Minutes, Pt.2

Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry

RamJet Poetry



Keep with the forced faith

read your instructions

strike in hatred for it will cleanse

or destroy us delicately

no one can feel the indolent passage

of too much time, osmosis of the dangers

fear spawned fool in mud-field

given implements of demise

the sounds of atonement have no purpose

increase your production by sleeping with the lepers

he pained to hear her name

driving through shell shock

the endless weave a scrambled stream of thread

leading to nowhere

I must speak, whom will live

not caring for the inbred dogs, so much

cattle in chains, debase your ignorance

You show me how to breathe

flay the carcass, sweet lassitudes

loiter near the temples to glimpse the divine

twisting lapses of unconsciousness

wine spilled on sap

a cut across the eye, drinking from lead rivers

an evening star, cross is broken

a gay man looks across the street


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Honoring Your Nefertiti

Hannah Wagner/The Hero’s Inferno

Hannah Wagner

She is made of papyrus

She cannot hide away

Her stories are written out

Across her arms, down her back

She is rough she is sturdy

Rainy days will not wet her

The wind cannot whither her

She remains the same forever

Her bones are made of onyx

They give her courage

She will always be prepared for battle

Though she may seem dark

She knows how to ease the pain

Her blood is the Nile

Giving life to the world

They are the tears of every woman

She worships nothing but the sun

She honors the goddess within

She is the lady of all women

Daily Post

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Howl Davies-The Sounds Inside

The Sounds Inside

I’ve got one hour until my parents are back from the theatre.

I’m at my typically cluttered desk. Textbooks and notes bathed in the sickly glow from a budget mass produced lamp, designed especially to fit the Swedish specifications of a stylish and productive workspace.

There are only two things on my desk that are important right now. On the table is a photograph of me and my best friend, Hugh. It was taken a couple of years back. A school excursion, the typical outdoors experience that’s supposed to build character. It was a weekend of early mornings and shitty experiences, but we made the most of it. Hell, we made it fun.

To my left is a small plastic bag, containing a coarse white powder. Give it to a pharmacist or a chemist and they’ll identify it as ‘Desomorphine’. Show it to a kid my age, or a junkie…

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Accursed Ring

Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

Max Meunier

i have worn
this banded armor
shorn away
by silent toll

even now
in days diminished
erstwhile sentiments yet hold

idle hands
have stayed my purpose
vice allays
the spirit’s wake

tears erode
this pallid surface
worthless feelings
ne’er abate

from the desert sun
has robbed me
of my own perception

burning shadows
stabbed my eyes
and stole her
from the moon’s reflection

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the dream girl-Lois E. Linkens

lois e. linkens


tell me, truly.
was it me you hoped for?
was it my face
that would grace your slumber,
my voice that pulled you under?
did your mind’s pencil
sweep out my sides,
sketch out the curves of my legs,
the contours of my back, my hips,
the softness of my cheeks,
the flutter of my eyes,
the red smudge of my lips?
did you compose
the titter of my laugh
on telephone wires,
pick out my smile
in the tangle of the clouds,
imitate my signature
in the corners of your school books?
you old romantic,
you did not.
i know my feet
do not fit the glass slipper,
and my hair does not fall
on the pillow
in the grooves that you traced
at three AM,
in lonely longing.
i know that my voice
does not ring
as you wished,
i know my body does not move
as the…

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