Page 2 of 10

Written by: Grovermans

i think it was the unusual juxtaposition
of my relative sobriety, and the rest of the room's
inebriated stupor that caused me to realize
just how ****ed up this world can be, filled
to the neck with so much meaningless matter,
like a bottle of cheaply brewed,
but expensively sold beer.
and when i was finally able to pry the cap
from its factory-blown glass neck,
i could have sworn i heard something crack
after feebly attempting to hold its own.
my first thought was that it was simply the sound
of my clockwork shifting, but i didn't break routine;
routine broke me, and i'm not sure whether it's through
some sort of newly-acquired wisdom or clarity,
or if it's merely through my own overwhelming vanity
that i've deemed myself too modest to be put back together.
so i lie here contemplating human existence,
a broken bottle spilling all my addictions
and problems on the overpriced carpeting
that covers the earth like a layer of skin.

skin; we are simply skin surrounding
a decadent structure of muscle and bone.
we are the fabric that protects the earth's
delicate hardwood floor,
but we are nothing more than that;
we don't create, we only claim
nature's inventions as our own.
the wheel was never made by man,
yet we still declare it was
forged by our hand;
there's no such thing
as true human genius,
there only exists
the fools who believe in it.
the human race is merely matter,
and i've come to the conclusion that
matter doesn't really matter at all.

This is not a pipe

Written by: Jammydude44

Curling toes between
taut socks
and hands blown
and rubbed together.
Crisp and sparse air,
dry to the touch and the tongue.
Green-white grass stands strong
in the wild winter wind.
Blue-green people fall

into foggy, misty conversation,
"it should be warmer tomorrow"
warmer but wetter we'll find.
Every ten degree turn is frozen
to the spot as the ice pane
closes in; nowhere to go,
nowhere to shuffle away to.

Outside seems a good option
than staying here, in bed,
robbed of my duvet.

This is not a pipe

"Christmas Western, 1917"
Written by: stellar_legs

Texted you a picture of a miseltoe that I made with my fingers.
It read: "Happenin' party happenin' at my house right now!"
I donned my best Vittorio Ray jacket, shaved dollar signs into my
sideburns, put on a Frou Frou album and chilled the red wine.
"Jesus may have been sea-sectioned into existence tonight, but he
doesn't exist, so the gettin's all mine!"
A thick skinned Post-Post-Post Hardcore/Post Rock nerd chic band played from the
living room.
They were an optomotrist's dream.
The Pot Brigade even made an appearance.
Arts and crafts with Ted.
Pictionary with Dan K. Bud.
Shedded my skin, let my gaurd down, instilled disapointment in my best
female friends and penis envy in my best guy friends:
With my Vincent Price Egg Magic kit I coated the shaft of
my **** with yuletide colors.
Rob Sheffield himself would've came to this event if it weren't just me
forcing a millenia of religous influence into a Mason jar in the cabinet while
Dayton's future sat on my furniture,
Drank my alcohol,
Used the bedrooms,
Cried over seasonal suicides from seasonal depression,
and said not one word as Arnold and Sinbad fought over the last Turbo Man
doll (coming from MY television)
while I pranced about bull****ting myself, their intelligence
and three wisemen who shot their ****ing camel in the leg
to get out of coming.
How many green and red socks was I pulling before this was all mine?
How many jobs did I work before I settled for over the Rhine?
How long does it take for eight eggnogs to transcend space and time,
expose everything I know to be false, and slap me in my bed,
Merry and fine?

This is not a pipe

The Inevitability
Written by: Daemonika

Warriors of words with their books as their weapons
wait with patience for the end. Others, with goals unfulfilled,
run around in panic, cutting circles into the mud and bones
of those they emulate. The patient ones will feel no pain.

The verisimilitude of the inevitability is what gets them the most,
with the world as yet unprepared for a man who can never pass,
forced to watch humanity waste away to nothing, until
he truly is the last man standing (cf. purgatory).

Yet, what no one can really see, we are in this together,
that the inevitability affects us all, will take us away
to somewhere full of darkness. Nyctophobes should be afraid,
but as it comes at any time, the Dorian Grays should rejoice.

There are many words for this process, yet they all inspire fear,
apart from the one mentioned twice, as it is much too vague
to be declared as solely a synonym for the word, the end.
But maybe we are yet to live, with the inevitability the beginning.

This is not a pipe

Barcelona, Summer '07
Written by: We Have Sound

We rolled into the heart of the city,
road-mad and dirty down the wrong side of la Rambla.
And we found a bar on the beach,
sat in the sun and survived the heat,
only just.
We were free, and we drank till we cried,
with all the responsibilities of birds -
we knew we could fly if we wanted to.
But for then it was evening cocktails
still sat out by the rocks
that lead down to the water.
It was crystal clear and I
poured a little liquid in,
almost as an offering.
It swirled slowly downwards,
and radiated.

