the abstract poet

Move on, leave, run away, escape this place… but don’t forget about me, about us, about this town. Always remember where you come from so you can appreciate how far you’ve come.
—  c.j.n.

i don’t know what to make of this. i’ve never learned to process your flighty rejections. you push & pull at me like i’m a mislabeled door that you can’t operate & so in my mind there is the possibility that you must covet some guilty hindrance, there are bars between us & i must look especially pretty while begging through the gaps. [insert fetishizing of captivity & denial.] “no” with you has been flexible, elliptic, interrogative, an invitation for contention. “no?” hard limits, “no?” delineation, “no?” rope burns leaving scars on my neck & thighs & arms. “no” means dished out as you like it. “no” means hypothetical positing. “no” translated into spanish is no; in french it is non existent. “no” translated into german is nein which should be harsh but i am a professional anagrammer at heart so really it translates to “nine” as in nine lives as in i have nine chances to hear you say ‘yes’, the word which will absolve & pacify us both in one go. the only certainty i have is that your “no/no?” doesn’t signify “absolutely not” although it would be kinder if it did. because you undressed in my presence & said come on in, the water’s fine! knowing that i wasn’t used to atlantic temperatures. you asked me to live here, you petitioned me into my prerogative because damnit, you love me, but your mouth keeps shaping this dumb word that i always have to rearrange with all my linguistic know-how because your arms say yes, your poems say yes, your friends say yes, your smiles say yes & i can’t fucking process this vacillating recantation, this jarring of gears, this no-but-don’t-go, this no-but-don’t-stay-put

–please try again later. the subscriber you are trying to reach doesn’t have service in limbo.

We are on a train, London bound.
Mile after mile escapes
Freely under cushioned seats,
Sun rising peacefully over patchwork fields.
But all seems much too prepared,
All much too perfect to be anything other than planned.

The minutes fly past as my gaze is fixed on the passing landscapes,
Placed infront of me like a scene from a film.
How tranquil, how misleading
To think that
This journey, this life could be
So formulated,
So devised,
So artificial.
Is it not the rawness of humanity’s being that makes us human?

Do not believe this facade.
Do not fall
for this otherworldly sunrise
Or this idyllic train journey.
Because while we fly carelessly
Over these rails,
And while reality is displaced and delayed
Behind these electronic doors,
The verisimilitude of our existence will crush you
When you bid this mobile paradise farewell
And leave you broken,
Breathless,
Beaten black and blue until you are nothing more than dust on the tracks.

—  The world is a trainwreck
You claim to love her, inside and out, but the only time you call her beautiful is when it’s 3 in the morning and I’ve already turned you down.
—  girls tell each other everything, c.j.n.

i’m in my prime,
not withering and old.
but i refuse to play
your wicked games any longer.

i know this tether is unbreakable,
but you make me feel like i’m interchangeable.
you drew a target on my heart,
when did this become fatal attraction?

i don’t have the strength,
the energy,
nor the patience
to be held hostage by your love.

so baby please don’t despair
when i say that
i’ve found the courage to
let you go.

you were never meant to be tied down in the first place.

—  believing i could love you was my mistake, c.j.n.
Mindless rambling

In a depression
This is my confession
Feeling this I isolate
This fog makes it difficult to navigate
Deep down I know I have potential
Yet the struggle is real when your illness is mental
The white noise is suffocating
Static at times irritating
Dreams so vivid this I ponder
Hoping to to come true one day down yonder
-JREBECCAK ™
©2017

through the crows death card
ghost orchids did grow
seeding encyclopedias
of scattered dreams
& lost notes
where one memory
bled upon the next
until eternally worn
as moonlit stitched wings

~Cherokee Soul

4

Cy Twombly, 
untitled, 2006 / acrylic on canvas, 84 7/8 x 64 3/8 inches (215.7 x 163.4 cm).
untitled, 2006 / acrylic on canvas, 84 ¾ x 65 5/8 inches (215.2 x 166.8 cm).
untitled, 2006 / acrylic on canvas, 84 5/8 x 66 inches (215 x 167.8 cm).
untitled, 2004 (bacchus 1st version i). / acrylic on wood, 104 3/8 x 78 ¾ inches (265 x 200 cm).

The Alienation of Baudelaire's Wet Dream

The weight shifts off my body like thick bedsheets on a summer morning,
The wind taps a song on my window,
Teasing the day awake as I pull myself together,
It feels like my eyes were dipped in syrup that coagulates at the very top,
The weight shifts again,
Inside my skin very minuscule children play with crayons,
All over the walls they paint and doodle,
Pictures of a kingdom once thought to have fallen,
Now historians and seekers of truth stand in awe at the mountainous kingdom made at the hands of children too young to understand death,
My teeth yellow in the rot of lies,
My tongue twists at the tangy and sour mouthfeel of insults and envious lines,
The weight now placed carefully on the back of my neck, feels like needles with bad ink,
Injecting their venom into me, into my beauty,
Realizing I have yet to stand up I hide under crimson sheets too thin to warm up the room,
But the wind and gust I once knew can no longer blow these cheeks red,
And the weight shifting through the soles of my feet launches me forward,
Shifting my eyeline from the ceiling to a small shrine dedicated to fallen heroes,
My mouth drips blood from the gums and I wonder if someone bit the insides of my cheeks when I slept,
I can feel the trickling of the weight now swirling through my thighs and passing through my loins,
The fever gets worse as I get better, And the lightning storm that began to form outside took the shape of an untouched lover,
Ready to rain down upon the world for the mistakes of another,
“I’m not ready”, I had whispered, But no one was around to hear me weep into my wooden hands,
What beautiful seeds I could grow from these apendages,
My joints could house the weeds, and my soul would be your garden, But the insects eating at the leaves will have to stay because I’m lonely on the days you go away, And so the weight shifts off of me, Making me lean into myself, Warping my forehead into itself,
Introspectively forming a void with whatever body I have control over,
And when the process is all said and done, There will be no more shifting,
No more moving parts on immovable people,
No more shoving your thoughts down the throats of those who can think for themselves,
Because how else would you learn?
If not by knowing that someone else can be a better you than you could ever be!