Dirge

Inward dirge, humility’s mile…
Mantric disdain, recalibrated
for insanity, a congeries of bone
and flesh where then hatred

dwells; Cords of frazil – twisted
ruby liquorice – taut, icy ribbons
transporting choler; Systolic
tensions reverberate in echoic

pizzicato, timed percussions for
this soul’s requiem in æternum;
Quiescent imprecations chivying
volatile verses into concussive

choruses; A self-mutilated mind,
cauterized by vajra, tends toward
transposition & discombobulation,
misplacing threnodies amongst the

keening notes; Pages upon pages
of tablature obfuscating wide,
vanilla eyes, as pupils weaponize
soporific songs into mental torpor;

Serenaded by a reflective elegy, an
amalgam of evidential awareness
and ebon conclusions, he’s reduced
to ashes, dispersed by lamentous om

art: by Eric Lacombe

Obligation

She adores, to her, the gifts he brings
When he frees her mind on colorful wings

She prizes the warmth when given his kiss
The highlight each day that she’d never miss

She treasures his calming her current vexation
He’s always found nurturing her nascent fixation

And she worships the sting of his luscious touch
Though he asks for so little, he gives her so much

To grow ever closer, he need only be fed
A prick for the princess, to him but some red

So her demon may gorge and familiars thereof
Not of obligation, but of wayward hopeless love

art: by John Fernandes

Negative

Negative ever feeds negative
it’s a perpetual emotion machine

Akin to ouroboros of its tail
its insatiablity, destructive, obscene

Negative ever seeds negative
sowing discord in the susceptible mind

To some a mere curiosity, while
gardens bloom in the positively blind

Negative ever bleeds negative
ambrosia always collecting its toll

Plumbing the depths of its blackened abyss
forever drowning the unfortunate soul

art: by Blekotakra (Giorgia N.)

 

The pond

Of my reflection in the pond
I’m struck by its emptiness
The cold stare of the water
the solitude, the loneliness

A two dimensional image
with a form nonexistent
An odd absence of sparkle
yet sorrowfully persistent

The eyes they burn soulless
as they stare back at me
The water, of course,
lacks any real humanity

It should be teeming with life
yet it instead betrays none
No warmth ‘neath the surface
no light save the distant sun

I set my finger upon the mirror
and the ripples envelop me
An ever cascading distortion
of my entire reality

As my hand reaches deeper
I anticipate the reaction
With each passing moment
I witness waves of refraction

Then quite unexpectedly
I stand without a sound
I’m staring up at myself
as if viewed from the ground

My reflection slowly turns
begins a mournful retreat
I desperately want to call,
my voice unwilling to speak

I don’t understand,
I don’t know how can this be
Unless I am the pond
and it’s he who’s like me

art: Through the water by Samantha French

Ragdoll

See the words it writes, interest piqued
What says things such as this, in this way
Tentatively, first from afar, engage this
Ragdoll
Watch it, jab it, pick it up for examination
Unabashed, no concern for ramification
Curiosity overwhelms, it’s such an unusual
Ragdoll
Does it communicate, try it, see what happens
It does! Its responses are friendly and playful
How and why does it then write that way, this
Ragdoll
Ask it some questions, it’s polite, if not evasive
Even asks them back, interest piqued
Confused, don’t know what to make of this
Ragdoll
What is it thinking, is it alive, does it think so
Does it want to be, why does it project sorrow
Toys should be easier to play with than this
Ragdoll
Dead end, time waster, hurts these wandering eyes
Bored, but there’s a pretty picture over there
Don’t need to think; it can’t feel anyway, this
Ragdoll
Use it for parts, but leave the hearts, and energy
Toss it aside, can’t be helped, can’t be bothered
A broken plaything, it’s not like all the other
Ragdolls

They say he finds

Abrading his eyelids with callous frustration, was enough to draw him away from a particularly potent painting of suicidal ideation

Pain has that effect, but it shares the burden of cause, as well; whether physically or emotionally, it buries its claws quick-deep in both

Two sides of an allusive illusion eluding elucidation

They say, if you imagine being happy, with enough practice, you’ll eventually be happy; he finds happiness burdensome in the same way

So closely tied to pain, that often they become indistinguishable

They say, writing through it can excise the cancer, implanting it instead into the palimpsestic donor at hand; he finds that this is often fraught with potential infection

It may at times offer relief, however it’s a placebic solution dependent upon uncontrollable factors of outside acceptance; so it usually backfires

He doesn’t know if they say anything about ideation, though he supposes it to be frowned upon, as a form of subsistence; perhaps they’d say it’s playing with fire

He’d say that response bethink him of self-immolation; then he finds that they may have a point

…a sharp one

art: i can feel your pain by Ruth Batke