This is not a pipe

Written by: Spike 8bkp

unruly time is duly amplified
I'm raising gain to match the tide
faders are pulled, attached to the sun
set, for only in the sky will I confide

the space to be, outer space to fly
into the first dimension, on the same plane
as galaxies reside, in rocks, on hills
in frames encompassed by

lego blocks that roll with the jazz socks
cool cats on brass [with]
black hats and sax [on]
darks stages [off]

hidden scorched pages
reveal chimney sweeps in plays
giving monologues on dreams, clear days
on the beds in which they'll never lay

In a smoke stacked house,
I'll speak of heated air,
there, Alaska's fair weather
beats out the cold city streets

made of steel and concrete
like hearts of students who never learn
that mystery is where truth exists
in the sounds of echoes

and where Socrates sits,
thinking of which way the world spins
towards Mars,
the origin of the pyramids

we'll send our kids eventually
to speak with those green men
and think about what it says
that we depict them undressed

from New Mexico to spaceships
they'll never share their secrets
with idiots and fidgeters
we're earthlings, they're fiddlers

and we're sitting while the sun sings

yes, I speak of the sun
more often than she speaks of me
I can be in her for hours
and never know that you've seen

miserable lines defined
by children's cries
and those hopeless echoes
ringing in ruler's eyes

so, quick! before the sound defines you,
please decide which side of sound you reside
so that I can stop saying "I"

This is not a pipe

Written by: Leonheart
Oh, Odessa. Your thighs are milk.
I've been moving my fingers on wood to
s o u n d s
recorded in the wall grooves.
I smashed the jar of applesauce
against the counter.
The lid wouldn't open
it was the glass's fault.
I'm blind but I've always been more of a
s o u n d s

This is not a pipe

clair de lune
Written by: punchupatatigge

her fingers tread softly

the first three notes
then, a rest
a rush of breathlessness

the keys begin to shift again;
these are the moments before movements,
movements like a first hello
or a first touch,
moments like those found in a french romance
with hints of musk and age and perfect

she and i are the soul of clair de lune
she moves coolly
like shades of moonlight
on an outdoor paris cafe
i am the second voice;
we exchange phrases
my hand beginning
where hers ends

and i dream of our hands
wrapped together,
kisses in harmony
breaths in rubato

she hasn't played piano in years
and i haven't finished learning
clair de lune
just yet

This is not a pipe

Cupid, the retarded archer.
Written by: Bleed Away

You dare trade a Dove for a Crow,
a rose for a shrub, a gun for a sword.
"They're all items" i hear you say,
with your rubber bow eroded and stained;
on the night the lovers forgot your name.

With lips of vile feathers where my woes would flourish; the *****s. Are mute.

And you would come in at night like a thief,
told to hold beauty by the throat.
And... and that last breath you would give to the world;
on the age of the widows and the machines.

Arise the Goliath of Rome;
imperial march that destroyed my home.
Cupid's bow buried on the Province of Terni;
just make sure you're the one to throw the last stone.

This is not a pipe

I have a sister named Sestina and a brother named Vers Libre.
Written by: Samoo

Lick a little; immerse your VIP in the sand.
We’ll sit on rooftops and slip into something uncomfortable.
“Uh, I really, really like you.”
“What about the sand? Let’s just, you know, shake our hands
with our understanding of the human race. What do you say?”
“I, uh, really like you.

There’s a lady with an umbrella and she doesn’t resemble you.
She’s taking off her clothes; does she mean to place them in the sand?
“Uh, I don’t mind. Let’s just do it me and you. That’s what I say.”
The alarm clock rings just like your head, we’re uncomfortable.
“Metaphor, metaphor, metaphor. Do we really need this?” Our hands
touch, for one moment they are the sun and the universe. I’m the sun. You,

“Well, you’re a good kisser. But I don’t love you.
You’re a **** thinker. And that’s why I think I’ll leave you.”
A suitcase. Into abyss. And everything we had; everything in our hands
streams and pleasures us into pain. It’s all sinking in the sinking sand.
And, before we know it, their understanding leaves us. And, so, we’re uncomfortable.
Because everything in life is hard to handle. Everything we do; everything we say,

“We’re left regretting the very next day. Let’s not do this. What do you say?”
You never do say much. Dumb, deaf, blind.
You’re parallel. You’re why I’m uncomfortable.
You revel in life. Life doesn’t revel in you.
If you conceded. I’d comprehend our beginnings, our ends, I’d lift us from the sand.
Our understanding. Our comfort. Our time. We’d have the whole world in our hands.

You’re dumb, you’re deaf, you’re blind.
You’re done, you’re dead, goodbye.
You’re so much more than me.

“Fin? Yeah, I’m fin.”

This is not a pipe

Frog, Mrs. Rabbit, And Pelican All Look For Bunnies In Their Imaginary Forest
Written by: Something_Vague

I've had her taken
from my hands, and
the only thing I've got
left are strands. Pieces
of hair dangling limp
through fingers that
trace the creases in her
folded shirt.

