Christopher Barnes

Weariness And The World

Spindrifting from immersion, gag,

A twist at boscage, an unslopped sky-line.

Deflect the swim-with-the-stream nightmare,

Grope dark-wolf prowls, 17 years of midnight.

 

 

Fortune Telling

A gate swerves, whines.

Wasted sourwood mutates, grander each day.

 

A racketeer searchlighting desire,

Drags a chain, cowers,

Ruffling the leg

Of a flinching ghost

As you hour-glass your eyes, doze…

 

Jar-Head

In preparation

I single out the arms-length

Unthreading lip-wisdom slogans.

Propaganda’s a side blow.

Be fit for what won’t be blinked.

 

Almost ready,

Shaving, overlaying the jacket,

A once-over –

In tallying ways.

Clankingly the penny drops.

 

To war.

I card-index laid traps,

Musk evening’s silver air.

Stretch a point with daring.

Muffled drums are hitched.

 

Christopher Barnes' first collection LOVEBITES is published by Chanticleer.  He is a participant writer for http://www.stemistry.com/ and reads at Poetry Scotland's Callendar Poetry Weekends.  He also has art criticism published in Peel and Combustus magazines.

Misti Velvet Rainwater-Lites

Unmarked.

Don’t touch me with those gummy hands those scummy hands those filthy
fuck knows where they’ve been hands. I’m scared of so little. So little gets past me.
You could whittle it with tobacco in your mouth until the sun sets on the wreckage
and the blood turns to tea. I’m nowhere. I’m plastic. I’m silly maw. I’m Halloween punch splash.
I’m warrior rainbow vagina angel
singing and shining
from my vast and vicious
glittering hell of ice.

 
Unkind Hymn

This loathing tastes like Wolf Brand chili (no beans) and mustard and sweet pickles
and white bread and fried SPAM. This loathing feels like old cheap stilettos sweaty on my stripper feet.
This loathing sounds like “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago although not as poignant.
This loathing looks like American television at 1:58 a.m. on a Sunday in September.
There will be no church no sanctuary no redeem no solve.
There is a trail that kisses the sky with trees and rocks that do all the bleeding for you
but not for free but that trail is not mine it is too far from here.
I drove to the ocean, put it all in a bottle but the bottle will not make it to bonny Scotland
or Rio de Janeiro. No one can find this can turn this into anything other
than what it is.
It is common.
It is ugly.
It is fat with 39 years, most of them belonging to Texas and various small towns and men who sound better
and love better
over the phone.
It’s sticky it’s messy it’s dripping from my wrists.
It’s trash.
It’s refused.
It’s tackier than a sympathy card from the dollar store with lukewarm pineapple juice
and stale pretzels for a snack.
It won’t make the ball.
It won’t save lives.
It won’t stop fists from slamming the slut
from goddess eyes.
(Marie Crenshaw still scorns me, her least favorite,
from her
heavy grave.)


DORME MECUM

It’s fucking basic.
It’s elementary.
You’re long in tooth, doll.
You should get it by now.
When a man sends you a picture
of his cock it’s not intellectual discourse
and emotional intimacy he’s after.
There won’t be an airport meeting.
Forget fucking on an actual train.
This is where trains and hotel rooms
are invisible and you cannot smell
the cum or piss or sweat or cologne.
Kisses are tasteless.
This works for most.
If it doesn’t work for you
write a bitchy poem about it.
So used.
So discounted.
This is where the muse comes in
spreads her legs
and demands
a quick fuck
and a century of cuddle.
Blink.
Sneeze.
Pout.
It’s over. It’s dust.
The wicked world
continues.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

IMAGES

 

I see an image of a vulture eating itself.

I see many images that make no sense.

I am hardly surprised by what I see.
I know no one will believe anything I say.
What name can I give to these visions

of nature going out of control?

 

THE ISLAND

 

He owned an island
where he lived in silence.
He liked to bury his thoughts

to not spread lies or rumors.

He walked its shorelines
and gazed upon its horizons.
He tried to stop his sadness
and cover up his wounds.
The island did not heal his
heart.  There was a storm
of rage brewing.  The pain
was still raw.  He wanted
to live and die.  He peered
out to end of the sea
far away from the island.
He gagged from the silence.

