Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Alaska, you’re mine

on Sunday the snow rises in
riffs/ progresses to the monster it set out to be- we stay
trapped inside a carpeted primordial hut/ the weather
seems nice we go outside for only nicotine, and someone
plays drums loud in the bathroom.

write poems about what you shouldn’t write poems about:
the grain of her hair, the way her socks fall from her ankles.
the shift of passions and laughter always caught in the back
of my throat all coated in my mucus membranes mixing just
right with my pneumonia.

write them about the grocery store glow and the bedrooms of
my whatever, lies, safety belts, and the way she turns her head
when she’s trying to ignore me.(i wanna see your whole skin
at once) the skin you live in/ i hand the cashier my thumbnail
the glow grows around the isles/he doesn’t ask me what it is/
fuck America! 3.99 for a fucking balloon: i spend my time like i
spend my energy like i spend my thoughts like i spend my head
like i spend the world like i spend my money like i spend all
my stupid objects.

I chuff that cigarette to the filter so the sienna stings my lips
i let go of it and stare at this violet/ wampum shaped/ sand covered/
perfect snow falling over my eyes.

i sink
i swim
i flap my stupid moth wings over and over and over
i shout at you to kill me so i can see the yellow
behind my own skin/touch me later/shed the layers/
my song just came on/
i love you(every god damn one of you)

cab driver to death
part 1:hello cab driver to death



I stole four hundred
dollars from you last summer: what’s your back plan?
these molars protract from this weird dark grass. dirt
cellars for the lucky white faced dead people. lucky
white faced dead people.


cab driver to death, where are you taking me? this
death is not the photo-taxis i had asked for: ask me
when the lights go on: when the lights go out
i am the three rung subconscious of the ocean:
you move underneath your multicolored fabric
the ocean moves underneath its own blue fabric.


Part 2:there are brains here. decals of brains?no,brains!

this familiar pattern of squinted facial expressions:
the bend in my lip when i say something meaningless
i’ve memorized these feelings: know them like
the wooded trails i travel, here.

I must still have a mind i can see my brain with
its rivers pulsing and my temples moving
underneath my skin: my skin whitens in this
cold; i crave it’s old metallic bray in my fingernails.


Part 3: and it’s shaped like blades of grass:


this wool blanket
i pull to my chin this wool blanket i pull to my chin
i pull it close so i can feel it’s fibers breaking my jaw
(i want to walk around with You)I’ll stick to this honey
paper just for these specific stars: these black ones
beneath my wallpaper.


crackmonster, you piece of shit. this wool blanket
i pull to my chin. Wrapping the lucky white faced
dead people up in lights and your new Vermont sweat.
I am a metal striper silence: fish scales
on my eyelids. You’re just a kid swaying to these soft sounds

so many flavors of death (9-15)

your small mouth. Your small mouth your small mouth
twitching and unwinding from your face over my own and
down my own. YOU are Jung's masterpiece of humans
liking humans like people: you like granola bars to keep
your energy up. I'll watch you swallow life like a cough
freeze your neck in a long walk. I'll watch you
you from the trees four thousand miles away.

desire: eye pulls know exactly how you feel
slender and small boned in your Batman
underwear. ALWAYS tanned like an Italian;
likes the way the light always looks.

those studded gold mornings reigning in the potholes of my thoughts:

cold, frosted, thinning(since summer), fingertips collecting
crystals from the planes of twanging

steel strings.
covered in grime, sweat, and little pieces of
blood and flesh:

the north face of the hospital(your olive ankles)
recoils from the sun on the pink surfaces of
rooftops.

S.J Felder

Mad discontent

Bringing forth a strange influence
Deader still the hallowed story
Precious doubt eats the dedicated

Cruel days swallowed by thunder
Birth of heroes bruised by conspiracy

The shining armour sacrificed
Scattered knights lay down in doom

Sneaking affections
Prevailing attention
mirrors the demise of the eager glory

Rushing to the barricades
bringing mortal dreams down to their knees.

