The Night is for many things but …

misterkaki

I would rather walk

my authentic steps into the night,

embracing obscurity,

than remain pliant fodder

for certainly lovely honey-traps

laid aforehand, by well-meaning pity.

The night and me

we are one abiding,

our abode,

beyond the reach you seek,

with your contrivances,

of lightmaking.

If you wait

until my return

then we may talk,

as equals.

You bring the true light

and intent

and I,

bring my friends,

of the dark.

Then,

we will sit,

in the balance,

of mutual possibility.

Arico Nuevo

26 November 2018

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call (l’appel du vide)

Fallen Alone

and for years i’ve heard it-
a call

a lover’s call;

whispering and settling over my bones
like my skin does
– on most days when it is not being pulled apart
by those laodicean sparrows –
like a vow does
– during weathers when they bury their tongues
in octagonal caskets anchored
to my wrist –
like longing does
– each time the night parts my thighs
and slips in –

within

where a stranger voice from the skies
– from the void –
echoes.

••ra’ahe khayat

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Like me

erichmichaels

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Are you like me?

Never really sure just how others take you

Do they really like you or just tolerate you?

When they laugh at your jokes

Are they being courteous or sincere?

Are you like me?

Giving those you meet the benefit of the doubt 

Assigning a whole backstory to why they did what they did

Justification for treating you shabbily 

Are you like me?

You dutifully take in the sorrows of others

Everyone’s therapist they can vent on

But can’t open up yourself

Either for fear the floodgate will never close 

Or being thought of as weak

Or facing your own frailty 

Are you like me?

Do you come undone?

At the thought of the pain and sorrow 

That is being endured in the world

At any given moment

Are you like me?

Despite your emotional connection to the world

You’d rather stay…

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#tbt I Say That I Lost You

Brave & Reckless

I say that I lost you

as though you were an umbrella

that I carelessly left on the bus

after the summer rain had stopped

I say that I lost you

as though you were a conversation

that I dropped the thread of

when I became

distracted by fireflies dancing outside my window

I say that I lost you

as though you were a book

I insisted that a friend borrow and read

that was never returned

I say that I lost you

as though you were a bet

a wager

I could easily afford to place

To say that I lost you

is to say that the world that I knew has ended

that the universe has been torn violently in two

that time has stopped like a broken pocket watch

whose hands now stand empty

reaching for a tomorrow

that will never come

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All…

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Mood, Moonlit

Insights from "Inside"

I sowed the seeds of my own destruction

coated in the guise of a mother tongue

while the drizzle of doom

soft and silent

drips

drops

/my sibilant sis/

I ate from the cap of the amanita

scarlet brooding senorita

swooned to the tune

of a glass-looked fall

spat the spores

/blood admonition/

I dabbled in a dab of diablerie

swaddled as I was with faux coterie

dawdled long among tip-toed tulips

placed dibs on the crux of wizardry

I raise my glass

chipped, half-empty

toast with the devil

/wed moonlight/

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The-Pendulum-Is-An-Organism

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

These faces are dabbed with cotton melodies A quiet banshee stirs, her fluttering lunar gown sweeping stars, a hose inundating burnt lungs I am clockwork, spindles and needles, against an atmosphere of blooming black, My stomach, rigid thistle , begins to part near the right quarter, slowly undraped, layers of skin are layers of dust, they have never been otherwise except in the eye, the eye of this fool I stand like justice, blemished my soft arms are weighing scales, a moth in the left, a moth in the right Moth, green, orgasmic fields swaying in mustard warmth, incantations of breath Moth, red, tickling, spoons of liquid blood levitating, shaved twisted jaws I scratch the language on my volatile croissant chest, tongues like ribbons hurrying in the directions that escape this world into iota, all perceivable realms like a swiveling staircase in these sedimented bones I swing, blinded, suffocated, an…

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in NINE MUSES POETRY

WRITINGS, MUSINGS, POETRY

Two Poems by David Lohrey

Commotion

Hope is faster than light,
its speed behind measure.
It’s alive, today, but what about
tomorrow? Easy come, easy . . .
I need something to build up
my courage.One advantage is sleep, an endurance
test: a locomotive or a pillow. We
learn to calculate the commotion.
Suck the straw, hang out, hit the hay.
Who’s to say? One cedes territory, one
establishes boundaries, one signs along
the dotted line. Some choose Southern exposure.

Gross indecencies stare us down. Our
calm is our rebellion. It’s the last frontier.
Benumbed, confounded, lost in space. We
escape confinement like water, searching, but
what of our aversion to chaos? Our taste for the
tranquil? Must we be held in contempt for despising
aggression, our preference for the impassive?

It’s massive: jest. Or condescension. We cultivate
superiority; we celebrate death: theirs, hers, his.
Inoculation. Innocence…

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Half-life

erichmichaels

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We’re all in a state of continual decay

Casting off neutrinos, alphas and betas

Dander and forgotten moments of yesterday

Fluttering to the floor is what their fate is

These motes of us become tomorrow’s dust

These particles dance in shafts of light

Thanks to wanderlust everyone breathes in us

Adrift on thermals we finally take flight

Look around now at all that you’ve collected

Owned and used by you or simply meddled

You are what you hold AND what’s rejected

A feather duster to clean on what you settled

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Light And Pure

Heartstring Eulogies

“Why would a person
so light and pure
love something like me?”

You see, I never could reconcile how you could love me the way you do. It wasn’t just how I compared us — you were diamonds while I was nothing but dirt and rust. Why would a person so light, so pure, with such a beautiful spirit love something like me? After everything I’d been through? After the resulting person? But you did, and you do.

© Sarah Doughty

And for that,
I will always be grateful.

This was written for day sixteen
of November Notes.
Diamonds And Rust
by Joan Baez

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