The forest behind my house was illuminated with a drenched purple glow from the flowers that had grown in a sunlit patch. The trees were a bright, wet green and everything was soaked with a morning dampness. Everything was so high in contrast I thought, this doesn't look like real life. There was no one around and I sat quietly on a rock reading the only thing she'd ever given me. A copy of an unfinished short story she wrote in her senior year. It was about talking animals in an imaginary forest. I decided to finish it for her.

"There's nothing left, Mrs. Rabbit." Frog said as he was rummaging through the floor of the charred forest.
Mrs. Rabbit hopped over to Frog and asked politely. "Have you found anything yet?" Mrs. Rabbit asked.
"No, nothing yet."
"Please, if you find my nest underneath the foliage, let me know, my babies must be starving by now."
"Oh, certainly. Mrs. Rabbit."

Her eyes always left behind,
caught in wicker baskets
filled with smudged
bottles of liqueur. I've never
stood under the crushing
weight of her fake calm,
rushing blood from her
cuticle onto her fingernail
rusts into my palm.

As Mrs. Rabbit slowly woke from a dreary dream, she remembered when the forest caught fire. She quickly rushed to the side of her children and held them close, keeping them safe from the intense hunger of the heat. She recalled the story to Frog while he listened intently.
"I never knew you went through such hardships." Frog said to her.
"It's not a hardship if you decide to do it."
"That's true." Frog looked into the air and saw Pelican swoop down.
"I've found something! I've found something!" Pelican chortled out of his wide, wet mouth.

Maybe it's the stir of
words that have kept my
bitterness so far away, she
slept underneath a Raleigh
bridge, just west of an Atlantic
Bay. Ripped panties from boys
she saw so gold, yet from the
cast on the line to the bait
in her bonnet her kiss had gotten old.

Pelican picked up both Frog and Mrs. Rabbit in his mouth and flew quickly to a small clearing in the forest and let them down onto the soft, moist ground. Mrs. Rabbit scuttled quickly to an overturned rock and saw her three children huddled together for warm. She went to hug them but noticed they weren't breathing. She began to cry, and so did Mr. Pelican and Frog. Frog bounced over to her, "Please, please don't cry, Mrs. Rabbit." He gently wiped away the tears from under her eyes. "They are in a better place now." She began to smile slightly and put her head down. She looked up towards the sky, and then looked back at Frog.

"I'm sad Frog, but look closer, look in the middle." Frog walked over to Mrs. Rabbit's children and saw a small violet flower blooming in the middle of them. "I wouldn't have had this happen any other way." Mrs. Rabbit said softly.

We left such beautiful words
behind in a kind Autumn, I sat
on wooden steps shoved under
a bright moon, a pond beside me
listened politely as we said goodbye
far too soon. I told her about the
girl I'd fallen in love with, and she
told me about the boy she was moving
in with.

A pause.

She said she wouldn't have had
this happen any other way.

This is not a pipe

Written by: Snowblind 911

We rode bicycles over a mountainside made of cheap street crack and wine.
‘Michelangelo,’ she said. ‘these walls ain’t even half as tall as what we thought they
were. Look, you can see all of the sky tonight. Oh, you can see all of the sky!’
She asked for a statue, and I etched her out a marble portrait of the moon.
‘Baby,’ she spoke. ‘the moon?’
‘Without the sun to light it up, it’s just another rock.’
‘Let’s go.’ She sung.
We found shovels in our empty garden bed, and dug until we hit water.
‘We’re stuck,’ I cried. ‘we’re really ****ing stuck.’
‘Close your eyes, we’re in a ship. Okay? And we’re sailing through a stream of
cement and bricks, and we’re not stuck, okay? Just close your eyes and paddle, like this.’
I cupped a hand against the sunlight. Her eyes were mirrors in a morning so bright.
There were birds dancing like kites strung up for a day parade,
And there were old trees and soft hills and low rolling meadows,
And for a moment the sun swung behind a cloud.
‘The moon never looked so alight.’
As she laughed I placed a frame around her neck and made her a masterpiece.

This is not a pipe

october, 1951
Written by: Fugazirancid

sixth grade: ms. warwick’s study hall.
huddled underneath desks once a month
in case the cold war decided to warm up.

october's drill came early.
i glanced at you from across the room.
your face was set, determined,

i looked away.

principal on the intercom:
“thank you for your cooperation.”
everyone thanking god it was a drill.
i almost wished it wasn’t.

the next morning, waiting for the bus,
an eighth-grader punched me in the arm,
said i had looked like a pussy yesterday in study hall.
“who ya scared of? the pinkos?”

walking home from school that day,
shivering with the autumn leaves,
i cursed you for being strong enough to stand up to bombs.
and myself for being too fragile to look you in the eye.

when mom asked where i got the bruise,
i told her i got it saving sarah from the russians.
i excused myself early from dinner,
and tried my best not to cry in the shower.

This is not a pipe

I need a drink
Written by: cubs

She's trapped between clouds and lakes,
sitting on an upside down set of stairs,
watching misguided cars drift by
all those pathetic, lonely stars.
Oh, how I wish she was here
so she could see how clean she looks.

