Discover Sunday: Goodbye, and Good Riddance/Devereaux Frazier

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The clouds coalesce on shores of blue

Thunder and lightning descend in waves

They turn grey and full of rain

Anguish and buyers remorse descend

I’m angry at myself for ever falling for you

I stutter, “but you let me”

Truthfully, I let myself

Because I’m in love with my own sins

And with you

Goodbye

And good riddance

The pain you caused was endless

But in my head, somehow it was worth it

Just to lie in your bed, just to see you wet

I forgot about my own health and heart

With thoughts of you filling every fiber of being

The mockingbirds were singing, and the crows

Found a gathering every morning on my porch

But I ignored all the signs, each and every one

The neighbors that saw you with another

The friends who read the texts to another

Sometimes I don’t believe

That people can be so cruel

And I need to nearly feel the sting of death

To realize that people don’t have the will

Or the compassion to be honest and open

Even when they’re hurting, killing

They make it feel like nobody else

So I endure, endeavor, and relent

Hoping dishonesty will keep them coming

 

You can find more of Devereaux’s work here

Discover Sunday: Where Beauty Resides/David Redpath

The bells of liberty
by your stockings rung
The deepest restraints
in my hands … undone
Like a flake of snow
your sacrament melting
upon my thirsting tongue
Quenched in the ocean
of love’s perfection
Down on bended knees
lost in the squeeze
of your wholly communion
To ride the high tide
of hard won freedom
Yet, I’m a captive slave
to your will being done

Your angels singing
a silent prayer
that rents the air
A rosebud opening
to the dawn
of a new morning
The Sun reborn
arising from darkness
The sweetest caress
A portrait in the painting
upon a canvas of wonder
The joining in oneness
The joy outstretching
to your throne of happiness
Fingers and toes
like tender tendrils
of a celestial ebb and flow
Above and below
ecstasy in the throes
My letter of love sent
The walls of containment
imploded and spent
upon your arriving
with the napalm
of no bodily harm
Chiming with the ringing
of your silent alarm
Fair land of contentment
wherever my beauty lies
In the arms of the beholder
forever binding
those loving ties

Wherever
our destiny hides
near or far
always and whatsoever
true beauty abides
Love triumphant
ever the prize
Lovers together
riding side by side
Our universe unfolding
through whispered sighs
Upstanding and victorious
under crystal clear skies
whatever the weather
It is always glorious
through heaven’s eyes
Here and there
as the eagle glides
Yet always near
deep in my heart
where your beauty resides

by david redpath © 2018

Watercolour by Salvador Dali

Discover Sunday: Bonfire Nocturnalia (Linoleum)/Willie Watt

(and) she asks me whether, “archetypical
beginnings
undermine the rest of
the poem?”

or
whether,

“their self-awareness

prevents
the poem
from discovering
something deeper? more
authentic?”

and
I said,

“it’s an academic question.
it doesn’t matter.
none of my poems are self-aware.”

(and) I’m on a mobius strip
magic carpet—

a syncopated wavelength—
and you duct-taped your brain to the linoleum
and wondered
at the way
things became so ashen
so quickly.

I lit your cigarettes
even when you blew the smoke in my face.

(and) the elevator is
going
down,

down,

down,

and it’s like those surreal childhood memories
(the floor is lava)
that you remember
when listening to an old song
for the
first time
in
a
long time.

(and) I’ve suffered through so many
nightmares—
bonfires of nocturnalia—
that the cracks
in the linoleum
allow the oversized
insects
into the breach.

(and) because
I’ve
asked you to kill me,
and because
I’ve
asked you to hate me,
now
might be a bad time to ask you
to make me
something
other than what I am, baby.

save me from the drunken diatribes
and
swaying lines.
save me from the postmodern cynicism
and
high tides.

it’s high time
we grew up
and grew past
these marijuana-colored skylines.

(and) your ghost
is the only thing
that eradicates the roaches nestling in my brain,
that saturates my vanity and sanity in concurrent saline solutions,
that draws blood from the lips of shame and memory and feeds vampiric on its undergrowth,
that wages war on agony
and always
emerges
bloodstained
but intact.

another relapse of reason
and I
can only bypass
the breakdown
when one of your phantoms
is near—

hidden
in the
linoleum.

