwoodBUS 57 TO CEDARWOODBus 57 to Cedarwood8 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Amanda woke up as the bus plunged down the steep cliff.
Around her small things flew, floating in the falling vehicle.
Time began to slow down. With it, everything around her blurred; all
ambient sounds became a slow stream of incoherent waves.
Today, of all days? Why did it have to be today? she thought.
Some moments later, time came to a full stop. Silence and blurriness reigned.
The bus driver was nowhere to be seen, and so were the other passengers.
Except one: a teenager seated in the very back row. He wore a hood so
she couldn't see his face. In his hand he held a small metallic thing
that shone like a small sun.
"It works!" she heard him say. His voice sounded very familiar.
A happy family
The phone at Rimes' house rang. Daniel paused his XBOX and moved to pick it up.
"Leave it, I'll take it," his father shouted from the kitchen. He
stormed into the living room and picked it up.
(a female voice greeted)
The CharmingThe CharmingThe Charming9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Grandfather pulls the netting
Over my face, then his, and
turns up my cheek thirty degrees.
There are fifty shades of amber
to sip but hundreds of suicide
workers willing to sting you.
His eyes leave mine hungry
with anticipation, hands hot
for the sweet tack.
I follow the gloom of smoke
and think to myself
they can smell it, fear
and step to the side
of Grandfather's beehive.
I dream of honey,
in slow sticky rivers that drift
and shape to my tongue like edible gloves.
The absolute sweetness,
the musk of the bees brushing petals
and stealing away to craft the nectar,
the true golden mean.
Their combs hiding my treasure in
measured pockets, hexagrams holding
the secret to happiness:
worth risking the poison
to garner the prize.
One breath from the can,
the spicy smoke of smoldering
peppermint leaves releases
the swarm for meager moments.
Grandfather gathers the comb with
deliberate grace and hands it to me.
The charming is over.
He winks a wrinkled eye and whispers:
The Curse Of Formal VerseNothing is harder than writing formal verse;The Curse Of Formal Verse9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
We struggle and we try to wrack our heads,
But all words fail, our poems are a curse.
The creators of such forms were most perverse,
Taking pleasure from poets wishing they were dead.
Nothing is harder than writing formal verse.
A failed writer shakes his empty purse.
He is determined to, once more, be fed.
But all words fail, his poems are a curse
The Villanelle, The Sestina; a hearse
Waiting for that poet, writhing in his bed.
Nothing is harder than writing formal verse.
An inmate of an asylum calls the nurse
He tried to write a sonnet in his shed
But all his words failed, his poems are a curse
Do not laugh off these forms with words so terse;
Even the masters have been quoted to have said,
"Nothing is harder than writing formal verse.
When all words fail, our poems are a curse."
The Bird"Found a bird in delta." I say.The Bird8 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
John doesn't stir, so I repeat.
"Said a bird flew in. Little scrawny thing, but it got in."
"What I thought. But it did."
I can hear John stretch out in the bunk above me, the ancient springs groaning as his body and muscles shift across them.
"Where's the leak?"
"Sally's looking. Be in delta though - can't of got through a bulkhead."
"Better not be delta two."
I nod, because neither of us want it in delta two.
"What sort of bird?"
"Little scrawny bastard, don't know. Could look him up."
John swings himself off the top bunk, and sits down on the end of my bed to do his boots up.
"Nah. Still loose?"
"Hope he gets out."
And then we laugh, because it's just such a normal thing to think, because birds should be out, shouldn't they?
If I were writtenIf I were written,If I were written9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
how would I taste?
I could be a dictionary
- bland -
yet a necessity.
It's possible I could have
the flavour of receipts,
spit me out,
get your money back –
it won't affect your
Perhaps I'd be
a top-shelf magazine –
an addictive tang kept as a treat.
Maybe you'd trace
as if I were the icing of a sonnet.
If I were written,
I wonder if you'd try me
at threeAt threeat three10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when the hand on the clock
struggles to move--
there is thunder.
Faded orange land clashes
with man made green.
Thunder comes again--
Gods heart beating over a desert.
Water vapor grabs dust and begs
to be pitched down and made into earth.
When it rains the road steams under the sun--
blacktop turns to oil slick.
And I struggle
to say something
that hasnt been said before.
108801PLANESCAPE108801PLANESCAPE8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your shiver-smile is exultant.
i thought that
while i waited for the
suns to fall,
i would sing quietly
of the planescapes;
and how we, hand in hand
held the rising
jewels of the eternal apex
in that void, brimming with
life and interstellar
"your shiver-smile is exultant,"
i breathed in your ear
while you frosted over
and when again the suns
did climb to their zenith,
we were seen
as nothing less than
made of superstrings
Headhunter's DirgeHeadhunter's DirgeHeadhunter's Dirge8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we the window-
takers, spear spirits. wei-wa-la.
the bright tooth
stabheads the spiked skulls
thrusting. we suns rise razors on the eye
lift lids oh sightless oh.
fashioned death the artifice
the fire and workman hammerless but bloodstained:
metal pour in, metal pour away.
we long lean sharplid shadows
with the moon.