------------------------------------------

I'm a Star

Doubting public exposure
Trapped in a severely damaged imagination

Act is falling apart

Beating with a TV camera
results in a bruised ego.

---------------------------------



Social Relevance

Vivid impact of determined progress
Lack of status striving for violence

Translating the ironic capture of speech
The inflicted equality goes nowhere
Enrolled in a paradox of labour

The trend of clothing
is the severest form of discrimination

Lurking in the midst is an honest prejudice
Elimination confined to an unfortunate power

Impeached horrific honour buried alive in illicit isolation.

--------------------------------------------------------

Invented Rhythm

Melody of the muse
creates a controversial dynamic
A harmony that interprets
a subtle performance

Dividing the notion of a pleasant sound
My bones piercing through
the texture of a single instrument

In the back of a distorted line
A silent ceremony plays
the opening chords of diminished survival.

----------------------------------------

By: Sarah Ahmad.

Sarah Ahmad lives in Pakistan. Poetry has appeared in Mad Swirl, Full of Crow, Otoliths, Stone's Throw Magazine and elsewhere. Chapbook 'Unfulfilled Doubts' has recently been released by Artistically Declined Press.

5 Poems from the edge of an abyss‏

Nothing beats me, for I am an unimaginable epic, a singular baffling cryptic, curiously deep, unequivocally esoteric, a sphinxlike abstruse astronomical event, an incomprehensible, inexplicable, and inscrutably perplexing subjective symbolic interaction with unknown unknowables, and a spiritual puzzle occulted by impenetrable veils of weird, ambiguous dark apocryphal with tenebrous tentacles; furthermore, I am a vague unfathomable, strange as well as beyond ungraspable, but only a mystery to myself.


Day Doom

the dawnlight turns on day after day

day day crosses out the night
in and out the zombie laborers rise
and death lurches by like a star
blazing in their eyes

...and the bright is not bright enough

Along for the Ride

Society planned
destiny completely,
a fluke captured not
by coincidence
but by doom.

The crossroads disconnect
to mountains full of toxic waste.

The earth fills with bodies
as everything else empties.

Then they ride again and
use the dead for fuel.

Endin

Satan, treason, and foreign tension
blacken reason for hidden intentions.
Fallen demons deafen diction,
slogans, jargon, sermons, and fiction.
Done, the deepen doctrines mention none,
fatten Milton’s eaten Eden.

Darwin’s vision deadens missions.
Franklin’s gone on intermission.
Lincoln’s burden’s all alone.
Molten mountains motion minions.
Stalin darkens sovereign nations.
Ronald Reagan’s grave is shaken.
Forgotten freeman’s barren lengthens.
Frozen famines, poison taken.

Masons damn. Humans wizen.
Manson mansions fortune driven
Freedom’s forsaken on nine-eleven.
Helen’s Trojans hearkens action.
Prison planet reddens oceans
given saddened fema coffins.
Seven Legions awaken regions.
Ruins run to the ashen one.

The Docile Fall Of Rainforests

A million puffs on pipes
get high
Traces
flare as atoms split
Activated by the sunrise
Wings inspire urgency
in shushed game
with devils
Deadpan, hardly there
lets it be

Say Things

Words come from a mouth on a face
off the edge of lips like border jumpers
babbling anything, and giving speeches,
remarkable statements of discourse.

Promises answer and command matter. Take sides
with empty decrees, mere vain talk; revelations shore
of arguments; agree no more. Curses appoint.
It's over man; go make a name; bore, dig
bury me. Wounds cut open. Holes violated.

Expression shatters. Blasphemes grow heavy. Misled
alters man, nations, Earth. All life sprouts naked skin,
sin abolished, and relative's meat, deceived.

Himself food, slaughter and eat a piece in portions.
Two-thirds of the world dies on a date.
Personally extinguished, mankind slaughters itself.
Please exit calmly at the designated signs.

James Dye