Excerpt from Swear to Me


Willie Watt is a student, short story writer, and poet from Houston Texas. In his work he strives to capture the many contradictions and as-yet-unwritten phenomena of life in the twenty-first century. Currently an English major at the University of Texas at Austin, he plans to attend a graduate program in creative writing before going on to teach, write, and lecture professionally.”

Discover Sunday: Inhale/Willie Watt

Blood on the bedroom leaves.
Forest in every direction—juniper, oak, willow.
Autumn.

I haven’t been writing many
poems lately.

You’ve overcome so many corpse-strewn battlefields.
But I’m worried it’ll be my accidental shining reality that becomes the sword through your armor.

Writing seriously now, I guess. Prose. Careful edits. Peer reviews.
No time for natural gifts
or
free association.

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not opposed to happy endings.
Squinting, I can see one in your eyelashes—at least a bittersweet metamodern fadeout.

These have been my best works yet.
But will it be enough?
Have I set the target too perilously high?

I’d do anything to break your cycle of self-torment.
Well, almost anything.
I couldn’t compromise myself even if I wanted to.
Not anymore.
Too much is set in motion.

THC & Caffeine & Nicotine & Alcohol & Adderall.
I can write on anything.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
I’m becoming as good as I thought I could be, and its as real as it is unreal—as satisfying as it is shocking.

I know you love me.
You don’t use the word. Afraid of frightening me off, I guess.
Instead, you say, “you scare me.”
I wonder if you know that I’ve decrypted your code?—would you just out and say it if you knew that I knew?

I’ve become realistic as the golden days approach.
Ironic.
The more I understand my unrealistic greatness, the less I daydream impossibilities.
The long-shots have become not just possible, but probable.

I want to make it work. I mean it. Really.
I just hope we can keep ourselves in the process.
I know I will, for my part.
Can you do the same?
I like to think so.
Not sure, though. If I’m honest.

Ink on paper. Digital transcription.
So many hundreds of thousands of words.
I’ve got to be nearing that ten-thousandth hour.

Don’t panic.
Inhale.
We’ll get where we’re going.
One way or another.


Willie Watt is a student, short story writer, and poet from Houston Texas. In his work he strives to capture the many contradictions and as-yet-unwritten phenomena of life in the twenty-first century. Currently an English major at the University of Texas at Austin, he plans to attend a graduate program in creative writing before going on to teach, write, and lecture professionally.”

The Waiting Room/Caterina Gentile

It is a heated chamber
Off of medication
I dream of a gaping vortex in the sky
A whole in the universe and spinning
somethings.
The awkward silence between you and I
Laughter from behind a shut door
We are all the same
A schizo? Nervous? Lonely?
Abused. Abandoned. Depressed.
I wonder what your day consists of
Or what you have to go home to
-or what you don’t-
Or where you came from.
In session, we do not disturb.
Out of session is a different story.

C.Gentile is a poet currently in the process of obtaining her master’s degree in English Literary Studies at Salem State University. She is a self-proclaimed Star Wars nerd, novelty sock enthusiast and passionate lover of Canada Dry ginger-ale products. In her spare time she enjoys watching movies listening to 90’s alternative music and spending time with close friends and family.

Breaking for Birds/Caterina Gentile

headlights

 

The drive
Cleared the cobwebs
And for a while the darkness
Crept back into the corner it’s stored in.

It’s a never-ending cycle when you keep
Count of the times
I broke for a bird
And I took it in.
The second, the moment, the breath.

I wondered the life it held
The story it holds
The fear it felt.
Does it wonder the same?

Does it know I keep burning bridges
And digging myself into deeper places I
Don’t want to be in?

Does it know it can fly away when it wants
Instead of lock eyes with me
Staring at me
Wondering if I’ll hit it
Even if I stopped?

C. Gentile is a poet currently in the process of obtaining her master’s degree in English Literary Studies at Salem State University. She is a self-proclaimed Star Wars nerd, novelty sock enthusiast and passionate lover of Canada Dry ginger-ale products. In her spare time she enjoys watching movies listening to 90’s alternative music and spending time with close friends and family.

