I feel a burning inside
On the point of breaking
Making me insane
I can’t get out
I’m trapped in my head
My body is aching
My heart is beating
I am not living
—  t.m.
Too Much

Diet Coke
Paranoia
Yard work
Cops
Criminals
Longing
Grocery store meat slabs
Electricity
Anesthesia
Proof reading
Bible studying
Art
Corporate art
Corporate lit
Milk and honey
Vomit
Tears
Pressure
Pressure
Pressure
‘What am I?’
‘Who cares?’
'Whatever’
'I don’t know what I’m doing’
'Gah Gah Gaah’
'Let’s hide our pain and laugh way too hard at things we’re only laughing at so we’re not the only people not laughing’
Too much silence
Too much distance
Too much avoiding everything
'Maybe if I hide
They’ll forget I exist’

The ground crunched under my feet.
Silently I walked in silvered slumber
along golden pots of essenced amber
flower smells and fields of rouge tips of grass.

I silently seek the old crystal chambers
and I let my feet slumber at every step
because I want to feel the touch of marble
on soft steps of rose petals on cold floor.

I search this tree of emerald leaves to feel
the truth in colors of great mystery, I let it
crunch when I walk, so that some of the crystals
may be left shattered in pieces, ready to be
reflected in so many more nuances than before.

“The Golden City”

A letter to my past self

I wish,
I wish that I could
tell you how to love. But
I can’t because
I don’t know how myself,
and I’m not sure
that I ever will. There
will be promises
you will believe in that
will prove to be
false, many, but I can’t tell you
what they are,
just yet. You need
to believe in them
still, if only to prove to yourself
that something can feel
righter than anything written
or felt before, and
still turn out
to be wrong. You many never
know what is true, what is good
or what is needed. But you
will spend most of your days
trying to find out.
And that’s okay,
because when everything
crumbles to dust and dirties
your shoes and makes you
cough, there will still be
photographs
of every empire
that was, even if only
in your mind. Trust
knowing that you will mistrust.
Love knowing that it will break
you, and break you, until
you are torn
to pieces. Dream, girl,
of what
can never be.

Unrealised Question

A walk on a lazy daisy day,

With Galafrey plane lines,

Swerving swifts, swapping shifts,

To fly quicker than the tracing eye.

This quiet time,

Brings all things to my mind.


In the silence of the unrealised question,

There is a revelation -

That only time can make value judgements,

Today is made of yester years.


Light freckle rain,

The skies to cry,

Hurry high those who fly.

The sadness of the approaching night,

Blue the forever unobtainable,

When you found somebody irredeemable -

Your heart got lost.


Longing for joy,

Has been obtained,

As happiness is often hidden,

Everyday life is surprising and the finding of your bliss,

Is swimming in mysteries.


Slip into the fleeting glimpse,

Duvet cover me with sleep.


- Lisa Lopresti

do you know what that feeling is like?

to see yourself as a shotgun
in someone’s hands. when I say
I want to be held, this was not
what I meant.


I was used to revenge the pain
but never to heal and called for
only when there was war, but
never peace.


when I felt the anger
in your touch, did you feel the pain
in mine?
I wanted to make you vulnerable,
to tell me your every secret.
I wanted to be the diary and not the hitlist.


humans have this hunger for power,
this need to be protected in a world
that does not love us. the first victim
was a boy, he stole that power from you.
how could I blame you for wanting that power back?
why do I blame myself for wanting to avenge you?


while you place me back
into a hidden safe, I wonder
why you want no one to find me
or to know I exist or are you afraid
someone will know you want protection?


in the hours after, when the air
turns violently silent, our breathing
the only thing reminding us we are alive.
I told you
sometimes I felt like the bullet.
I always knew what a beating heart looked like
but now I know how blood rushes like a gyser
when it breaks.


the eerie silence that follows
is only serene for a moment, before
the cries when the body
becomes a dying star, a flicker
and then darkness consumes us


and then everything changes


we have seen a dead man smile
but you did not stick around
to find the meaning for his.
for you, death was the trophy won,
a wicked game someone forced you to play,
but for him,
death was a gift itself and not the predator.
a life flashed before his eyes, not his, but yours.
a future you had longed for together.


