Sirinya

Thorani

Sirinya shoots

Sirinya shoots

Satchid Anandan writes

No Time 
 

There is no more time, but

there are some evil deeds

yet to accomplish.

To divide lovers,

to spread hate and harvest death,

to lead a revolution

that denies happiness

to everyone, equally.

All this calls for hard work.

I have the time for it,

and the impatience too.

 

Moses -- Frida Kahlo

 

Satchid Anandan writes

Learning Languages

I would love to learn languages,

Santali, Balochi, Catalan, Slovenian.

In all these tongues

we can say ‘love’;

we can say ‘kill’ too.

It is too late;

no time even to design a time-piece

maybe, I can design a verse-piece

Languages walk past the age of love

bent over a walker.

I too will go,

to the land where I have plenty of time

to learn languages

and then

I will kill you with love. 

Towards the Forest II -- Edvard Munch

Alyssa Trivett writes

Friday/Near Weekend Bliss

I couldn't scrawl a poem 

on the way to work.

My coffee corpse eyes

were rolling down the 

overflowing river

and my carpal tunnel

shocked rollercoaster drop wrists

shook like a swaying couple

at an outdoor Alanis Morissette concert.

I counted seconds at the stoplight

and said a quick prayer today

would go okay.

Now that school is over

I hear fireworks every night

knocking on my window as

unemployed birds wanting to 

have conversations about why

Gary painted his house yellow or

about our new mailman who rips open birthday cards.

I don't keep track.

I just sit in a windowless room

spewing lines seven and a half

patrons will read.

If is worth anything, nowadays,

in a jibber-jabber status update

satisfaction of notifications

and gas tank on E lemme fill up

'fore it hits $4 a gallon again

and neighbors crowd my lawn

to discuss it and siphon

chewing tobacco at me

as I chug down coffee bits

in my morning talk show routine

of my own introversion.

Naomi (Lady) Mitchison --  Percy Wyndham Lewis

Scott Silsbee writes

Confessionalism 

 

My heart is growing

a little bit smaller

with each passing day.

I know I shouldn’t 

talk about it.

 

Painting --  Juan Miró

Scott Thomas Outlar writes

Acidic Cycles/Meltdown Fever  

 

Rain falls heavy on my head/poison daggers

tease with cancerous intentions/inventions of decadence

 

A sky that won’t be silenced…

screaming hardships across the ocean

 

Burning oilfields in the distance/money making schemes

of madness/wounded is the animal…

once called human – Paradise lost

to the wages of war – What’s the score?

No one’s sure anymore

 

The fields of chaos weep…

plucking the poppies/popping the pills –

A Medical Industrial Death Machine

dares to dream

of keeping the populace fast asleep

 

Double down on the bleeding nightmares…

oozing out the prison walls/privatized –

lock you up and burn your eyes

from the truth/too harsh/lost sight

 

A flight into the realms

of cognitive dissonance/Stockholm Syndrome

 

A love of the oppressor

as the federal budget bloats/the Beast

sinks its teeth

into open veins/a strange

toxin dissolves into the blood

 

A knock on the door…

Is anyone home?

A vampire dressed to the nines… 

sleek suit/sleazy art of war

 

Roll out the red carpet

for the whore of Babylon/babbling

in strange tongues/twisted carnage

on the tip

of a tidal surge

swarming out at sea/a prophecy

of devastation unto damnation

 

Pestilence and plagues/vaccinated haze…

the waves rise/fall/

collapse inward/implosive indoctrination

from the cradle to the grave/betrayed

 

Shovel ready

jobs that never surface/left buried

where the bombs dropped/radioactive plumes

drift skyward/torch heaven

 

Rinse/repeat…

rain falls heavy on my head

 

 

 

Urban Deluge -- katy kuhn