Introducing The Used Life ~ Rain Buzz

rainbuzz

There will have been a night
that sat on a house
with no fence
where the stars came in

A night made of lightning, like a flash
that tore from between two legs,
switched off the lights,
and crowded the walls
with neighbors like a speakeasy,
a room with a shot glass for an eye,
two wooden arms and a stump,
a night like house, a house like a body,
a sky like two clouds trapped in a wine bottle,
a pop in a cork where the moon came in

There will have been a man with big dreams
and woman who only wanted flowers,
a waiter and a pool boy
and a cluster of mothers comparing jeans
and Napa Valley Chardonnays

And there will have been children
who curled up with their babysitters
and slept to the buzz of the gnats
and the beat of the fireflies
that never stopped dancing
while their parents went down to the carpets,
down to the knees of the house,
down to the mats made of silk
and the smell of the wood and
they flung their bras against the naked walls
and traded bourbon with their friends
and husbands with their wives
and ate cake out of each other’s hands
while no one else was watching

And there will have been an uncertain ending
involving a man who bailed a boat
as big as a foot and sailed
as if from a distant island
to the storm of storms,
to the source of the lightning,
and clasped the hand
of all things unafraid, and built
the dam that stopped the flood
that saved the fence
that surrounded the yard
of the little white house made of stars


You can read more of The Used Life here

The Library Bandit – A.G. Diedericks

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return.

There’s No Dawn Where We Live – A.G. Diedericks

There’s no dawn where we live.
I watch as you step inside my soul,
scavenging for a candle holder,
accompanied by an indefatigable
passion to touch this purely decorative heart.

In my hands i caress your ethereal skin, freckled with my scars. On your lips, i turn your truths into lies
I’m all that you should despise
Oh, my beautiful marionette
When will you realize?
Tell me when it gets cold, and I’ll lend you my straight-jacket, whilst i put on another disguise.

There’s an equilibrium in madness.
In our tunnel; you had the vision
to descry the years of loyalty beyond the brutality. And time has stolen everything except our problems.

You see, I have always been the architect of my own abyss.
Until you came along and furnished it into your own wishing well, leaving me to rest & dwell, in this never-ending boundary spell.
Where my subconscious manifest monstrosities,
whispered…

beneath a church bell.

I remember when we met, you told me that you’re just a figment of my imagination. I didn’t know it at the time, that we had seen eachother before, somewhere in the trenches of an ominous metaphor.

The truth is i am a custodian of doubt, anchored by a lofty disregard for change.
I don’t remember the walls being this shade of black. I don’t remember why our ghost writer left and booked himself in for an exorcism.

There’s no dawn where we live.
I watch as you self-flagellate, injecting yourself with Stockholm Syndrome
I watch your ambivalent tears burn with the aesthetic light of your smile destitute of truth
And you know that i would let you go,
if you would let me…
but you’ve always been more stubborn than me
even now, as you stand there..
laying your incorrigible flowers
on this free-fall bed.

A.G. Diedericks: I am disenfranchised; divorced from repetition, subjugated by a maddening darkness that breathes through my words. My work is as autobiographical as it is fictitious. You may vivisect it as you see fit.

He is also the Groundskeeper of Morality Park.

The sojourner’s haibun – Nitin Lalit Murali

I’m trapped in my old sedan like the Sicilian Bull, the fires of trauma roasting me, and in agony I pound the steering wheel and incessantly press the horn, though the hairpin  bends as sharp as glinting scythes stay deserted, except for the hard rain, the water like blood sluicing, the wipers like metal claws scraping the glass in desperation. On either side tea plantations like incisions on a masochist’s wrist haunt. The mist envelopes like white pus, and I can’t see the dying light circumscribed by the mutinous night with her soldiers with onyx spears and her crescent moon—her war horn with pitted symbols of anarchy. A solitary hooded man passes like the reaper in flesh. My shrieks echo, and the car burns the wet asphalt leaving tire marks like another layer of infection on a gangrenous wound. The rage from my headlights clamp the air like crocodile shears, tearing its appendages of oxygen and nitrogen. The fume from my exhaust pipe settles on crushed empty paper cups, like acid poured on a battered, torture victim’s face. I ascend, yanked by some invisible force, like a mongrel tied to the back of motorcycle and then dragged across winding curve after winding curve because it bit the driver, sunk its teeth into his flesh. I’m the dog and Fate is the driver. I should have never rebelled. I should have never played with his dice, tossed it like a chewed off mutton bone. The car has a few dents like keloids that eventually form if one keeps itching scabs. It’s running low on fuel like a terminally ill patient in the ICU slowly losing his life-force. The tires pass over a thin trunk with spindly branches – stripped away by the howling wind like a demoniac’s scream – like a spine yanked out with thoracic nerves attached. I don’t see it and it pierces one like a rusty nail impales a big toe. The air fizzles out like the entrails of a sacrificed goat. A loud pop like a gunshot to the head. I lose control and spin like vertigo before a faint. The car careens like bloody vomit and smashes a signboard saying, ‘12/24.’ Glass shatters like foot bones cracking when stepped on by football studs. My head hits the dashboard like a plate thrown, smashing a wall. I gradually drift in and out of consciousness like a man after a snake bite…