 

I SAW YOUR REFLECTION

 

I saw your reflection

in the blade of a knife in a dream.
I saw you bite the dust
in the same dream as you
held a rose between your teeth

in a one soldier firing line.
There was mist in your eyes.

You were buried under an olive tree

in an ancient prison yard

on an extremely windy day.

No one came to your rescue.

To add insult to injury
the rose between your teeth was not real.
The petals were made of plastic
like the stem of the rose.
The stars above refused to shine.

The terrible stars refused to shine.
The distant stars refused to shine.
Few could be distinguished as stars.
The plastic rose fell to the ground
just like you.

Gillian Prew

The Arrival of Mourning

This plug of grief, loosened,

a warm funeral. Abandoned

to the knotted waters. The blind tide

heaving and wrecked. From birth

the beckoning of cascading waste.

How the jagged skyline, sinking,

reflects the blood, whittles the air.

The arrival of mourning,

brave and black-suited,

chiming its mirror bell, shutting

the day to a leaning tomb.

Its withered eyes, like cherry stones,

lamenting their lost sweetness. I,

a blushing callous on the sideline,

singing like a shadow. Speechless.

Above the Black River

I jostled a dark thing

shadow on shadow

while a low song fell behind me

like a tumbling wound. Drifting

and useless,

            a ghosted knot

ragged from the bone’s whittle, I

drop to a silence

            water-sided

dense and benignly broken.

The rotting chime of nowhere

is a lost echo

and there are storms in my throat

such that my fingers cannot pull

or threaten with destruction.

What is this foreign night of fliers?

A black whir of crows,

the dusted carcass of a snowy swan

floating the looping line of the black river.

Poem from the Edge of Autumn

I am disappeared,

like the rain already fallen, like my neighbour

despondency. Summer, slendering

to a point untouchable; turning to a fist of fires,

a fury. Oh, the view from here. The river

spreading to the sea, the boozy backs of not-so-grand hotels.

And you, still and iridescent as an opal,

sleeping away the dusty silver of my morning. My beloved

mornings, where solitude is the silhouette of my husband,

where I am weightless for a snatched moment, where I

pluck the sun from nights full of arrows. Autumn,

your blade is my collar bone stuck out, the ridge of my pelvis,

my fingers digging in. I am not glad of you.

My Silver Lights 

From forgotten surfaces the songs; 

the winged libretto of my wedding. 

A dreaming, a hollow weight; my bones 

a finger-wilt from a spurious burial. 

Empty as birth my glass tongue,  

my confetti breath, my flowering mouth.  

 

My silver lights, 

they sway 

a foreign freedom,  

a bough over a grave.
 

David McLean

not bleeding

the sky is not bleeding for these deserted streets,
and any melancholy that is there we have put there,
for the rats themselves are evidently
happy with every imaginable suicide
clenched between their winsome teeth;

the rats find little prettier than the dead
with all their hungry and noisome obligations;
and that is why this sky does not bleed
any more than dead men might feel;
these living human children have all the raw

torn flesh that history needs



carved names

the names carved into the graves
are incessant repetition, and their nemesis
flesh returns to them in a puddle of gormless
blood, muddled memory and dusty love;

there are corpses behind the names on graves
we are not supposed to touch



not suffering enough

we do not suffer enough
so they sell melancholy and abject
nostalgia, apt suicides to which to aspire,
and time enough not to love

very much, we suffer fools
easier, and would love some of Sheol's
dust to munch. memory's severed intention
does not pretend to touch

such groovy gurus and ghosts,
it only hopes to die alone
with centuries spent and worlds to hold

 

David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on a small island in the Mälaren with partner, weather, boat, dog and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming shortly. More information about David McLean can be found at his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/

Craig Podmore-

The Happiness of Mad Men
by craig podmore 14.01.09 ©
  

Why does art exist? Why does poetry seek a place in our souls? Where does it come from? Who’s it for? Why do we even bother?

Those questions I have mentioned above are those that haunt me every day. It is the pointlessness of aesthetics - the numbing of pains of reality. The separation of being ‘awake’ and realising. The realisation of our existence and the point of it.    

