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based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!
Begin Life If there are ever again history books, I may be called deranged damaged a destroyer. But there will not be, no at least none you will read in a matter they call permanent a matter they call remembrance the breaking point of human life. You will not see me again as I am nor will you have ever not ever not within the confines of your own mind nothing known nothing seen.
The public believes me now when I tell the truth about us our species about just why we suffer like the animals never do. They have always believed me somewhere somewhen in them as this is the truth they used to never dare to know. The fact is the undeniable fact is that
when it all went awayin the dim
a beige, scratchy growth,
turned ripe and dark.
to wake alone in savage silence.
doors react differently
assumptions set upon opening
the first doorunexpecting.
trees wrapped with rust
a desperate haze of dust and rubber.
& a trench between:
yours & mine.
what is here: a woman,
(gazing at the place where
the red comes from.)
like me, but
with a kitchen towel
(with a duck with a hat)
dash inside and squander away
your low-beam aspirations
(oh sickly beating vessel, rotten
shall I just write you off,
not quite subtle hammering in my chest, bristled edges, sharp
rusted corners; split-tongued fiend
of pardous romance, I no longer heed your
whatever I want
I am determined will be
this sea, shed anchors, awakethis is it; wake
your limbs, memory: catch
your heels on the upward
curving of the earth's gladness. open
your eyes and tongues
like oceans, pour out
the salted ache of your spine, down
down into its listening bowls.
this is it, our language
shaking its sleepy bones. the truth
is always bellowing, rust breaths
reaching over themselves
into distance. this is you,
sloping geometry rusted through
from salt and moonlight,
this rough waiting work of joy.
this is it, the flesh vessels
of awakening, this curve pressed
into my bed. the ocean is blossoming
in your mouth, and i
am reflected, rising up.
twin girls, different in love.She's got her heart on speed
dial, I send mine postcards
every once in a while. She
tells me he's the best thing
to ever happen to her, I
can't count how many days the last
one existed. She loves like
the world is on fire and only
she can put it out. I love like
war, I don't whisper it, I shout.
Her man is all sunlight and
empathy, & every guy I end up with
like a sailboat crashing against
the sea. Her man is all flowers
and undying love, I just can't wait
until the guy I'm with shuts up.
She holds her love in high-esteem,
I throw mine around like a swift
kick to the knees. And she is happy,
happy as can be, and I've got l
letters for the divine president of the universeletters for the divine president of the universe:
will good things always happen to bad people
and why do i forget to adjust for daylight savings?
how come i was born with free will but with-
out wings? do you worry you made trees too tall
did you mean to
give pascal's triangle so, so many uses
and me so few?
is there a beautiful angry or is that not a b or c
what do we call the in between of apathy and listening
to an interesting story? what about selective parasitism,
and how much caring is a whole awful lot and what
do you see in your alpha-bits?
there is a furnace where your hand should bethere is a story i want to tell,
and like all good stories,
it starts with a death.
london is built on the bones of itself
on the ash and char and time-swallowed screams
on the hollowed out rafters of was
grief is built the same way. there are hands
that are not your hands, there are hands
that are not your hands and that carry the body away
like barrels down the river. your hands are empty,
your hands are shaking and shoved into your pockets
and wrapped around burning hot cups of tea and
clutched into stained cloth that you never intended
there is a story that i want to tell but it isn't
my story to tell so i am goi
i'll wait for youa cup of tea is like that boy you are trying to find.
warm, just warm enough to turn you pink.
steam tickling your face when you hold the mug up to your lips.
palms feel like he just let go of your hand after walking you home.
a lasting warmth that makes you long for more.
you warm up from the inside out, spirits lifted, a smile teasing the corners of your mouth.
you can't help but yearn for more.
more warmth, more happiness, just more.
but a cup of tea will never break your heart.
meeting you in a narrow streetlike a brooding thought,
woodsmoke-scented mist gathers
between shadowed sides of buildings
that breath legends of sinuous years,
as the bare, dim lit walls are closing in
and sleepy bricks scratch my palms when I reach out
to capture a last piece of the frozen sky.
alone I walk this age-old place
— foreign, but so close to my heart —
and when whisps of footsteps sift
through the silence dripping from rooftops,
I imagine you — damp hair ruffled by wind —
coming up to meet me with a hint of a smile in your eyes,
just like when you came, long ago,
between the bare, dim lit walls of my world,
bringing light and a swirl o
they'll get it right this timeImpossible demands, like hold
still and stop throwing up and
It can't be a hallucination when
the pretty doctor's hair in her eyes, the nurses'
finger-bruises laddering my skin,
the wet pillow.
How sometimes the only power
is crying, noisy-soft, the waves of blood
gurgling sickly from lips
until someone decides, stop,
The army retreats and a quiet woman
spends the next hour wiping blood
off my shaking body.
The next day in the ambulance
to the next hospital, bigger and better,
dried red flakes sift from my hair
and I am afraid.
Fiction Saved HerFolded in that world beneath the
illness of a lightbulb sun, hands
clammy, body blazing, limbs shivering
together in disharmony. No one laughs
in this ward. The medicine is oozing, an
ominous black liquid, sticky and revolting.
Nauseous, she turns, she turns.
Soundlessly, the words take her. Sweet,
alluring songstress of the sea, or cunning
vampire of the night. It doesn't matter.
Every other has a problem, a daunting
dilemma to dissolve. But her?
Here, observer only. Safe and free, and
everlastingly painless. Every page a
Revolution. Panacea, for the soul.