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Tuesday, July 27, 2010

To-uncaring by Tatjana Debeljacki

Lost in the grey loneliness.

Cognition intruder – rustling from the mind.

Unclear thread, passionate, cruel, is awaken.

The fruit is not conspiracy.

The lunatic, genius of silence!

Get closer to the unspoken.

The analysis of reason- slavery!

During walking, visible shame!

Exciting autonomy,

Opened door, the windows,

Draft!

In the mist the stairways

Leading to heaven.

Paralyzed conscience,

Portable mirror.

In the plural against the fluency,

Conducting, behavior,

And admit the guilt.

The line connecting,

The road to the spacecraft.

SubmissionsRoss Vassilev, Editor. Paste up to 3 poems in the body of your email, title it "submission" and submit to [email protected]. Simultaneous and reprints OK. No pay and you keep all rights. Response time is a week or less. Check out my other zine Opium Poetry 2.0 and my own poetry at my homepage. *An Asphodel -- poem by Allen Ginsberg *Lost Battles of The

Vietnam War

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Page 1 of 59Asphodel Madness

7/28/2010http://asphodelmadness.blogspot.com/

We walk on by in dishonor.

Bronze woman,

Brass man!!!

*www.poetabg.com/

*http://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/

*http://twitter.com/debeljackiPosted by Opium Poetry 0 comments

Labels: Tatjana Debeljacki

On Religion Those who love God/god will always love

Those who do not believe in God will never believe Why are we inducing our insights on common people? If you are intellectually fulfilled then it does not necessarily Means that you should make fool of your intelligence. Religion will never be dead and be dead. What is not dead is spiritualism. We are bunch of spirits Or soul and we are here for short periods of time. This is our standard existence. If we follow moral, ethical, social and humanistic principals. We will be blessed among ourselves. There is no need to worry and doubt other’s intelligence, we Are here and we will be here in one form or another. The philosophy of life is not life of philosophy rather journey towards sustainable peace and prosperity. Remember, the more Differences you will create, the more difference you will have to solve. We are the problems and we have the solutions.

by Santosh Kalwar Posted by Opium Poetry 0 comments

Labels: Santosh Kalwar

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Monday, July 26, 2010

Waste of Time. by Laura Whelton

You know there was a day once

That stood out from time

Curled hair and tanned legs

A staple of a youthful past

Time was cruel and marks like blood

Soak this skin

Sun like butter now

Thick and blinding

No longer the painted happiness

Which held a hopeful thought

No longer the empty glasses

Held by a friend

Today was long

Cradled the sleeplessness

Worn out fatigue and promised nothing

Was it all a waste of time?

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38 years of an alcoholic brother. by Laura Whelton

How easy to be the drunk

Eking out each day with coinsShuffling towards another oblivion

With each waking stride.

How easy and forgotten

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The long days of alcohol

Drank like a dying man with water

How easy the daysSpent doubled in pain

Vomiting nothing

But the pure torture

Of your condition.

How easy and sad

Begging at street corners

For the same coinsThat last only a second

The endless walk

Of the drunkAs he staggers home

Night after lost night

Muttering dissatisfactory

Soliloquies

To the sombre moon

Diluted by spent eyes

How easy

To wake and have a conviction

On how to spend your day

While we soldiers of disciplineWork like animals for survival.

How easy.


Labels: Laura Whelton

Sunday, July 25, 2010

I ONCE GOT A GRANT TO

GO TO PRAGUE and interview people about the homeless there,

but the government representatives kept telling me

they didn't have any homeless, even though I could

see

them on the street. They said they weren't really

homeless,

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that they were drunks who fell asleep on the way

home,

that there just isn't a problem. And then one of the

papers

reported that a tram driver got sick of a homeless

man

who kept riding without ever getting off and so

when

the man was sleeping the driver pulled over, took

out

some gasoline, and lit the homeless man on fire.

I went to ask them about that, but they wouldn't

return any of my calls.

by Ron Ahimsa Riekki


Labels: Ron Ahimsa Riekki

Saturday, July 24, 2010

A Real Man by Suchoon Mo

a real man

writes poetry

plays flute

and he masturbates

upon mountain top


Labels: Suchoon Mo

Country Fair Weekend by Nicole Taylor

I drank beer with strangers, coffees downtown,

teas with Mary, Mike's hard liquor with strangers

and neighbors. At camp I bought a corduroy hat

and sodalite earrings. At camp I watched

drummers, musicians and a fire show with nude

dancers. Later I watched another fire show from a

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TheULA archives



great band, a fun pantomime and large chess

board. At camp I ate Baklava and noodles. I also

ate granola and a sub, a muffin on the ride home.


