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: 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.”

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.

A Song of Experience- Nitin Lalit Murali

A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in
a coffin of a life gone by,
when I was young, my father the demon, said, ‘I am thine
and thou art mine,’ with a devilish, deceitful, duplicitous grin,
when I was young, my mother the angel said, ‘Stay strong and
surely, you’ll succeed,’ with a sincere, serene, simple smile,
when I was young, my brother, the stoic said, ‘Your scrimshawed
feelings are yours alone; don’t give them even a peak,
and definitely not a graze,’ with a stern, stubborn, sterile face,
when I was young, my sister,
the naïve said, ‘Yours is the world and all possibilities become
actualities if dreamt into existence,’
with an innocent, introspective, irreproachable charm,
when I was young, my lover,
the impassioned said, ‘Kiss me, you’re the heart of this (heart)
and soul of this (soul)
and never will I ever abandon all that’s you and I,’
with a feverish, furious, ferocious hold,
when I was young, my second lover, the kind said, ‘Paint the colors
of your heart on the canvas of
my being and grasp me tenderly under the sliced moonlight,’
with a peaceful, placid, peaceable touch.

Time drifts and I’ve drifted with it, but not elegantly.
Age carries, and I carry it, but not gracefully.
Life rises and falls, and books meet dust, and this room smells of mildew,
and by and by I’m fading, falling, slipping, sliding.

I’ve learnt much and seen so much more.
I’ve touched much and felt so much more.
I’ve tasted much and heard so much more.

Love eludes me now, whirling round and round, setting everything without on
fire with her dance, but never thawing the ice within.
Lust possesses me now, echoing and echoing, setting everything within on
fire with his voice, and ever thawing the ice without.

Cheap motel rooms and cigarettes; one-night stands and ashen hyacinths –
These I know, these I know, intimately and intensely.

Perfume and cascading hair, with eyes like brown tourmaline –
Her I’ve never kissed, her I’ve never kissed, intimately and intensely.

The smog rises and obscures my window, the world’s full of blurred
objects and abstract shapes, and a simulacrum of truth is all I know,
everything is now a hazy imagination, my vision’s blurred,
the smoke rises, and I exhale, the sharp liquor burns my throat,
a fatalist’s escape, and I know I need the real, but I also know
I want my delusion.

A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in
a coffin of a life gone by,
now that I’m older, I say, ‘Life and death sing the same song in the
same key to the same wind, and what happened will happen again,
and there’s nothing I can do but cut through weeds of paranoia,
despair and angst, knowing I’ll never fully heal.’

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Read more of Nitin’s writing at Fighting the Dying Light