She's sitting on a plane
waiting for a goodnight kiss
from this boy who lives
a few houses down the street.
And while she waits,
she slowly drinks her beer,
holding a sign that reads
"Poems for sale"

And just as she takes another sip
her dreams all reappear
with a blind face that screams
"Oh dear, what are you doing here?
Do you know what time it is?"
Then the sun falls,
then it rises again,
then I realize its friday
and I still dont know her name.

This is not a pipe

J.W Fosdick and Emily Young
Written by: freshtunes

"I'd give you a rock, but flowers are much more pretty, even though they won't last as long"

"Rocks can wether as well" Emily quickly replied, blushing like a peach.

Whipping water through desert canyons.
Carved away at minerals and sediment.
Balls will chip away at the insides of cannons.

"I suppose" J.W Fosdick says.

"I'd give you a gift, but I have nothing to bare. An empty womb resides in the bottom of my body. I'm not sure it is something I could share."

This is not a pipe

Alcoholism 101
Written by: clichealias

This dialogue never ends
Where I use words that aren’t mine
A poet who speaks
With much less eloquence
Than he reads
So I chock it up to arrogance
Some vague depiction of intelligence
I hope you can’t see my soul
Roll off my tongue and spit it in my face
Wishing I was blind to the mirror
The truth will set you free, they say
It’s a difficult task when the chains
Are attached to the root of a man
Entwined with each drop to my mangled brain
That rotten obsession with fairy tale future
The spotlight I shone on my shoulders
Standing alone with the scenery
Singing and screaming over everybody.
The worlds not a play if you’re the only actor
It’s a speech full of words that don’t line up
Filled with an audience that doesn’t care
Nearly as much as my ego insists

This is not a pipe

Plastic Silverware
Written by: rushmore
emergency phone booth number 587,
i stopped to masturbate after i remembered
how my wife looked when she was much younger.
she was the prettiest of the cold war survivors,
always fu.cking unprotected,
all sorts of extensions and openings
that i was interested in.
knees touching knees,
elbows touching elbows.
we made love in the grass tunnel
and ate insects with plastic silverware.
she would laugh off the ants in
the cracks of my teeth and kiss me
but we aren't children anymore,
i don't think.
we watch dramatic films,
order chinese and
over tip.
we drink wine out of coffee mugs
toasting health insurance and
high credit scores.
we no longer waste words on sentiment,
i think she still loves me,
but in a contemptuous sense.

This is not a pipe

Written by: less than that

I forget your birth date
but I took a guess
and I've been playing those numbers
for three weeks.

I'm glad you return my letters, only
I wish they weren't just mine, unopened,
inside bigger envelopes that aren't
sprayed with perfume.

Wherever you are, roll up your sleeves.
Wear each bruise like a bracelet.

Last night
some guy pissed
in the corner of the store
by the ATM.
All I could think of was
your lower row of teeth
crooked and dazzling.

Someone won the lottery,
76,000 dollars! Only nobody's claiming it.
They keep playing it on the news, on the radio.
I know because they won't let us change the station.

I can't stop thinking about it.
Someone out there is a winner.

This is not a pipe

Advice For The Next Time You Get Writers Block; Must Read
Written by: Auals

This winter I look forward to seeing the ocean
While locked inside a small room with microphones
And penning songs about little mentioned happenings
Based mostly on my life, and those of my friends

And the waves that crash will drive me on easily
Motivating me to believe in nothing but that sound
And the breakers as they break up these forces
That can mold mountains and cliffs given enough time

So Halcyon, if you decide to calm my creative hand again
To slow me down and incubate on myself for no real reason
I may be forced to find your roost and blow you into the ocean
Where not even your powers can calm it's thirst,

****ing bird...

This is not a pipe

Written by: We Have Sound

strange to have someone so dependant
that i make her weather
a novelty.
a novelty that scratches and spits and ****s
that makes me sad when
bill withers starts singing
a novelty like that last line
you leave hanging
because none of the words you've ever heard
seem to fit
a novelty with a heart
all too easily broken
with nails
that sometimes have dirt underneath
with skin
that's sometimes all pale and white
and eyes that sometimes cry tears
that sometimes smear her makeup
down her face.

love -
you sly dog
panting at the roadside
begging pennies.
that's love.

in my mind she's not a woman,
she's a new poem in an old notebook
a clash
of souls.

This is not a pipe

Written by: DorkusMalorkus

Bondage ain't so hot this time of year
They got the leash out again
And the leather burns my skin
Sticky, stuffy, and not at all attractive

Not a year goes by that I don't hear about some poor ****er who asphyxiates himself because he gets off on being left alone tied up, naked and pathetic

Drugs are hot **** this time of year
These kids are always high
And their world is so very tired
Alone, angsty, and unbelievably sordid

Not a day goes by that I see my peers sincere, true, or happy

I sympathize with the naked and pathetic
I try my hardest to be sincere

I want to be tied up and left alone
I want to smother myself
Hands free
But thanks for the help

This is not a pipe

"Brother, I've never been much of a pacifist"
Written by: Bleed Away

Because I am not a sheep. Because I am not a goat;
welcome me to the wastelands and learn to love me
dear Mary. Meet me on the moors and bring with you
your great furnace for eyes
and your affectionate nails for arms.

