the wizard

grim reaper.gif

have you seen this wizard?
the one they call the Man.
he walks among the shadows –
he’ll catch you if he can.

have you seen this wizard?
his feet are burnt and black.
he carries wands in both his hands –
always ready to attack.

have you seen this wizard?
he hides beneath his hood.
they say he moves it with his mind
to peer upon the good.

have you seen this wizard?
alas – what things i’ve said!
for if you’d seen him face to face,
you’d be already dead.

 

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dissociation

Brave and Reckless

my mask labeled

functioning adult

is slipping today

i keep putting

it back in place

and it stays for a little while

before it slides down again

like ill-fitting glasses

or a hat that’s too big

revealing all the brokenness

beneath

all the vulnerability

I try to hide

i watch myself

having normal

conversations with

co-workers

as though I am across

the room

maybe I should get

some popcorn to eat

while I enjoy this show called

dissociation

i make work related

phone calls

ask intelligent questions

answer emails

even write a consent

type words of thanks and

encouragement

as if everything

is okay

like I’m okay

trying with various

degrees of success to

ignore the screaming vortex

that is inside me

maybe is me

i even start to reach out a

a few times

to ask for. . .

i don’t know what

someone to hold up a mirror

View original post 68 more words

january 30

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the most regal of rulers
sit cross-legged
on earth’s carpet.
to the grass,
those official officials are
but another weight
under which to bend,
another canvas to stain
with their piney pigment.
the ocean will not
slow its tides
for the sake of a badge
or a medal,
the sun will not
dim its rays
at the squint of an oath,
the desert will not
bubble into blue
at the dropping of ink
onto proper paper,
the clouds will dump
their drenching
on the dandiest
of duty-doers
and the trees
will form their roots around
the stakes they hammer
in the ground.

january 29

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they stood like parked cars
prison bars
dry cigars
tucked in lines to wait.
time washed its salted force
against them
but still they stood,
and stand they will
till the thudded click of right-time
sets its match to flux
that which sits settled
in its luxury,
then will the tyres squeal and smoke,
the bars bend and break.
they will paint their cheeks
and stamp the earth
into clods of black,
rippling like oil around their feet
as they run

Maybe This is Forever – Jasper Kerkau

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

Executive smiling and gesturingI haven’t been this happy in a long time. The silence of Saturday night used to make me cower and cringe, panic in the restroom and bury myself under covers, waiting breathlessly for the sun to come up, for the vampire night to recede back into my nightmares. The fog of autumn burned off; a stillness and quiet flows through my empty house. I breath it in slowly, waves of peaceful solitude pour over me, smoothing out my idiosyncratic creases, taking me to a place most people live; a place I never knew–the world of normalcy and general complacency. Perhaps I could take up residence here, away from the shadow people and dark mental clutter that burdens me, leaving me washed out, shattered by suspicious conversations with everyone. Maybe this is forever. Maybe I am fixed, better than I was before. I can wake up on Sundays, make a…

View original post 110 more words

dandelion

meadow.jpeg

cold echoes graze ancient walls
saturated in souls of the normal
the humble and the horrid

others are pressed here
like dried flowers
between pages of a book
flat and fossilised, in wise old stone

generals and gentry
mayors and majors,
dukes and duchesses,
patrons and parsons,
lords and ladies

the final scrap of a mother’s red agony
in a lonely ward, remains
scratched into slabs
that will long outlive the scratcher

but what of those without,
those who sat shivering
on hard pews
skin burnt and browned
fingers calloused, nails black

will their remembrance lie
in sacred panelling
or guilded glass?
it will lie in the fields
among the dandelions

their blood will nourish
future’s harvest

the good ones die

samantha lucero

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i wish i could recall the pulsing safety
of my mother’s red, warm womb
that sacred burrow i curled where all i heard
was the watery song of her galloping heart
& the indistinct voice of my uncertain future
where she’d forget i ever lived within her
where i was wove to bone & flesh
& therefore have known her like
no other ever will
where she could not turn her back on me
as she did in life, because she wore me
in the front; a living fragment of her
until it came time i breathe on my own
& since then i’ve always breathed
alone

how did it feel to be carried
in strong arms born on
or near halloween?
to be kissed while i slept
by the bags of blood-blue eyes?
to be ignorant of the
cold, hard truths of life?

before life scrubbed them from my…

View original post 45 more words

Morphazine

Malicia's Malebolge

tumblr_njwlb8bip51qduw1jo5_1280 From “Innocent” by Shinichi Sakamoto

Connected to four different hospital beds
I hear the black-eyed angels crawling
closer
their tiny feet hammering on the ceiling tiles
like rain
pulling me out of my sleep

The god of sedation rules this place
this funny little gap between time
he serves me comforting lies
sealed in plastic tubing
to muffle their screeches
I think I’m addicted
to my deafness

I trade my dreams for piece of mind
I want to be senseless
disconnected
with his nails
digging in
my veins open and close
like weary eyes
I have lost my sight

Malicia

View original post

merely because of nostalgia.

Fallen Alone

because there was something
quite nostalgic about a city
that cried itself to sleep
at an hour when the rose
withered- aged two decades and a year
in the time it took
drunken mistakes to tear
into the condom foils-
and when beauties woke up to
frogs- their pockets filled with gold
and empty hopes,
as a payment for their time-
because what was a greater irony
than a city losing seconds to the clock
while every other man,
with a few shillings in his pocket could buy
hours from a princess
with an even lesser self esteem.

because there was something
quite nostalgic about a city
that forgets to mourn that girl,
that single girl, no one remembers
but an old castaway couple-
where one romanticized cancer,
and the other fornicated with pensions
and debts in her marriage bed-
as they reminisced a daughter of sixteen
from sixty years…

View original post 125 more words