Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#61

I carry my sins like nails in my palms,
Buried deep within me, unified inside my flesh and blood,
Transforming the rest of my life as the Eucharist for my mistakes,
Perpetually confessing to faceless strangers for a night,
Different versions of Soma and Wilkinson classics.

When you constantly run on empty fuel,
You eventually start yearning for companionship.
So I call them to join me, knee-deep in fish nets and salt water,
And pepper them with promises of fulfillment and bottomless wine,
Of reincarnations and resurrections,
You too can be Lazarus —
You can leave this cadaverous flesh,
I can spark your lifeless days with sprinkles of euphoria and chemical highs.
Welcome to the simulacra, my sweets,
These sweet streets all over you now, my dear.

A pilgrimage to hunt that who can forgive,
The Canterbury tales of the lost and the damned.
Flights of the homeless, fights of the brave,
Mindlessly seeking comfort from that which is destroying you,
Knowing that it is either you make this thing inside you last,
Or forever climb, frazzled, jarred, exhausted and depleted,
Giving it all for one, short glimpse of the horizon,
Diminishing returns until we reach the point of
Absolute zero.

Judases, all of them.
Thirty silver pieces for all of who I am.
This is what it feels to live on borrowed time, my love,
Borrowed time is all I have.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #60

My the Day is Mighty Angry – revisited,
Roxies keeping my spine tinglin’, hands shakin’,
crystal blue, orange spheres or white powder –
every lie to tell your beautiful face in the morning
that you’re progressing.

Because you’ve come full circle, dear,
the only difference now
is a change of
setting
and a different cast of
characters.

Same
goddamn
plot.

How many more blood-marked eyelids
are you going to smother in make-up
so no one notices
your pupils as wide as the beating sun?

Those vibrating pulsations rolling down
the wrinkles on your skin
will someday break,
rupture in cadaverous flesh
revealing the chemical ecstasy carved
underneath your
numb nerves.

Get down on your knees and realize
this face bears no resemblance
to who you once were –
now just a slave
to this in-betweening life,
recycled poetry,
stretched out lips that vomits
hollow, empty smiles –

Insanity is your only way out, dear,
Madness is your emergency exit.

What the hell is the point
of this whole goddamn joint
anyway.

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Walk, Walk, Walk

Spontaneous Ditties

“Man of Horror” by Ryan Bater

Hungry eyes.
They gather around like wolves after prey,
hunched backs, curled fingers,
eternal snarls, starved growls.

Slowly they circle,
foaming at the mouth,
eyes darting, irises focusing
on boiling liquids
surrounded by
flickering, blue flames.

Inside walls that stick to your skin,
they whisper dryly and look away
as God is passed down in arms
suffused with
droplets of blood.

Hazy days, sleepless nights
heads turned towards unexpected sunlight–
“What’s this?” he asks, dry lips parting,
a croak, half silence, half repetition–
“What’s this?” she asks, purple finger trembling,
pointing to what used to be
stories and poetry filled with
thought and meaning.

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Zone 6: The Inadequacy of Superman

Read the original article on Zone 6 here:

60988-10943-93983-1-superman-red-sonMark Millar‘s “Superman: Red Son” is an alternate universe tale that presents to its readers what the Superman-verse would be like if he was landed in Soviet Russia instead of the United States. Thus, we are introduced to a world where Batman’s parents are murdered for their political views and transforms Bruce Wayne into a freedom fighter, who leads a coup against Superman, to overcome Superman`s Orwellian “Big Brother” approach to saving the world. What Mark Millar effectively delivers is essentially a narrative about the cold war and an insight into the minds of our superheroes, and how they relate to the world around them.

 In Millar’s universe, Superman grows up in a farm in Soviet Russia, and falls in love with Lana, who, after having been witnessed by Superman lining up for food with her children, inspires him to accept the responsibility of leading the country in solid dictatorship.

Superman’s rise to fame is what spurs the Cold War to shift from nuclear weapons to the building of super humans. What comes out as a result is a horrifying league of super mutants – creatures that lack the motivation and back story that creates super heroes. Thus, the mutants created in defense of the United States becomes the physical manifestations of the fear and apprehension so dominant during the Cold War, an effective tool in demonstrating the effects the Cold War had on its people.

Superman-Red-Son-Thick-Little-SkullsRead the full article here:

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

Day to Day Poetry #59

There is fear in my tongue.
It prevents me from speaking truths.
I speak only in metaphors and alliterations
and manipulative codes.
Every story I share is full of
dramatic pauses and hesitations,
I am constantly second-guessing –
do I want to be heard?
Do they want to hear me?

There is fear in my hands.
It controls me from palm to fingertip
and forces me to clutch at every pained human being I see,
even at the cost of ripping my own skin,
because making other people’s problems my own,
is easier than having to be constantly aware
and recognize the deep well I have buried myself in,
made of my own denial and procrastination.

There is fear in my eyes.
It blinds me.
It filters my vision and only allows
the new, scary and unknown
to be seen with intense clarity –
it convinces me that these are the only things that exist,
because what is comfortable is a part of who I am,
and who I am is not worth seeing.

There is such fear in my heart.
It erases everyone who hurts me in the slightest,
and takes everything so ferociously personally.
I end relationships before it even begins,
to avoid being broken, betrayed and left bewildered,
floundering for closure, and
trembling,
sinking within the memories of now empty apartments,
with only tiny tendrils of recollection to hold me still,
and fragments of arguments reverberating
with the listless pounding of my heart.

Fear is the only thing I know at 2 in the morning.
It sedates me into becoming a perpetual wanderer,
one who flies through universes, only to land randomly,
cornered into a cage of my own creation.

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