The **** crows on midnight's gale,
to proclaim upon nations to prepare for war.
Pearls slewed and I trembled
at the reflection of the sky's suburban sea;
like a chariot from heaven’s foyer that assails-
why should I love those who’ve done this to me?

Because I chose not to speak of what I’ve seen,
I am a man and one man only. My voice
is an utmost whimper on the sinking planes,
I chose not to speak.

Infantry of dust,
lost content that can’t be tamed;
roams a shattered soul.

Death closes all. Death watches all.

Beneath the clear lakes on cotton vessels, I rust away.
As we sailed towards the river Hades the poets sang along
to the clatters of the uneven souls.

This is not a pipe

How Many Licks does it Take to Get to the Center of a Gigawatt?
Written by: BigBirdFan

screams of systematic repetition
tuned to the key of C
rejuvenating the pulse
of the pulp on the floor

I found the time space continuum
on my back porch swing
stepping toward the screeching sirens
revealing the past screen by screen

Timing the sun in wrist-watch format
the liabilities not mine
the doormat said "welcome"

you catch my eyes glaring,
hastily waiting for your tears to run
your feet follow in suspended motion

Gunning for the hallway laundry chute
only to find the triggers on safety
the notion alone is enough

reseting the sun dials
with steady hands of anxiety
attacking the knobs at their fastens
My suddle brutality breaks

I wake on the kitchen floor
while the screeching of the sirens pull me in

This is not a pipe

Crusifix Blues
Written by: themarsvolta

I want a woman who
Dresses like a carpenter
She wants to be like Jesus
But God wants to be like her

Her hands are wounded
Working a dead-end job
And she spends all she earns
On a thankless God

Now she's up on her cross
And there is no doubt
She likes the weather up there
And she's not coming down

I've got the crucifix blues
'Cause someone else is nailing you

Turned my snake into a staff
With your Levitikiss
Show me your burning bush
Don't show me no Exodus

It'll be a miracle
When I stop talking babel
And start speaking in tongues
That come down on her

But talking dirty
In these damn parables
Is the only way
That I know how to flirt

I've got the crucifix blues
'Cause someone else is nailing you

This is not a pipe

Call It "Unrequited"
Written by: My Name is Pete

From nothing to acquaintance.
Just like that,
she's in my life.
Waving hello in the hallway.
Casual conversations,
wherever possible.
School seems exciting now.
Who would've thought?

From acquaintance to friend.
Somehow we've moved
from petty talks
to Starbucked sermons.
Each brain picked,
we're now tuned accordingly.
Our radio station:
within each other's bounds.

It would be true
if I said
that I loved her.

But she doesn't want that.

From friend to best.
Recognition on walls of shame.
Inside jokes, reserved;
Party of two.
The point where names
aren't exchanged.
We know each other.
We are each other.

She tells me her problems
With her current beau.
And I sit,

It would be true
if I said
that I loved her.

But she won't have it,
and I can't help that.

This is not a pipe

Liquid Genes
Written by: AngryGoldfish

Spilling off the streets
and into the gutters,
the white dove flutters
but fails to perform;
his wings are clipped,
short and snipped.
And all as the cirrhotic crow
gathers, and starts to ascend.

I feel the liquid dreams
are exiled into my genes.
They're always on the shoulder
of love that grows colder.

Innate from infancy,
the blood passes down.
Forever lying in fate,
The drink works in wait.

Leave me the liquor,
I'll bathe in its flicker.

I feel the liquid dreams
are exiled to my genes.
They're perched in the cold,
in trails of genes in the soul.

I can't say I envied them,
but those I have adopted
are blisters flying free,
in the only place I “can't control”.

Choice can be ignorance...
And ignorance is never bliss...
Not in here anyway

This is not a pipe

Ms. Apt Diagnosis
Written by: Androgyne
Let's lie in the field of feline flowers
where the blades pierce and the whiskers tickle—

There, can you be free?

where the air is too thick to breathe?
Your lungs will suck dry
and your tortured tongue will swell thousandfold,
but with no gasp to scrape your vocal chords
you can’t scream I’m fine!

The Doctors and Gawkers use your choking face
as a gingham bullseye and claim death,
though you haven’t even died.
Can’t they see your fingers
fishing for mine in the sea of festering stress?
It’s just natural.
But I can’t convince you to take that breath
for the doctors’ gloves are the same ones
that suffocate your speech.

How I’d love your lips to split apart—
for me to kiss and you to speak:
It’s just natural.

This is not a pipe

Sierpinski Triangle
Written by: burnobus7337

Winter has exposed
my neurons, my nuisance,
my reminder why
Michigan holds her
on a brown couch
and has penciled in
my irises until they
could not be erased.

There was air that had
a shadow in a lung,
an atmosphere where
clocks faded into years.
numbers together that
would become prime
factors of open windows
on the city skyline.