The Addicts Don’t Disgust Me; Humanity Does-Rachel Finch/Bruised But Not Broken

Even the heathens used to suck on their mamas titty.. 

There was a time the addicts cried for milk and that was enough..

Those babies grew with Love in their hearts and still the world beat them down.. 

People, beat them down.

I’ve watched everyone i’ve ever loved reach out for comfort. I’ve watched them all reach for a damn fix too. 

But I don’t get mad.

You know why I don’t get mad? 

Because the baby crying for a bottle still hides inside.

Because those babies grew into children, suffered at the hands of men claiming to be human and they’ve been gagging on trauma ever since.

But no one’s there to pat their backs.. Couldn’t soothe the colic, can’t help heave the vomit. 

There is no support system.

Just little girls hiding behind big tits and long eyelashes, painting smiles onto their faces, as if foundation hides the streak of tears, we know it doesn’t.

Little boys, bruised, looking up at men that fathered them and then taught them everything love isn’t, through their fists. 

Rape, carried behind their eyelids, beatings still living beneath their skin.

There was no fucking hero. 

Just small people, reaching for a bottle, reaching for a titty that’s dried up, a fucking hand to hold that can’t be found because jesus, to touch them would be to risk the plague.

And you walk by.

I have watched these people crumble. I have watched them stomach grief, living with a bad taste on their tongue, struggling to spit the pain from their lungs and I watched them fight.

The shame in their chests, the weight on their shoulders, their broken hearts barely beating. 

They were anything but weak.

And you think you’re better than them, because you carry your pain in your pockets and you can handle the heavy that weighed them down. 

You did not live their path. 

I guess I do get mad, when their bodies convulse, when they throw up as much as they choked down, when they laugh admist the agony of overdose.. 

But not with them.

With those of you that think you’re a fucking gift to the planet, but can’t be a gift to a brother. 

The addicts don’t disgust me.

Humanity does. 


Rachel can be found on WordPress at Bruised But Not Broken and on Facebook

Feed Me- Maggie Lawson/The Art of Chewing Crayons

I’m starving!

Who will feed me?

To all artisans of the social missive,

Come on now, feed me proper. I have a flood in my mouth, an ache in my pit, and a hankering for something bloody. I want to lose my teeth in its depths, relish a rare bite and feel the deep sigh of satiation.

The mind, void of sufficient stimulation, is a dangerous thing and I’m bored; bored with articulate bullshit, robotic fist pumps and ass-kissing. Under such duress I’m inclined to want to scoop out brains with a teaspoon and use the skull to hold my crayons.

Speaking of crayons; be warned, bring the full box to colour with me as I’m not gifted with tolerance for fluffy stuff but I am a genius at alternative uses for the vacuous spaces between ears.

I’m calling all funky fringe-dwellers, weirdly wordy, pulsing poetics and sanguineous songsters.

Bring your double-entendre entrees; succulent morsels of moreishness that whet my appetite and tease my mind.

Delight with delicacies that roll off the tongue and pleasure the palate, tempting tidbits that tantilise. Seduce with sumptuous soliloquy that leaves me salivating; words dripped like honey on my tongue.

Dare with wild things; offer the repulsive with a twist of lemon, a stark tart reminder that all should be sampled before being rejected.

Bring earth’s offerings; that rich bounty of colour and crispness cleanses palate and soul with its purity and goodness. Rich in intellectual nutrition it affords me guilt-free sustenance to balance my indulgences.

Fill my table with meaty mains remembering to keep mine bloody (i have a predilection for food with a pulse). Bring me seared steak that i might sink my teeth up to my gums in that still-warm flesh and savour the flavour of it’s bloody juice.

But save the spun sugar for toothless children who know not what they eat; my hunger is for needful things. My taste for empty calories died a bloody death and grief sits sour in my mouth.

Link me the finest literary libations, pile my plate high with the best you’ve seen or written so I might feast on your deliciousness.  This girl is mighty hungry!

#MarvelousMavenOfMisfitness
#FullSpectrumSelf


You can read more of Maggie’s writing at The Art of Chewing Crayons