Dirty little hammers

gritty, my old friend. hello, ‘ello you fucking scratching things. i remember the walls and the pain of it but i couldn’t cut you out. we can bless each other in fallacy, but i refuse to not feel rough tears and forensic emotions we buried in a box of scarred fears. we reuse those old habits as if half smoked cigarettes will really satisfy. it’s still nice to pretend we know how to care but more than I can bear, this burden of dropping homes and skipping stones across blurred visions that surround our losses. Bare that broken heart and collapsing mind, evangelical evocations ring clearly in and out of this place. i smell the hate that drives this damage and it makes me stupid drunk with paranoid afraid. who the fuck am i to say anything anymore? what’s speech, when what’s said is a stain, stigmata we’ve carved into our hands. cold steel barrels are deep dark mouths hungry for your empty bliss. i’d give it all back to find your tears on a letter in my pocket. days of yore yawn ahead and i have rinsed, repeated, repented. find us slowly, or not at all. we are still digging our way out of the morass of nonsensical predispositions. I find all of this pain fucking objectionable. i’m tired from the fall and i will call out for help, by God. i have to believe i know i’m not alone. so touch the scars and remember where to find that haven we’ve all dreamed about. Tattoo your words on this world and grab it by the throat, but gently, as if a lover. it’s the only way to stay sane when broken. i wanted you to know that i lost, but found some twisted form of peace. i’m grateful that it was you. you know me though, i will refuse to stay down. i will arise and remember that broken can find fixing when acting on a love that’s been gone too long. arise, that’s a good place to start. pick up that dirty little hammer and do your worst boy. needles and preparation. i’m finally ready for absolution.

image courtesy of Pinterest


An old punk trying to make sense of what I see and hear and think and feel. Words pulled from the ether. Introverted agoraphobic explorer.  Hockey and food junkie. Constantly recovering from this human condition. Find more at http://www.ramjetpoetry.com

Dreaming

Insights from "Inside"

I want to write that poem…

that grabs you by the head

twists your reluctant gaze in its direction

as train wrecks and nymphs routinely do;

that collides with your heart

ice pick or first love

thuds through miles of veins;

that glimmers dewdrops on your skin

whispering of sunrise and erupting volcanos;

that touches you at the core

-not in the creepy Trumpian p-grabbing way-

in the way that lights your essence on fire,

a slow smoldering that torches a forest

in an eyeblink.

I want to write that poem…

that centipedes among your synapses

imprinting thousands of indelible footprints

secreting sticky neurotoxins

irreversibly remodeling your thoughts;

that impels you to scribble snippets

on gum wrappers and tissues

and tuck them in your bra, pocketless,

so as not to lose your precious thought-gems.

I want to write that poem…

that leaves you gasping, open-mouthed,

at the import and audacity…

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Cummings and Goings

Silent Hour

Cummings and Goings

‘I have a love,’ he said.

‘And I have none,’ I said.

‘I’d like to stay,’ he said.

*

‘Can’t be with you,’ he said,

‘but you’re my flame.’

I said: ‘I feel the same.’

*

‘It’s wrong,’ he said.

‘So stop,’ I said.

‘No, don’t,’ he said.

*

‘Is everything a game?’ he said.

‘That poor guy.’

I said: ‘There’s something in your eye.’

*

‘Come on,’ he said.

‘Cannot,’ I said.

‘Why not,’ he said.

*

‘You have a love,’ I said,

‘remember?’

He said: ‘You’re better.’

*

‘It’s true and sweet,’ I said,

‘the message you’re transmitting.’

He said: ‘ You’re kidding.’

*

‘I want you more,’ he said

‘but like you less.’

I said: ‘Makes perfect sense.’

*

‘Fuck you,’ he said,

‘you only wanted me for sex.’

*

‘And you,’ I said,

‘will make great friends with my ex.’

***

© Basilike Pappa, 2018

(Image:…

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Overlay

erichmichaels

0086ABBA-F325-4643-A640-E9059D562850

Would you believe me

If I told you

The song playing in the other room

Just faint enough to be imperceptible

Will color your entire day

That it’s set your head askew

It’s an overlay

The weather in the novel you’re reading

Is an outward projection

Of the main character’s inner turmoil

The howling wind

The driving rain

The rainbow that sometimes follows

Your subconscious will hum that song

As your own weather system moves in

An unwitting participant

An actor following stage directions

Every night the play is slightly different

Every day a different song plays

In the other room

Just out of earshot

Each day, unaware you hum these tunes

An ear worm

It burrows into the minds around you

They begin to weather parallel storms

Manifestation

Virus

Synaptic transference

Daisy chain

Bucket brigade

The buckets are filled with tears

Of joy

Of sorrow

Of acceptance

They taste…

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it’s all blue

lois e. linkens

black light

And I was away,
While you shone by the old red buildings
And years of wealth. I was away
Doing mine.

You spoke, you speak
Like you planned it; words like petals,
Soft and bright. I press them,
Between heavy books
And smell them on my bedside. You kept free,
When the walls drew in.

And I’ll keep free,
Choosing colour over sullenness
And silence. I know,
You liked his melting eyes

And his sharp face, and
How he made you feel, the shape of him

But in the black-light –
It’s all blue. A great field of it,
Loud and fluorescent and staining.

It’ll stop raining,
And the wet pavements
In the hot streetlamps
Will be gold.

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Unfurl

MY VALIANT SOUL

Абстракция ручной работы. Ярмарка Мастеров - ручная работа. Купить

Quietly, the wind comes,
transforming into a pointed dagger of a muse.
The murdered landscape of colors bleeding,
trying to ingest the muse.
A quarrel between violet homes
defeated and uprooted.

Unfurling stitches of dead mouths.
Colors deformed. Bright neons
& curled blues.
A white sky now turned red, opaque.
This space, an empty eye.
Nothing is forever.

What about your muse?

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X and I, The End of (sort of)

S. K. Nicholas

xandi

As their lips met, Herbie poked his head out from the pocket of X’s dress. The animals moving about them were no longer animals but glowing orbs, and behind what had been their animal faces, he saw them for who and what they really were. He didn’t have an answer—he was just a hamster after all—yet he understood the meaning of magic and that there was no greater magic than this. Sticking his nose into the air, he sniffed out the scent of love. He knew it was love because it was the only thing that was able to make her heart beat the way it was beating right now. It made him happy, so happy he twitched his whiskers the same way she twitched her nose. And to think that only yesterday he had lived his life in a cage, not knowing of the strange beauty that existed in…

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