Winter stayed on
the brown couch,
shadowed-air breathed
awake in the sunroom.
at daylight everything
froze, cracked, and
then resublimed as mirror-
images on the window.

And in the morning
the fractals of chaos
crawled into her globe
as the season’s first frost.
And in the morning
the similar triangles
fell out of my pockets
into Lake Michigan.

This is not a pipe

Written by: Carmel

There are days that just smell slightly different;
you wake up and something's shifted in the air.
Though you know it’s not heat, nor the beat of your heart
or the sounds from the street down below,
you just know.
Clever boy, you can sense the intense tension in the wind,
the gentle changes in the angle of the rain coming down;
undeniably obvious and visible to all, it grows heavy and fast,
yet the last person to grasp it,
is her.

This is not a pipe

July Predator
Written by: Bleed_Away

One day you will become a woman
unmistakable by design,
moulded within the pillars of divinity-
all forming but one. Secret of the secrets;
the sapphire pavements of the wine rooms
are motionless to some degree.
You are merely caged beneath the orchard’s dew
within morality and immortality. But
do you dare stare at the broken column,
can you trail without a murmur?
Clay? The colourless wheels of satiety
between being and nakedness,
scattered. And it stoned me.

This is not a pipe

Woof Woof, Bang Bang
Written by: #1 synth

woof woof, bang bang
dripping pistol
pretty crystals
falling missiles
whispered whistle
her lips quiver
nine months later
no one kissed her
nine months later
she’s a drifter
between her head
and her kid’s lungs
nine months later
fallen pistol
bleached white ground
snow bound hounds
police man whisper
“note said we shouldn’t miss her”
police man kissed her
took her daughter
took the dogs back to the station
shook his head
hung up his jacket
threw her in a freezing trashcan
drifted off to sleep
morning ice
skittering mice
up and down the walls
between New York prison bars
a drunk man watches
pretty crystals
melting down
concrete gown
over the ground
falling missles
woof woof, bang bang
silent sound
heaven’s hounds
here to take them all

This is not a pipe

Mindy, would you still love me if I shot you and took your money?
Written by: Thomasoman

"Hey Baby,"
It's been over a month since I last saw her.
"I just wanted to let you know,"
Or even bothered talking to her.
"That you're the cutest boy I've known,"
So today I decided I'd lose myself
"The smartest,"
In fantasy;
"The Sweetest,"
Free pornography.
"Most caring."
I searched the internet for a matter of minutes,
"I had a dream about you last night,"
And it didn't take me long to find her.
"We were out in some city,"
A trashy little black-haired girl.
"You were wearing that black shirt I bought you last year,"
She was so pretty.
"You were so handsome."
I fell in love for thirty minutes.
"I told you I loved you."
It wasn't until that evening that I went through my photographs,
"We looked into each other's eyes."
And saw you and I locking lips before a skyline.
"It was so perfect."
We ****ed that night.
"What we have is perfect,"
She moved like a pornstar.
"And I will never forget you."
She looked like a pornstar.
"I'll love you forever."
I fell in love for a night.

This is not a pipe

sky soul such sad
Written by: skagitup

people are oceans as winter is was
shower together never because
people like whispers. people. perfume.
how sad it is to forget the moon.

people are stars as spring is a cigarette,
as the telephone rings like an orchestra
outside. an artless abstract never
(the strings of the ocean will whisper together)

sad. soul. such. sky.
the mountains are nothing
i am a plumber
people are oceans as winter is summer.

as the clock ticks kill honour we had.
sky. soul. such. sad.

This is not a pipe

because bored narcissism beats tired contrition every time
Written by: hope's downfall

your t-shirt is fluttering with your silly racing heart
as i stare into your eyes.
i've mastered this look.
you know, that one that makes you
slide your hand up my skirt.
and there's hardly any mosquitoes out tonight,
nothing else to hear you belch out
involuntary truths.
visceral honesty.
i giggle.
i blush.
i'm so fucking good at this,
i should probably feel guilty.
but the alcohol's disappearing with the sun,
and i'm feeling better by the second.

orange sherbet clouds linger above you
as i kiss you the way that
makes you take off my shirt.
and this is where you get sentimental.
uncomfortable honesty.
this time you say i'm more beautiful
than i ever could believe.
i don't want to, but i smile.
it's just so cute how you think you've seduced me.

now the stars are shining brighter,
you're breathing harder,
i'm getting drunker.
just a few more swigs, and we'll be done here.
but before passing out, you'll ask me yet again:
how could you not be in love?
and you'll force me into redundancy;
ever-foolish honesty.
because if we're telling the truth,
we've both faked it before.
i'm just better at it than you.

in fact, i'm so good, it hurts.

