Poll: your favorite?
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View poll results: your favorite?
0 0%
0 0%
2 50%
1 25%
2 50%
0 0%
Voters: 4.
+5 : 1st place
+3 : 2nd place

Not the melting of leaves,
but the creeping of the sun.
Staring down the moon while
robins abandon their eggs;
a blue hope crushed between
rotating blades meant for clover.

And amidst all the dew,
a single life crushed;
the dawning of summer
preceded by the long dusk,
the breath that does not catch.


Still cold, the trees are withered
A sigh and a mourning bleakens
At dawn the years foretold, ever changing course
As beliefs can cycles go

Still a brief smell, one leaf falls
Another sheds, for the lament brought
Upon winters end
In the years passing by

Even a face like scorched
Desolates, a man fruits
Steadily at the changing appearance
Recovering from its scars

Past watersheds returning
And a cup in natures grasp
A lake forms and seeps
Thus a seed draws
And returns

And where he walks
Amongst its crops and growth
Famished, by the years of trials as
Ruthless ice, melting
By his grace and tender care

A flow recurs again
Sheds a soul in another's
As flora paints itself
Like a poet to
Another's life spring

Extra Terrestrial Life pt. 1

There is no good way to say this:
The day we met, everyone else disappeared.
The concert hall stood empty around us,
your coat’s red, the only color in the darkness,
drew near. Now I walk streets and see no one,
order my food from the dead who have replaced
the living, drive empty roads out to the mountains
and back. The radio plays static, and when I listen in,
the fluctuations sound like transmissions from some orbiting vessel.
I live alone. Do you believe in alien abductions?
Last week a group of scientists said they were close
to harnessing nuclear fusion, that among other things
this could send a man to Mars in about a month.
I would go to Mars if I had the chance, become a Martian,
understand why one might abduct a whole population
leaving only you and me, some sort of game or entertainment--
look at this one, it’s in LOVE. watch what it will do now.
but of course this wouldn’t be spoken; transmitted, more like.
I imagine Mars wouldn’t be much different from the past few days
since we parted, smiling for the night. In the mornings I hear all the alarms
going off with no one to shut them up. Their batteries die
eventually, or they get bored of themselves.
I live near the abandoned hospital. The ash gray of death,
odor of decomposition, gone--all gone. Sir Gaunt Skin smokes in view no longer.
Instead the whole place smells like rain, hums the same way. I need nothing more
than to tell you this. Unwritten stories have beginnings, but no end.
I dig for fireworks in the garage, set them off from the window
in the absence of holiday or patience, set the sky to light,
smoke trails leading down to where you find me, your voice
like a knock on the door beneath which you lie on the carpet
expecting no one for hours, or days, to need you. Your voice
like the last living thing on Earth, like a hymn to the sky to bring
all the bodies back, their lives too, and it listens--the world
reconnects to some machinery, the night comes on thick with clouds
and the town bustles beneath them in heat, fires emblazon the streets
with dance and shouting, as if everyone had been asleep and awoke entirely
at the same time, with stories of their visions they need to sing
and others they’d kill to hear, and I live alone no longer.
We climb to the roof, watch the kids kicking over the mailbox,
watch trash strewn across the street, and I wonder how old I’ve grown,
but your coat smells like warm coins, the buttons maybe, and I remember youth.
And you tell me, no, it isn’t coins that smell but the reaction with our skin
and the difference here is touch, that the iron in blood can have the same smell
when it surfaces. A week ago I would have tried it, and here we sit
with no inclination for pain or it’s ignorance, with no questioning of the fact
of it all, with nothing but certainty that the shingles that hold us up are tilted towards
the sunrise on purpose, knowing that we most resemble the whole of our lives
late at night when we want nothing more than to watch this visage, this change
in semantics, this enactment of immortality, this new day.

I've just taken my medication,
on orders of myself.
They keep the memories away
like apples swinging in the wind
and give me brief lucidity
to enjoy the view of the Spring Garden.
It only appears ready to be picked during this season
such is the metaphysical nature beat 'em with sticks
of what this dem niggers swingin', mama metropolis represents.
I come here when I am able
to smell the smells of the real world,
to hear the sounds of the outside place.
I forget, however briefly,
about the blood and the screaming and the death.
The doctor with the hooks
took my wife when we came here.
I haven't seen her since
and do not wish to know what has become of her.
I've heard stories, horrible things
done to nice people in the millions of rooms.
Eyeless children, heartless torsos,
headless animals and nameless faces
staring, skinned, from walls of darkness.
A candle will appear, momentarily,
lifting the gloom, tantalising respite.
Chimneys bellowing ausch,
which drifts over into the realm of the ignorant,
blissful in their lack of knowledge.

There are leaves budding,
daffydills the cook them first colour of something else yellow.
My memories are beginning to return,
and the Spring filthy animals, dem not chicken taste Garden is vanishing.
The door behind BrassWorks give me my dreams me opens,
creaking and cracking, with no physical force
exerting itself upon I will rid the world of them it.

The sixth month winter robbed us of the colours

Brown into yellow and yellow into red

Sights say so much more than any words said

Singing from a hymn sheet, rhythms never read

The ugliest of sounds enter as beauty into heads

When would we depart

When dumb turns into art

Sitting, wishing for the days to stay

Stroking hair until fingers numb

Seasons deceive and two seem like one

March unto April unto May unto June

Summer's come too soon

Morning Glory

Got out of the grotto for the first time in months
with glued eyelashes. My sight’s
still dazzled to remember
the blue of the light clouded sky.
The landscape’s cyclical rebirth always reminds me
that everything looks new after a mild absence;
even breathing feels different
when you come to your senses.
The breeze carries a nigh warmth and
nature’s yawn could make the earth quake
and not a being would stop to wonder why –
we’d simply obey its design
and accept our pulse’s rush; not from fright,
but from the thrills that lurk in
the wavy shade of each branch.

I, then, hold the paw of my mate,
travel with her over the hill
to hit downtown and procreate.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
so as it stands now it's something like
green: 3
blue: 2
sienna: 1.5?

I don't know what to make of that unless we want to either take more votes or ignore a tentative one
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Ignore Andre. He was too late to vote. Not like the rest of us who were mannerly and on time. Pfft... you can't trust these Europeans.

Green is at three votes and Sienna and blue are at 2, so green wins.