To be brutally honest, I don’t know why we bother. The scribes of ones thoughts are for absolutely nothing but the veneer pretension of artistic provocations. When one takes time to sit and ponder of such profound allegories, what is the ultimate point of it? Is it a false mirror of narcissism? Do we proclaim ourselves being something important such as a poet or a messiah? The reader consumes every word of your world and believes it but then it is then that the reader goes about their daily lives, forgetting its importance and possible credibility and meaning. So what makes each and every artistic individual create art, poetry, music and film? Where does the impulse come from? Is one full-filled when one has accomplished a piece of art only for it to be forgotten, misunderstood, hated or worst of all, ignored?

It is a mundane machine that we all partake within and its cogs aren’t always functioning properly. The broken cogs could be those who think more, in veto of it all. It is these cogs whom I shall identify as the artists / poets. It is the motional cogs that carry on regardless. The idealisms, philosophies created by the defunct cogs are insignificant or the possibility that the motional cogs are dilettantes. Those who crave art, expressionism and philosophy but for only their own pretension and self-indulgence which can also be interpreted as their own insignificance to themselves. It is those who are moved by art and creativity although, on the other hand, they are swallowed by their own importance and existence. How about those who are inspired by such works? They begin to create, to write and become a newly found artist in a sense of self-discovery. Like Van Gogh perhaps? An artist who started a career in priesthood but whom aimlessly thwarted to a path of confusion. Constantly drunk and perplexed, he delved into art creating some of the most acclaimed paintings of inanimate objects. An introvert angered by the world. A self destructive who had many affiliations with prostitutes. In sheer madness, a moment of chaos led to the cutting of his ear only for it to be a gift to one of the prostitutes he was infatuated with. He blamed the betrayal of Judas for such lunacy but then painted a self portrait of himself, bandaged where his right ear once remained. Was the dismembering of the ear an act, a performance perhaps? An artistic decision? If so, what was the point? Have many people cared why he did such a thing? No, but have they called him mad, of course they have.

So, if there is any point in creativity then why does God exist? After all it is an idea that we created. We need reasoning and that reasoning is divine intervention. Is God like the muse of a poet? The reasoning of writing. An ‘outside’ power of ideas that at the most inconvenient of times empower us. The muse is the phantom inspiration. If this is the case why does this muse ‘speak’ to us? What is the point of her existence if one does exist? Like little meaningless revolutionaries, poets and artists alike try to change the world around them only for the world to hate them and in the end, destroy and betray them. In the case of John Lennon, a singer / songwriter who once protested for peace in the times of absolute hate and chaos. America in the midst of the Vietnam War, Lennon used his music to advocate his message most significantly in his song Imagine. A beautiful song that had meant so much too so many. His revolution had started and the word was changing…….wasn’t it? Did everybody listen? Of course they didn’t. One man had an inspiration of violence and disillusionment. Mark Chapman shot John Lennon on 8th December, 1980 in New York City. It was only in this act of violence (however unfortunate) which Lennon’s revolution and message became more meaningful. The whole world mourned and had surpassed realisation. Like Jesus Christ, it was his death that changed the world for both better and the worst. Chapman and his gun created a silence to a great poet who had meant for the greater good. Imagine today is still popular and is heard often but does it still mean something? Does it change anything? Iraq, Gaza, 9/11 – one must come to a conclusion that it doesn’t and has only become a piece of aestheticism.

Even in the ascetic world, those who used God in order to create peace have been murdered by those who ignore; the motional cogs as it were. Ghandi, shot and killed on the 30th January, 1948 by Hindu extremists, a man who created the day of Non-Violence with the date of his birthday. Also, one should note the many assassination attempts of most Popes. God and art both hold a powerless sentiment, an easily forgotten one at that. So, one begs the question once again, what is the point of it all? 