This is not a pipe

"Singing Loudon Wainwright III Songs At Kareoke With Stolen Vocal Chords"
Written by: Stellar_Legs

Claire lay in bed with a down-comforter pulled over her head, a mound of a person wrapped in cotton and blankets in a way that teenagers stuff their beds with life-size decoys of themselves when sneaking out of the house. In Paris they make beds the way a bed should feel. She lay on the left side to preserve the small crease that her sister Hannah had left behind on the right. "I think I've earned this," she said out loud. She poked an arm out from under the covers to grab a pack of Delium cigarettes on the nightstand, knocking over a glass. She waited to light up and eventually fell back asleep. The concierge awoke her from her sleep.
"Ms. Claire, you have a phone call."
"No calls, Dante, let me sleep. And find my cigarettes."
"They're lying right beside you, Ms. Claire."
He walked into the back room where the phone sat off the hook.
"I'm sorry Ms. Iva, but Ms. Claire isn't able to talk at the moment."
"Dante, you give her the phone, even if you have to tape it around that thick head of hers."
Dante returned to the bedroom, phone in hand, stretching the cord all the way.
"Ms. Claire, it's your sister. She insists you answer her."
Dante placed the phone by her head.
"Claire, I'm standing outside the building. Let me in."
"I'll have Dante fill out the correspondance and then you can -"
"Claire, have him buzz me in, goddamnit."

Iva walked down the hallway in a fevered hurry, begast to a conversation that would stretch on for hours and required not an ounce of haste to marathon herself down the hallway like a police officer. The doors of the Bellvue Apartment complex were faded baige decorated in nothing more than room numbers and peep-holes. Except for the one at the end - The door had been hand-painted lavender some years ago and laminated on the front was a Gregor Namsoinski line - "Liking people and liking life. Riverbends lit up by light. Dancing flurry, laughing sigh. Let's be humans for awhile."
Iva let herself in.
Claire was upright in bed smoking her black Delium as Dante cleaned up the wine stain on the side of the bed.
"There was a lost passage in the New Testament," said Iva. "Archeologists discovered it."
"And what did it say?"
"The Lord said unto thee 'Black chemically enhanced clove cigarettes are not thy work of my father thy Lord, bur rather the work of Paris, it's ne'er do-wells and faded, crusty hipsters."
"Spare me this please."
Claire hopped out of bed and paced to the bathroom completely nude.
Dante nervously coughed and averted his eyes.
"I've come to tell you that it's incredibly unhealthy that you've been living in Hannah's room for the last two months, wearing her clothes, using her bathtub. Mom has sent me as dispatch to bring you back to Manhattan."
"Stuffy old Manhattan. You can't climb trees in Manhattan. Here I can pick any old tree from my balcony window and say 'I'll climb you today, fellow.' And I do it. Often."
Iva took a seat on the bed, careful to avoid Hannah's imprint.
"How do you see trees from 34 stories up?"
"It's a special telepathy. Me and the trees. Great minds think alike."
Claire returned from the bathroom wearing a pink low-rise spaghetti strapped dress that had come right out of a Lotus Vintage catalog.
"I like Paris, Iva."
"Are you still in mourning?"
Claire sat next to Iva and passed her a cigarette.
"Poor Hannah."
"Poor Hannah..."
"How many guys did you **** in High School, you think?" asked Claire.
"You're devious...Not as many as Hannah."
"Poor Hannah...she got the worst end of it I do believe, wouldn't you say? Raped by the Science Club."
"And by that loathsome Phys. Ed. teacher."
"Snnnagggle Toooooth Smile."
The girl burst into uproarious laughter, falling over each other and the floor.
Dante poked his head around the corner with a grin.
Iva was rolling around on the floor holding her stomach.
"Jesus shit."
She stood up and walked to Claire, brushing the brown hair out of her face and pulling her straps back around her shoulders. Iva walked to the balcony window. In the right hand corner on the glass was another Namsoinski line - "Dilly dally, shilly shally." Iva opened the sliding glass door and threw the cigarette butt over the railing from the inside carpet. She turned to Claire.
"Show me where she jumped."

The girls headed out onto the balcony. A small fenced area that could fit a chair, a small in-table and nothing else.
"She wrote out here, I believe."
Three feet above their heads was a cement ledge that protruded from the top of the door frame. An easy climb for someone nimble enough to climb even the dankiest tree. Iva pulled the in-table close enough and both girls climbed the ledge. They stood on top of it looking out across the city. Three inches of their shoes stuck out and keep a solid footing proved difficult.
"She was a true blue. I applaud her. In a sense, she overcame her fear of heights."
The girls leaned against the back of the wall.
"What were in her pockets again?"
"She was completely nude. I can't believe you failed to remember that. They say as she passed the floor windows, every tenant on every floor popped their head out to watch her fall, like a dominoe reaction almost."
The girls climbed back down to the balcony and Iva re-arranged the in-table back against the railing.
They headed inside and closed the glass door.

