time who kills – samantha lucero

who kills, father time?

time who kills:
all things.
startling with the drip of a chrysalis stuck threading in a tapered night that once slurped on breast milk and sour bread. a man where clearwing moths have suckled in.
though he peals in fishnets, loud in a mouthy reservoir of silk,
cum is mud, and mud-worms next to a flaring wing, flowering on a spectral chin, making a seedling.
he’s supine underneath the antlers of his boney hands, he’s castrated
or perhaps submerged in the deepest pore of hell. his sons are the immaterial sky, the apathetic sea, the under-dark.
parents, handfuls of dirt, the bleeding ulcers inside the intestines of earth.

time who kills
father time, luxuriating in an oblong sludge, in chianti bottles marked vintage,
“vintage has to be over twenty-five years,” that cunt would squawk, “antique has to be over 100.”
where are the unwashed dishes shattering in his back molars, reheating last weeks dust.
he leaves his sails in the oven now where they can start a fire.
let it all fucking burn,
“whore never cooked.”

father time,
time who kills, alone in an unmarked bed, opening himself like a spider, projecting a tense movie on the popcorn ceiling of his nostalgic mind.

time who kills the woman ambulating in an uncanny valley, a fisted note in her pocket with red ink: love is dead, it was never born. there is no god. marriage is misery. the baby’s breath in your dreams, the rigid blue hydrangea and promiscuous rose on your white day, better left arranged at a funeral.

“…throw roses into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.’”- Frederick Nietzsche

[Samantha Lucero writes stuff sometimes at six red seeds.]

Time and Sticks

By Aakriti Kuntal
Time and Sticks
My legs elongate
into uncertainty,
their uneven shapes masquerading
a rather even formlessness
Prickly clouds hang
with shaven heads
and Clot
the artery, the pace,
the rhythm of this slovenly existence
I tap the round edges of my calves
and meet the rising color of age,
a darkened maple hue,
accumulation of multiple days
cemented boundaries of blurring worm cells
fountains of tension and pain
Occasionally I think
I could bury myself in space,
Swallow vacuum like food and create a gaping hole,
a minute, a day, a lifetime
Anything that spells ‘ Okay ‘
Occasionally I think
I could burn onto the side table
and nothing will take notice
not the cold sheen of blue curtains
not the clocking lights in my room
That nobody will take notice
And suddenly I will be sliced into two,
two equally nonexistent dimensions of time and space

image courtesy of Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Breath-is-relative-to-time by Aakriti Kuntal

Wind presses against my feet

Crevices are moments too

moments of walking, walking,

running, grinding, running

I dreamt that I’m a treadmill

Life running with her long legs 

Her long legs too long for my retreating skin

You said that time is convoluted

Like a robin in frenzy, scissors binding skin

You said, across floating dreamless states

of my rotating head, you said that time 

is a disaster, that everything is already washed

Blank white, crepe folding in fingers, 

fingers outrunning air, always trying to grasp at inevitability 

You said with cerulean lips, diamonds engulfing skies

amidst shores of blue, sparkling blue, sitting inside a stray boat,

humming inside grand oceans

You said that all life is just a long heavy breath

Go slow


Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Guest Blogger: Sook Samsara, “Driving into the Sun”

Driving into the sun
Hands over my eyes like a child
Afraid of the future’s big face in mine
Playing games of peekaboo and scream
Natural causes working always incorrigibly behind the scenes
Bringing knees to concrete
Staining out the colour in my cheeks like mum’s washed jeans
Feeling the movement of the bitumen under me
Measuring time by how the white lines merge to one
Life recapitulates death
Recapitulates life
And again
There’s no such thing as time
Just the body falling back to dust
Eating itself alive
The best bits first and then hungrily the crust
Inner mechanisms causing scabs of ugly rust
In the destruction of husked cells
The days have gone quick
—I guess I binged on them too


 

[My name is Sook Samsara and I’m an icon of the universe. I reside in the year 2017 within the confines of the Australian continent. If anyone cares to find me they can look into the darkest part of their shadow, the part that’s cast in the middle of the night when you’re standing under the bathroom’s halogen after waking up from a dream of falling. You can talk to me there. I am a man and the hourglass has already been turned. I am aging without grace or respect. I have never managed to successfully escape the demon’s that rely on me like useless friends. I am worthy of love but have just temporarily forgotten why. I write poems and upload them to https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com When I’m not writing who am I? Just another scared boy.]

Diorama-Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

i stepped into a diorama

walking through pellucid clouds

 

the air was tight

sky was shallow

voices, still, in static freefall

 

the light of day was overshadowed

jilted, lumbering eclipses

 

an atmosphere so stifling

 

like starfish lost in the sahara

 

fear had strung the leash that tethered me

to the abandoned mine

 

overhead were expectations

looming like the unseen eye

 

quietly, i moved below

like fetid water seeping

from a broken fridge at midnight

 

had i drawn their consciousness

my words would have become subverted

 

so it was, my tongue did stay

 

never would such thoughts again

beset my addled mind

returning to the ocean and the sand whence i arose

 

for i could not recall my name

 

every eve as death awaited

 

watching from a borrowed window

 

perched upon the impasse

 

of the broken wing of time


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

The Weight of Time- Bishop Hermes

bishoptime

The Weight of Time – Bishop Hermes

Watch as we do
As the sands pour through the glass
In a stream steady
Unable to determine which will be our last
For the top half stays hidden from our
Morbid curiosity
While we strive to slow the stream and
Give fortunes for prophesy

© Bishop Hermes 2017

[Bishop Hermes is an poet/musician who resides in the Houston area. He has wonderful poetic sensibilities, and we are honored by his participation.]

The Green Grass Of Time-Ward Clever

Trying so hard

To recapture youth

Don’t forget that youth is free

It never was captured

In the first place

It never could be

Forcing reality

Into the mold of memory

Causes damage

Both now and in the past

As both become distorted

The past remembered

Better than it actually was

The present experienced

Worse than it actually is

The green grass of time

Cut down by ghosts


Mr. Clever describes himself as a struggling romance addict, winding down on a Lady Gaga song.  He writes at Ward Clever.