It is always a strange moment for when one has an explosion of ideas during a bus journey, washing plates or any other mundane activity. The muse hits the artist like a hammer, like a consciousness found within the gap of the subconscious, the abyss of the artistic mind. There are many elements within reality that affect us emotionally; love, hate, desperation, depression, wrath and so on. Amongst many of those elements, love is an aspect of our lives that deems the most powerful (although, hate is its next door neighbour). Love has inspired many, many works of art, especially unrequited love – it is an area well explored. The Divine Comedy, an epic poem by Dante Alighieri about his true love for Beatrice. He proves this by walking (alongside poet Virgil) throughout the theological landscapes that of Hell, Purgatory and ultimately Heaven, where Beatrice remains awaiting for Dante’s presence. In reality, Dante was trapped in an arranged marriage but his love for Beatrice was great. She was much younger than Dante and she too was about to be married, this had hurt Dante ever so profoundly. He once tried to speak with Beatrice but she ignored his salutations. It was this moment that had led Dante to write his first astonishing piece, La Vita Nuova (The New Life). Due to the pains of unrequited love, it is known that Dante bellowed in self pity whilst writing this piece. Shortly after, Beatrice passed away and this is what had inspired The Divine Comedy. The exploration of not only himself but of the religion he adored and believed in as well as his love for Beatrice. She is a Seraphim; the hierarchy of angels, just below God if not on a par. This was his immortal letter of love for Beatrice. This book is renowned to be as one of the most pivotal works of poetry - not only to the literature world but also to the ascetic world. Love is a truly powerful emotion and many artists have been affected by its metaphysical presence. Lord Byron, another fine poet, like Dante had come across the unrequited also. It was a woman who had a greater love for another man whereas Byron was ignored; the pains of this led to his rebellious and debauched nature in his later life, camouflaging his wounds of the unrequited in liquor and sordid sleaze whilst in a sphere of poetic brilliance. It was what had created him and that of Dante. Love and the pains of not having it returned. Immensely inspired by such true, humanistic feelings, artists, poets, film makers, musicians have all pervasively explored its profound nature. So, the muse comes to those who are troubled by love and whispers elegies into artists’ ears demanding a piece of work. Dante may have written an important piece of literature and his yearnings for his true love will haunt the pages forever. Selfishly, in our own little worlds, do we really care? When one is affected by love, one may write or draw about its pains or its beauty but what does that say to the masses? Why did Dante want us to know about his true love? What is it to us? It is ephemerally affective- all art is ephemeral, to the creator, reader and viewer. Art may live for different generations and we may still crave its importance but what importance is that to us? A world without art is quite possibly a world with an immense amount of fear. A world without God would be a tranquil one?

To say that a world without art would be a world of fear is obviously a hypothetical perspective. There was once a bleak generation, a generation we shall remember perpetually. This is due to the outstanding deaths and tragedies it had spawned during a certain man’s reign. Adolf Hitler once stated that ‘art + politics = power’. A failed artist he once was, an artist (to some degree) who was refused a place in Vienna Academy of Fine Arts in 1907. Hitler, a man who was overwhelmed by the works of Wagner, German history and Nordic mythology became a man of one aspiration and that was to be a great artist.  It was only fate to change a man into a monster. He did not successfully receive a place in the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. They stated that his works lacked a talent for artistic painting and the human form was notably tasteless. Instead, he returned home depressed, only to discover his mother was dying from breast cancer. After such tragic events for young Hitler, he persisted to become an artist. In Hitler’s lonely world, he began to discover a new, delusional world and alongside his political friends, this world was somewhat exonerated. Told with such theatrics and intensity, it was as if Hitler had finally found the art project he was looking for. He had started to create the infamous insignia; the swastika, the death’s head, architectural figures most notably the eagle and even the uniforms, all with such depth. These ideas were just scrapbook collateral until he had claimed an important seat in the Reichstag, they became a reality. The Nordic mythology he was once obsessed with became the new Germany and the Aryan theory was reality. A new world created by an imaginative, artistic mind although, this creation was threatening. Due to immense failure in art, the death of his mother, his brush of destruction in the First World War changed this man entirely. The art became a weapon of mass destruction. Maybe he was right, art and politics does indeed equal power only for that power to be brutal and unstoppable. Thus, art can kill and art can get you killed. The art can also be an internal, insecure monster – the devil and the dilettante.

This craving for creativity and self expression is something abstract. An abstraction of emotions. The reasoning for its existence is for the happiness of mad men. Those who can not grasp the world nor understand ‘real’ life. Serial killers paint whilst they’re in prison, escaping their guilt, expressing release. John W. Gacy painted a vast amount whilst at death row. Menacing portraits of himself as the notorious and disturbing ‘Pogo’ the clown but even more startling, his face is that of a screaming skull. It is what’s in the ether; the gap between reality and the beyond where ideas live. An aphrodisiac of an abyss. For when the muse whispers is for when the sirens scream and these atoms of ideas explode this world apart. Needing, wanting, craving a revolutionised change only for it to alienate the poet, realising the poet has only found the path to an abstract nowhere.