I am familiar with tragic endings.
I loved you to make one of my own.
I have lived through a thousand deaths.
but this is the first two I have caused.

** Shotgun **

Give me your kingdoms love,
Lay waste to all your gold and foolish treasures.
Lay waste to all these useless measures.

Burn your crown love,
Have you ever seen a goddess go?
I heard they do not tread but float,
Let us descend Mt.Olympus to the most mystical of worlds.


Take me to your garden love,
Let us frolic in the meadows,
smell sweet roses until we have had our fill.


Let us run until our legs cannot hold us anymore,
until the earth meets the horizon,
and we will jump off the world’s edge and grow wings.


We will go where legs can’t take us,
where hearts only dream,
and heads have no need to think.


Bring me your fear love,
Let us bury our secrets together,
let them lay in this grave, forevermore.
They will no longer rise,
and your tears will remain unleavened.


Give me your saintlyhood love,
I will be your martyr.
I will carry this world on my own back.


Lend me your hands love,
I will till this dark soil,
I will labour until the night kisses the sky,
I will make us a home,
in the palm of God’s hand.
This is our Eden.

—  let us meet where the gods and goddess are born, let us meet in another world.
Call me warrior

And now you have been asking my name so that you could fit some letters on the floor of the empty lanes of this page.

I could tell you I am a poet but the words I try to write still cut me with its edges and I hardly remember the texture of it when I wake up aghast in the middle of the nights.

I could tell you I am a poet but the only thing I sip from the ink that flows is the courage which still doesn’t quest this fear of breathing.

My mouth still tastes like the defeat I swallow every night just to keep a new page next to my pillow for the fresh battle I wake up to. I can count my good days with my fingers and still all I use it for is to write something better this one more time. My spine still shapes the regret like my favorite cup I drink tea in. The tips of my fingers still peel the flesh every time I console myself for being human. I still pull my hairs in a bun big enough to stop all my thoughts in the dark roads of my head. Some days I sit on the horizon just to know what grey feels like.

There are days when my eyes don’t rain enough to wash away all the sins my nightmares are all about and I still put on my pen to make the images immoral. I can’t fork the grief out of my chest and the only thing my lungs house are often the things I never talk about. I am a box of phobia that hides behind the whitespace of metaphors and often the words I use don’t do justice to the abyss my mind is all about.

Every poem I try to write turns into a battle I try to hide the melancholy of and yet I have not fully known what a battle feels like even after years of writing. I swallow the blood that rushes from the insides of my mouth for holding sad words for too long and the only thing I know today is to vomit them on page before I run out of time.

I am a graveyard of the hands I didn’t hold tight enough and these words still shake when I write about them and I have now learnt what eclipses are all about. I smell like the forgotten moon on the dark fortnight and I still carry empty lines in my pocket just to stick it to the windows of my night when the lights of stars aren’t bright enough to light up the page.

I could tell you I am a poet but the itching of being here today speaks otherwise. So if some day your really ask me my name, I would tell you, I am not a poet, yet. Call me warrior.

The evening light brings curtains
to a close, enveloping lives
in a wry, quiet smile. This dusk
that makes shadows long and slow draws
a melancholy hush o'er all.
For a moment, we all look up
to the sky - caught in amazement.
—  notebook at twilight
#MarchForScience

For those who create our medicine,
for those who teach our children,
for those who grow our food,
for those who design our technology,
for those who dare to dream of a better way.

Rae Buxx (rae-writes), #MarchForScience

Memorandum #1

Negate tutto.
Negate di conoscermi.
Di avermi conosciuto.
Di avere immaginato
Di potermi conoscere
Forse, un giorno
Anche se molto lontano
Nel dubbio
Negate comunque
Confidando
Che io faccia lo stesso

Deny everything.
Deny knowing me.
Deny having ever known me.
Deny you imagined
You could have known me
Maybe, someday
Even if in a faraway time
If you have any doubt
Deny anyhow
Trusting
That I would do the same.

