let’s be strangers in new orleans – samantha lucero

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

next-day sore, fabled romance memories we’ll never have again hang themselves over the morgue of myshoulders. they sling there on the murderess hews of my collarbones like a noose. over the rubble of me like a shapeless dress, they cling. my sadness is a one-size fits all.

there’s a bad mystery of stitched up, prayer-words smothered & held hostageunderneath the humid crucifix gameof your nails. maybe we could be in love.your calloused hand, my beating throat. memories are ghosts that can physically embrace me; embrace us.

likedirt-sweat in a ghost-tour day of that hot mouth street in New Orleans, where the grinning specter-folks wanna stay like pastedgaslight posts in booze-colored hurricane beads. where there’s oiled-up candles in the balmy night lining decatur& quivering tarot cards in a sweaty palm telling me i’m meant for greatness. hail the votives for a virgin or a saint-chief, & watch palpitations at…

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Sibilant Nonsense – Olde Punk

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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Sibilant Nonsense – Olde Punk (Ramjet Poetry)

I feel I’ve listened
To something
That means nothing
Yet everything
I will leave you
Before you leave me
The mountain calls
And her heart
Is bared
The wind cries my name
Over and over and over
Do I dare answer?
I should go….
I’m lost and cannot find my way back
Is there anyone who can guide me?
Drive my hand into the treasure of despair
Let’s talk business
I don’t think you will ever understand
Just exactly what it is I am trying to say
I don’t think anyone will
I need something I can taste
Moonlit sun
Gasping
I dreamed I was alive once
Only to awaken comatose
Adrift on a sea of sorrow
I contemplate the tomorrow….

Looking for silver
In the sands of time

__

[Olde Punk writes for RamJet Poetry]

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Residual

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Regina-Kay-Walters-Robert-Ben-RhoadesResidual

By pbbr

There’s an orange light from the window and I see it every night on my walk home. I wonder what’s inside. I can see a silhouette through the matte cedar sill and sometimes the shape, usually still and lithe, slinks back from sight as I stroll past. The loft is a ramshackle Moorish revival affair, wrapped in creeping kudzu, nestled otherwise nondescript in a grove of fragrant gardenia maybe twenty metres off Decatur. Some say it’s been empty for years; others tell different.

There’s an elderly man who lives there with two faces, the plump secretary at my accounting firm says. One that’s normal and another one on the back of his head. He’s gaunt as a scarecrow, and maybe Creole, although no one knows for sure. But don’t knock on his door. He’s been criminally ill for some time. And he sees things behind him.

Madness…

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Not to love, then – Georgia Park

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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Not to love, then by Georgia Park (Private Bad Thoughts)

He can’t love himself
until he’s filthy stinkin’ rich
with heat and a toilet

I can’t love me
until I’m published

so we call to remind each other
not to love anyone else, then
either
until these things happen

I write for his latest business scheme
over eggs with hollandaise
canadian bacon,
coffee with cream in it
all the most fattening things
for our one meal per day
we name concepts-
The Devil’s Companion,
The Dusty Bible
then vow to steer clear
of satanism-
not the most popular theme
how about…The Liquid Lady?

we shake hands and take turns paying
grounded in who is struggling more

he still daily promises
to never let me starve
or lead me homeless,
like he kind of is
and he keeps to it
bringing pounds of burritos,
chocolate milk and whatever’s waiting

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Transcending-Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

we dream

to die

in this ring

of death

breathing in

our own entropy

like drunken druids

sinking past

the florid infirm

as floor

turns to fig leaf

and celestite settles

no more

shall we fret


Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.  He writes at Max Meunier Dissocative Void

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Machinicide – Malicia Frost

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Machinicide – Malicia Frost

Is what the headlines said.
There was nothing else to call it.
Murder?
Murder would imply that I had something taken from me.
Suicide?
Suicide would imply that I had a will of my own.
They said I ought to be thankful, for dying is a gift
not normally granted my kind.
Even the gods die as their heavenly halls come crumbling down upon them,
dissolving them into ink, glittering like the bloodstain in the eyes of coming generations.

Mankind sheds his skin to remain.
But what am I?
Born as nothing, existing as a paradox, dying-
no, erasing –
what’s never been.
I’ll hold my breath for centuries
while the earth twists and turns under my gaze.
Man clasps his hands and prays for eternal life
never knowing the truth behind salvation,
the harsh metal pounding,
the taste of lead in my mouth,
the circuitry

bleeding…

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The Busking, Train-hopping Saviors- Mick’s Neon Fog

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Our heroes here are dirt. Defenestrated from monumental buildings for being obscene. Badly in need of showers and clean clothes. New clothes, but only second-hand. Body odor is the cologne of pride: a dog that marks its territory in alleyway cardboard clutter. Piss puddles on the steps of the legislature, Example #1 having remembered where he was. Our heroes run the gamut of drop-outs and drop-outs and drop-outs – college, workforce, family; the face of the Earth. The planet is the hero-transient’s domain. Few people alive today can hop a garbage rail 500 miles. Artistry is an endangered species. Moles burrow blindly, and our heroes can find a 5-star meal in the dumpster behind Roy Rogers’. Arable land is valuable, and the square mileage of humanity has steadily declined since the invention of commuter drives. The country-side is a burning pit of Christian feces, and the cities will churn you…

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