So, please tell me, what is the point?

Kyle Hemmings-

Mingus I

Mingus swimming in the exhaust of unreal engines, staggered in the double-talk of suicide traders. Thoughts are hard twisted pretzels. After receiving a tip from a hot dog vendor, an ex X-Corps veteran of the Irish Buddha Wars, (hands stained with yesterday's Dijon mustard,) Mingus searches the city for a terrorist's bomb in the shape of heart failure. Or maybe an oversized pippin. He interrogates ex-Go No Go dancers turned white collar mutes. In dim lit rooms, after the jamming of laser copying machines, Mingus has sex with a pharisaic ex-nun. After hissing orgasms, she rattles off names: Pradeep, Andrew Void, Yucheng, Mortimer Leaks. Her eyes reflect the blue-black mania of 30 years in adjacent closets.

What do the names mean? asks Mingus, hope like a young herring.

It means, she says, that all our pasts are rooted in our presents. Can't you see, I'm just a rhizoid bitch clinging to old vows?  

Mingus leaves, hangs a hard right on Moot. 

Mingus II 

Mingus leaves a snitch, who lost her panties to a blind post-Impressionist on Viagra, wailing against the elastic sides of her own bubble. He passes the Sulfate Wards, the Aluminum Ghettos, the Electric Dead, the Brilliant Silence in the core of the North Ward. He descends into increasingly deeper bars, built for the aftermath. Still without answers, but something ticking within his distant spaces, he becomes drunk on Hannibal's Fables & Flaming Rousts. Women's hands turn saurian. Strange men attempt to French kiss him with tongues of white crystals. Mingus breaks glasses, staggers out of the bar, the ticking so loud now that it owns him the way that Maud the Green Hunger woman once did. He thinks: When the bomb does go off, it will turn everyone invisible as if they are all blind.

When the bomb does go off, there is only a casualty of anyone, a bursting of a woman's very personal concrete wall & a ringing of the ears that will stay forever as if the past went aphasic.

Mingus III

Wearing the city's scabs or walking alone in the dark, bruised-eye soul, under gas-powered zombie households. 3-family units, one autistic to every cookie-cutter mom with severe cuts/those look-away denials. The father sheds selves as if pulling sponge rubber gaskets. As a gifted boy of radio frequencies, Mingus is a cash cow of desperately departed ideas. Catching paper planes on the subway. Stuttering in the St. Agnes Choir. Believes in Green Lantern and a gay version of The Madonna. His medications are generic and endorsed by some ex-psychedelic aviators who crashed into Lysergic wishing fields. Some still have their beards or keep being rediscovered as homeless in smokeless post-transit roar Penn Stations. On the streets or cruising open-ended detours, Mingus, all of 17 floating integer years, can detect Strontium in urban gnomes. With just one wrong word, living on tip toe for years, he can ignite spontaneously with human exhaled air.

Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poems: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications). His latest ebook is You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and The Truth about Onions from Good Samaritan Press. His favorite band of all time is Love and he is a big fan of Roky Erickson.  He lives and writes in New Jersey.

Neil Ellman-

Suddenly the Lights

Sleeping

2:00 a.m.

thereabout

eyes tightly closed

like fists

gripping air

seeing

photos on the lids

a girl

mine

after a long night

so many nights

like these

alone

remembering her

imagining her

sleeping

somewhere

in someone

else’s bed

she still my own

and suddenly

the lights went on

and I was still

alone.

Teri Louise Kelly-

PINK BITS

Put your pink bits away

they’re of no use here

spunky inked cowgirl

sucking the microphone tonight;

use an inanimate object of desire

a cocktail cherry

sway perilously

in a specimen jar

this is what you want;

taste your own incubation

build a hot house

sweat it out

bleed your poison away . . .

return to me as music

on the zephyrs

of nihilism.