An Ailment, An Apology, And An Affirmation

I loved you.
I drank your blood like it was wine.
I forget the thing about communion is the worship of metaphors.
I tasted heady wine and got steadfast venom.
I saw “yes” but “jest” was quite distorted.

I saw poison in the color red.
I was threaded with hatred.
I was caught like needle’s eye instead of by apple’s.
I missed an orchard and was susceptible as punishment.
I am sorry.

I love you.
I have red closing in on my pupils but it’s not from anger.
I have given out tears and given up sleep.
I count dreams about people a lot more than sheep.
I am a sheep bounding over fences like they’re rainbows.
I like to imagine they represent me pretty clearly.

I lay awake at night so I can operate asleep during day.
I close my eyes to the sun and get red as a receipt.
I want to give away these primrose coloured glasses.
I am sorry.

I will love you.
I will see red, smell red, feel red, taste red, and hear read your feelings.
I will disavow my care to what made me turn away.
I will disallow myself to turn away again.

I will prove myself fatal once you float down my bloodstream.
I will move oceans only to find undercurrents of red.
I will learn that they never left, nor do they ever leave.
I will never leave.
I will become red.
I will be sorry.

I will do this again.

april underground

should be optimal this, there
the reader of what’s entitled
but in order to start off the future’s will
that never would or never suffer
now that life overcomes the arrivals
directly referred to
quick and dirty
the scope of crypt
analysis must include
the immediate result of
(conception at the joint
blue eye for an I from
the soul is created)
by bye to an unnamed rather
than that self steady row

Not much in the way of poetry flowing through my veins this day.

I’m telling myself that it’s okay.

I’m thinking about things I remember from my childhood up north. We lived in a small town. It was a village actually, still classified as such to this day, and much more rural than where I’ve lived since.

I remember cornfields, how the stalks would whisper or rasp, depending on the season.

I remember how I used to play at Mill Creek. All the kids played there. It was a beautiful place.

I keep thinking about how we made plans to build a bridge from the enormous rocks nestled in the water. It’s funny how we gave little thought to how we’d move the rocks or even to where the bridge would ultimately lead. We just wanted to get to the other side.

I remember how thousands of colorful leaves would litter the sidewalk in Fall.

I remember frigid Winter. The snow there got high enough to form walls when the plows came through.

I remember a crawfish that my friends and I had caught and kept in an old dishpan. I remember feeling so bad when the water froze and so elated later on when the creature started moving around during Spring thaw.

I remember gleefully putting the crawfish back in the creek.

I’m back to thinking about that rock bridge, the one we could only build in our dreams.

How could I have known then what I’m thinking now? That the bridge led to a magical place, a place known only to children and poets.

I’m skipping across it right now.

smashed flowers on the pavement
utter a reminder of loss
their cellophane strewn and tag soiled
reading, “I hope you forgive me,”
like a confession of doubt.
those pure as porcelain petals
are crushed by a thick sole
to tell a story
lacking happy ending
but
full of lost pride,
a forgotten apology,
for what crime?
the flowers on the pavement
illustrate sympathy for the convict
for we always blame the victim
and though they were beautiful
they are torn.
—  22.04.17
Memorandum #2

Ipotesi per una sottotrama eversiva

Esperite soltanto
ciò cui non potreste dare un nome.
Disattivate ogni account.
Comunicate solo
con lettere, plichi, cartoline,
piccioni viaggiatori,
telepatia.
Oppure, meglio:
non comunicate affatto.
Se la morale vi è d'intralcio,
sacrificatela. Vi ricrescerà
come fa la coda alla lucertola
la primavera successiva.

Hypothesis for an eversive subplot

Experience only
what you could not give a name to.
Deactivate all your accounts.
Communicate only
with letters, envelopes, postcards,
carrier pigeons,
telepathy.
Or, even better:
do not communicate at all.
If morality does hinder you,
sacrifice it. It will grow back
like the tail of the lizard
the following spring.