What’s Yours is Mine – The Stories in Between

Look me in the eye

As you lick

That indifference

From your lips

 

Better yet

Let me

Taste what it’s like

The bitter apathy

And lies

Stinging my tongue

I’ll choke it down

For it’s better

On the inside

 

Now my love

Tangle in this embrace

Part those sweet lips

Press against mine

Your tongue quivers

At what I have to offer

Do you recognize this

Or can you not see

Past yourself

As I give back

What is yours

 

I cower

In understanding

And watch you

Smother

In your safe space

The only constant

Is my regret

As I return

For more

Again and again


More can be found at The Stories in Between

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Werewolf Déluge ~ D.B.Redpath

Snapseed.jpg
“Keep on walking!”

I saw a werewolf

with a hymn book in his hand

prowling around

sniffing the ground

from Jonestown to Gaza

He’s that well manicured gent

Some say he’s heaven sent

I’d like to meet his tailor

You can hear him howling

on your television set

Better not turn it on

Little old lady got bitten

late last night

Werewolves of oblivion, again

… Ooh Ahh

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Our Time is Brief – The Stories in Between

The Stories In Between

Yeah, I remember the first time I saw her. Sitting on the edge of my bed, envelope in hand. She said it contained the answer to everything. And she was more than willing to give it to me.

Pacing with the blade of knowledge to my throat, I didn’t want the responsibility. If I knew, I’d have to give up all this. Then what would I do with my time? What if it’s just a god damn photograph? This is exactly the kind of shit I try to avoid. I know she’s not going to wait forever. But I can’t look, not right now.

I suppose I would have to tell everyone else. Or fuck them, why do they deserve to know? I could become a prophet, a modern day messiah . . . or a motivational speaker, those people make all kinds of money and they’re full of shit…

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Life finds provenance and meets Death cradling Grief – Nitin Lalit Murali

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I’d ask her, once a fractured identity, found its cast of maternal iron and grit, determined to see the boy through shoves that split ears open – red drops of anguish finding an emotionally ramshackled Gethsemane – though he was too young to pray, to plead and to say sorrowfully, ‘If it’s your will, take this cup,’ and desperate to see him uphold integrity and become the antithesis of the man, who – when she had an early hysterectomy because blood and nearing death finds its provenance in sorrow and ashes: the grime of you’ll never be good enough as a wife, lover and a person – beat the boy on the way to the hospital for leaving a textbook in school. ‘God! God! You and your mother chant! Where is your God!’ He screamed trying to smash his face against the car’s dashboard. ‘You’ll fail your bloody exams, and even if you were to find your textbook don’t you dare tell me that you said so, you little bastard.’

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I’d ask her after they’d finally separated and she took the gamble and said, ‘I’d rather be on the streets with my son than watch him grow, wearing his father’s skin.’ She’d seen the rebellion, the blows delivered in the parking lot, but some shared idealism of knowing worse kept them. He’d pinned her to a bed when the boy was still five and tried killing her, and as innocence slowly left the boy’s soul and he let out a primal scream, he slapped the boy. ‘Shut up!’ He countered with feral ferocity and slapped the ground and shouted, ‘See I’m hurting myself too!’

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I’d ask her after disappointments on the football field and the wrong woman, who was never the yin to my yang, never the destiny, the truth or true love because these things find their birth in collective pain and strength to both wear and bear it. The girl had known pain but she suppressed it and marched to Hypocrisy’s parade: a salute and a stand at ease when Society barked on his platform held together by man’s strained, crooked limbs and knock-kneed stance. ‘Rip the veil and see,’ I’d tell her, but the traumatized often either worsen or slam the iron maiden shut on others like them, or swing, unsteadily somewhere between, where there isn’t darkness or light; just the false lull of addiction.

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I asked her, holding her frail limbs and bellowing, a sudden car crash of recollection. ‘Stay! Tell me! Please!’ And after years of separation and my relationships with worse women and flings with alcohol, she smiled a smile of togetherness, but it wasn’t a bittersweet ending for me; just a spear cracking skin, breaking arteries, piercing my organic core and rushing out from the other side.

‘Will things get better?’ I ask myself in this small town where the petrichor supposedly enlivens, the birds chirp, and Autumn tosses orange scarves as she drifts slowly in her gown of bristles and thorns, with ripened halitosis – a dethroned Empress, and she stares at me, never knowing where I’m heading, bleeding from the rocks of Reality thrown, and says, ‘Godspeed. I hope things get better,’ with a sad idealistic smile.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

You can find more of Nitin’s work at Fighting the dying light

An Existential Exposé – A.G. Diedericks

Pardon my self-aggrandizement
in the existential exposé of my life
for what i have to offer you today
is naught
but melancholy which percolates
my spirit with a constant test of my
stoic resolve 

I thought that i had given up
emotion
buried the empath in me
5 feet under 
until poetry reared its ugly head
and exposed me

As a mage of words
filling my glass up
till i couldn’t see how empty it was
on the inside

I had grown too comfortable in this specious skin
that i added layers to draw
a truth that resonated with you
in ways it never will with me

And now i stand here
as a pseudo-intellectual
undressed in public by simplicity;
chained to my reality
for once i am bereft of pretty answers

OUT IN THE COLD

Moonlit Pieces

I wore your hat to protect my head
from the debris falling from our family tree
but the spilling blues and red,
lumps the purple on my skin
The invisible scars, the indelible tints
Throbs and thumps within
‘Cause father, when you left
I saw how mother went out in the cold
gasping for life, bereft
She wore my hug to warm her skin, to endure your sin
I caught the cerulean falling stars from her cheeks
and wished for a warmer tomorrow
The bleak moonbeams break
I held the fragments of her soul harrowed
Saturated, dispersed
The sky was disintegrating on our bodies,
perforating our flesh, dilapidating our minds
And everyday I drink mother’s whines
‘Cause father, when you left
I was out in the cold like her
I…

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House in the Hills – Chris Nelson

There is a house

In the hills

Where my true love

Does lie.

Among the ferns

Shadow kissed

Her brown hair falls

In waves.

 

And as my eyes

Weep to the skies

I wait each day

For her dew to fall

Upon me.

 

Beneath the trees

In the glade

Her presence glides

In swathes.

From the peaks

Her love soars

On angel wings

I below.

 

And as my eyes

Weep to the skies

I wait each day

For her dew to fall

Upon me.

 

There is a house

In the hills

Where my true love

Does lie.

Among the ferns

Shadow kissed

Her brown hair falls

In waves.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

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