Disjointed Birdlife In 101

Got nightingales to see me thru

the blues blacks & reds to blues again

back to insanity

where everything is just dandy Andy

like the underground, down in

but no more phallic rock jock

don’t need sedation, or accreditation;

i need recreational

insinuation on a 3-4 beat

to Leonard

kool for cats – stray

yes, the Chelsea hotel was all about head;

giving & taking it like distressed French liberty

but there’s no more room in 100 or 101

the pigs rule now

walk n talk just like us/

so i stand amazed wearing a strap on plastic vagina

though still unfazed by the 3 phase

all things are juxtaposed justice

as popular culture moulds on the agar plate

i hang in colloidal tetanus

stagnant in a nutrient broth

as Marie decays;

n hairy Mary dances on coals outside hell’s hallowed gates

the freaks enact the siege to mask the lies

on Pictionary nights

& at city lights;

so adieu to the east & the beast –

i’m going

where the buffalo roam

& the boys march a quickstep.

SYMPHONY FOR THE DESECRATED

Dawn is the oligarch of all she surveys

dusk the portal to excess -

reversed exposure to unnatural

elements solder vanity.

The sun pisses radiation therapy

arteries throb in sync

oaths ride shotgun on empty carriages to chastity.

Eyes that never blink

witness hollow side effects.

The priest slides from grace

into a pewter of diabolic duty;

the whore meets the undertaker on equal terms.

In the abyss of sin absolution beckons beguilingly

light warps translucent succulents

sodden with moonlight & divine temptations

resistance fades as temperature cools

One night in shackles fades into myth.

Peter Marra-

Hecate in the Delinquents Room

shuddered, she closed her eyes and out of a dark corner of the bar,

her lips appeared to glisten.

perfect eyelids, brilliant complexion.

there's been a shooting, a hidden desire.

the map is burning between her legs

no direction anymore.

crescendo flames lick the trophy

she licks the night clean

as she plays with the toys destroyed by

exhilaration.

figures without faces.

her verses were victims for
renowned psychics that died lingering deaths
as they're watched by figures without faces
feeling lost.

the duce 42nd street will return.

a porn star in a sexy wedding dress

a target for a subway in her head

she cruised all night,

retrieving the poems she had memorized

long ago placed between her legs.

pressed in deeply

the words burned.

the air scalds the lungs

of a triple formed goddess.

she started to laugh

at the remains of an unclean idea.

hit the wall.

she had no idea

no time.

grand central terminal vomited her up.

shuddering with her arms around herself.

the drug dealers are dreaming between the shadows

dreaming behind the walls

a slow dance.

another day grows weary

a trance

she has a face and a sinister feel

that crawls throughout

that crawls through in

the only church where drugs are cheap.

born and raised in the hard(core).

in here most of them are slight sketches of what was acceptable.

lips of glass cracking as they speak

she wants to be sexy enough

she wants a slut-alter-ego

she wants words to die

she finished unbuttoning

wanted to return the tender show for them.

do it, obediently risking electric shock.

she said, “i don’t work well in crowds.”

she said, “i can’t feel.”

she said, “my heart wanted – too much.”

no applause – speedball eclipse

The Long Hair Of Death / A City Of Sin

wouldn't make it in time

blurred vision, stupor,

take me in

a clean shot followed

a little distance behind

unusual necklace

The effects of intensity recount

Fatal love

That subject described

in the documentary film

most had only limited experience.

They were shut in

two euphorias

she doesn’t know why destruction has an arousal effect

dirt medics attend the ballet

crying all the time

words engraved into the collar were 3 sounds

that can’t be repeated

See it fall

get over that edge. 

Ebony tendrils cascading

Covering faces

Pale lips

dilated iris

Finally, animalistic incoherence,

                blurred vision, stupor, anxiety and sedation

Please don't leave me.

Something with dead bodies

Something with dead bodies

Comes with the de-construction noise

Slurs and shadows

Nice and slow

Tears seep out from white demi-masks

All fetish all the time

In gilt rooms the women stare blankly

Barely covered bodies

Barely shielded eyes

Waiting for a reaction

The mirrors scream eloquently chanting secrets

Of a love and a life in whirlpools

Negative air spun on tongues

Silken cocoons forming spun by moths on the verge of paralysis

It’s nice isn’t it

Certain scenes of bitter songstresses chanting

In monotone

Downing drinks of alcohol

Sucking black thoughts

Tart for their pleasure

As they lie back and breathe shallowly

Describing creatures of silent forms

In dwellings of various descriptions,

They change 

They talk

They point at feelings unknown