"This isn't healthy Claire, and it's not going to get any better."
Claire curled back up into bed and pulled the comforter to her chin. She placed her Delium pack back on the nightstand.
"Just give me one more week. Can you stay that long?"
"No, not here. Somewhere else. I can't stand for anyone to be here right now."
Iva slowly walked to the lavender Namsoinski riddled door and cracked it open.
She ran her hands up and down the frame.
"I won't tell you that you have a chance to save your marriage, because you don't. When you up and left, Shane disappeared. I can't say if he'll return."
"Shane can stay gone. Everything now is bigger than my relationship to him."
Iva walked out into the hallway.
"I'll see you tomorrow. One more week, okay?"
She shut the door.
Claire sat back up in bed and lit another clove cigarette. She got back up and headed towards the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. A Coudeux for a reason. Unopened for a reason. Centered to the left of the china cabinet for a reason. The apartment had been blueprinted on perfect reasoning and perfect occurances that matched Hannah's scheme of things. The telephone rang.
"Dante, could you please get that?"
Another ring.
Yet another.
Claire hurried to the living area and took the call herself, invigorated in some strange form of ghost control and haunted balconies.
Heavy breathing filled through the wiretaps and a woman's raspy voice came out the other end -
"You'll die alone up there if you're not careful."
The phone clicked.
Claire crawled back into bed with her glass, sat it on the table, threw the rest of her pack of Delium's in the waste basket by her bedside, pulled the comforter over her head and cried and cried and cried for the remainder of her last week in Paris ghosthunting.

This is not a pipe

The Best I Can Give Is 2%
Written by: Fly, Marlowe

embraced each other like defeat,
in the wee hours, we
sunk bourbon down thirsty throats
burned the chill, swallowed the choke, and
swapped healthy for sane. We may
have flooded out our love, but at
least we drowned the pain.

don’t cry over

We ordered out and
ate with sticks.
I swallowed words
and a paper slip, that read
like an obituary.
You told a joke like a secret,
stretched a crooked smile,
and between blushing cheeks whispered:
We’re like books. When we’re opened,
We’re red.

That one just killed me.
Still showing teeth stained read,
you mop me up like
spilled milk.

This is not a pipe

North and West
Written by: Spike_8bkp

when I wonder why,
I see my compass only
points me north and west.

Spinning on its axis
deriving light from cold
dizzy when I wake up
confusing the floor with snow

but maybe I'm not delusional,
and maybe she's not dancing
with escape but simply flying
without the aid of duct tape

Speaking in rotarian terms,
we're talking atmosphere in
earnest, beauty belayed
screaming slopes that force

you to cope with the wrath
of the earth and her solid
confines from which we
have been freed to see
her from her summits

without psychotic prophets
prone to moving stones and
handing out eternal life.
So, worry not, my friends in strife,

Any of your lords will do the trick.
And for those without, the sun will suffice.

Latchkey sheep are soaring, too,
at majestic altitudes of
forty two thousand, six hundred thirty
soon they may retreat

or begin to drop bombs.

Whatever their decision,
I hope it coincides
with your choice of gods.

Printing out redundancies
and posting them on walls
will attract the moths -
yes, those suicidal pests
worth so bloody much
to the Buy-a-knees

Liver, contraption heart killer
Arsonist sinner sitting in the corner
Bridges have been collapsing on his
back for so long, he cannot walk across them.

And yet he wishes to not be broken
Please hold while he recovers the
ashes; reconstructing begins.

grip tornadoes with the nerves it takes to move
drive percussive forces from the lips with which
she soothes

This is not a pipe

Soundwave Erosions
Written by: themarsvolta

Climbed a lifeguard ladder,
God asked me “What’s the matter?”
Said “I’m spying on the world.”
He said “Son, you can’t lie
With that war paint in your eyes,
You’re hunting Goliath’s girl.”
I’m too passive-aggressive,
Not to give this a whirl.
Long walks on the beach
On the shores of Normandy,
Breaking gun shells for pearls.

Por que la sirena
No sabe nadar
En la agua bendita.

Then I sat all alone,
Skipping Rolling Stones
Outside your bedroom window.
An endless pitter patter
To make the ocean shatter
And drown your Romeo.
But canyon corrosions/
Soundwave erosions
Are as weak as Cupid’s bow.
So I sat in the middle
Of the waves and ripples,
Sinking like DiCaprio.

Por que la sirena
No sabe nadar
En la agua bendita.

The cigarette boats
With their cancerous smoke
Brought ‘Salem’s cargo tonight.
And the messiah king
Heard the siren sing,
So he flooded all his shrines.
But the harpoon hunters
With their crucifix lovers
Will be begging for their lives.
Through the Judgement clouds
I heard Goliath shout,
“Jesus, get away from my wife!”

Por que la sirena
No sabe nadar
En la agua bendita.
This is not a pipe

Written by: Dæmönika

Hemispheres and latitudes turn on their heads
and embrace one another. An incision,
so precise it gains second glances,
splits the subject in two. A gasp then,
so faint it could be mistaken for a sigh
made by a lover in the deep still of the night,
echoes a softness; a pillow on a padded wall.

Inside, the prize. Innocence, in a sense,
takes the form of many figures and eights,
a pair of harmlessness. An indication with
a crimson-gloved finger shows the damage,
darkness where health should be. A bold suggestion
that the subject suffered terribly, and another
gasp, another made from a sigh.
The voice of Man; smoking kills.
The voice of Child; so does time,
we still like to keep it.

This is not a pipe