You’ll never reach the end of this long walk –
Because fate to man is no two-edged coin –
So, rush to meet life, the gods they enjoin –
you – fight, attend with silent, muted talk –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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

A villanelle for the forsaken – Nitin Lalit Murali

What’s memory but a reverb of whispered pasts?
On ashen, sordid ground, I take root; here I stand –
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

With such fierce passion we plant or forsake our masts –
Fly flags on fruitful, fertile, or dead, barren land –
When memory’s but a reverb of whispered pasts –

Oh, how I long for love that changes, holds me fast –
Through strife, fear, test, ache and pain – an aesthetic hand –
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

Hope tosses, shuns me, puts sick bones in breaking casts –
And songs become a dirge with sounds from banished bands –
What’s memory but a reverb of whispered pasts?

Perhaps the answer’s in the wind, truth left unasked –
Perhaps I hope to see and must accept what’s planned –
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

Oh, how I long for love that changes, holds me fast –
On ashen, sordid ground, I take root; here I stand –
What’s memory but a reverb of whispered pasts?
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

More of Nitin’s work can be found at Fighting the dying light

Don’t Let Me Down – Chris Nelson

Don’t let me down

Or leave me here,

Just cut me down

And disappear,

Don’t let me know

Or tell me when,

The cruelest blow

Bury me then,

Don’t let me breathe

And suffocate,

In lies you weave

It gets too late,

Don’t let my song

Hang in the air,

With words so wrong

And none to spare,

Don’t let me walk

With only hate,

Whilst others stalk

The open gate,

Don’t let me down

Or leave me here,

Just cut me down

I’ll disappear.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

 

SUNSHINE MANDALA

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SUNSHINE MANDALA
Mr. Fire-ring Philanthropy
of the Wall Street Diddle
and magnate
of all things plastic
that float upon the sea
to whom do you compare?
31 million light years away
the Whirlpool Galaxy!
Somewhere way past
the Milky Way’s middle
and the black hole
for star dust to recycle

As the quantum leaps
the physics of mechanics
masters of the known universe
praying to manifestations
of the Perpetual Parallelogram
whilst paying their taxes
to Never Never Land
Like sunshine on the shoulder
of Mr. Mandala
The black tie-dyed dysfunction
misfiring on all cylinders
across energy dark oceans
Scouring the cosmos
for the lingering cinders
of big bang smoke rings
Leaving nothing but
trails of toxic compost

All creation unfolding
The pleasure of her planets
beyond all measure
tasting the royal blue
starlight of Rigel
Antares … Mu Cephei
and Canis Majoris
An explosion
of symphonic sampling
The pollen from heaven
… sublime recreation
Treasures of a manifold
universe flowering
within a vortex swirling
The Great Spirit seeding
with divine inspiration

All creation declaring
“The Starry Host …
but a breath of his mouth”
Stars forming
and not a one missing
Led forth and called by name
The All in All
all too Majestic
The fact of all matter
flowing and forming
with vibrations ecstatic
The sacred expression
of all creation
… the Word spoken
throughout space and time
in the manner
of intelligent design
Beyond all human
understanding
Tripping the light years
fantastic
Singing the heavenly body
electric and magnetic
Calling you too … by name.
Can you see through
the haze of worldly static?
A galaxy ablaze
The stars are aflame

Can’t you see
through tears of rage
the all too tragic?
North and south now ringing
with the echo of a holocene
upon this age
The mass production
of porcine consumption
East and west
the Earth’s biosphere
threadbare
and getting thin
Like breathing in
the Martian air
submerged and purged
in the gravity of despair

This Lincoln County Road
birthed in cannibalism
The headhunters of globalism
not by half measure
all conquering
Only the extremeophiles
soon to be surviving?

The Ring of Fire
Philanthropist
with all top scientists
embedded in his payroll
by the lure of the money
he begged, borrowed
and stole
But they’ll never cure
his crooked old soul
That overseer
of the Big Diddle
on a downhill rock’n’roll

Bitcoin … just
a mathematical riddle
from the Parallelogram
of all financial scam
In the mad scramble
to take a seat
at the master’s table
do you really wish
to take that gamble?
Deep in the crypt
of cryptocurrency
a curse is brewing
for the false idols
of globalised prosperity
Forces that grapple
within the Grand Apple
of an all seeing eye
As the Shock Exchange
of Do & Die
patiently awaits
that root mean square
He who dictates
your life exchange rates
The Sultan of Swindle
A wolf wearing
sheep skinned underwear
All but over for
a total lunar eclipse
of the merchant banker
on the fiddle

“Why not today ?”
I hear you say
The fat cat too full
to run off with
an ever lovin’ spoonful
The holy cow too busy
making hay
with your social media
harvested information
A black mirror algorithm
calling the tune
to some little dog
who’s had a dishful
As personal freedom
ran away with the spoon

Like being forked
by a goose
and knifed
by some mother
Then dished up for supper
But hey … Mr. Diddle
doesn’t every dog
have his day?
And not a moment too soon
since the Whirlpool Galaxy
31 million light years away
and your shareholders
are now over the Moon

~ david redpath © 2018