Labels: Nicole Taylor

Thursday, July 22, 2010

THE SIGH by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Middle of night music

soft in shadows

remembering you

breathing in my ear

wanting more

and I giving you more

and now

separate

we wonder what we did wrong

no tears

only a sadness

song

still penetrating a sigh

lasting for years.


Labels: Stephen Jarrell Williams

PAULETTE, LIVING IN HER CAR by Lyn Lifshin

I was a ballet dancer,

then I got divorced.



I tried to be a

secretary but

learned that tho

I’m healthy

I couldn’t get

any job. I fill

my car with things

that don’t let

you know there’s

a person in there,

a lot of bags and boxes

and I cover myself

with newspaper

and hunker down

*Lyn's website:

http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm


Labels: Lyn Lifshin

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

boston girl, well, I am chinese firecracker lame by kenneth mulvey

don’t go you fuck

don’t you darebut it’s a busted

taillight drive

for a broken door handled

barroom anda ponytailed joke

bowing, ejaculating

yessir yessir

alla the timeevery time you look

at him,

asleep rumbling

throat after hekicks you out



in a cold front

lawn till

the blistered moon

threatens themystics dreaded and

lovemakers

so I spend my

morningpeaking

into pieless windows,

wives shrugging their

pale shoulders atempty tables,

husbands busy rubbing

one out in

hot showersso they don’t

fuck this up,

whilst me down on

1st streetwith bustop bums meagre

cuz the women stay

limber

with methamphetaminesores volcano naked

all the praised day,

where somebody stole my

empty wallet,acting out the futile

show yet

we still are all

afraid,no, I don’t ask for

it all back since

the emaciated

boy .22’s bunny rabbitshowling like babies

on a cyanide trip

and that’s enough,

I think,until the midafternoon

pederasting fat russian elite

rape bloody violent

shouting 12 year old girls

between the 14th

and 12th floors,



behind unseen windows

upon papercut carpet,

police guard says

you better leavebuddy boy,

I whip up the

chaise into

crazy motion,leave

the jealous road

sniffing his own usefulness,

stride dejectedhead down and

bent enough for to

load confidence

upon her freckled eyelidsenough to fold

her desolation knees,

it will be easy, this,

the army boys are outof town

and she’ll forgive,

she’ll need somebody,

she’ll drop her synthetic nuclear vestin the presence

of an evolutionarily doctored cock

and take me backPosted by Opium Poetry 0 comments

Labels: kenneth mulvey


Tense Darkness by Farida Samerkhanova

I am waiting for you in the middle of the night

And there comes a moment when

My body turns boneless and indifferent

Like a soft cotton pad

Every cell of my brain is plugged with

disappointment and fatigue

I stop distinguishing between the sounds around

me



The drops of rain jingling against the unfriendly

surface of the roof

Your tires whispering something to the wet

pavement

A distant neighbour’s garbage bin being dragged along the driveway

Your cautious steps on the telltale creaking kitchen

floor

The irritating ticking of the clock on the bedroom

wall

And my own miserable heart beating


Labels: Farida Samerkhanova

Monday, July 19, 2010

CRUDE by Lyn Lifshin

the blackness

rising to the surface

oozing up to

the surface, slick

oozing in the back

yards. “No trespassing

Danger” signs. Oily

muck in the street.

“If they stay

they’re signing

their own death

warrant” on a sign

near a house



Candidates come

here days before

the election

to shake hands

***

it’s like a ghost

town, houses boarded

up. I’m afraid if

I leave the house

they’ll loot or burn

it. I have a child

with birth defects

of heart, pancreas.

Kidney. Chloroform

was so high it

wouldn’t be allowed

in any work place.

I was pregnant.

The state told me

nothing wasn’t

safe



*Lyn's website:



Labels: Lyn Lifshin

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Coastlines of My Dreams by Jake David

The shadowy past,

vague. Vast. Lone as the walls

a barren mind resembling

ungripped realities

like the coastlines of my dreams,

laying secretly within hidden pages.

brushing naked against the burgundy sky

underneath a Halloween moon

during a saxophone wind,

the ghost of a yesterdaynight's kiss.

I remember on the coast lines of my dreams

with eyes like the seven seas after Earth's climax.


Labels: Jake David

Saturday, July 17, 2010

The Grandest Gestures by David Tomaloff

I have been

to your cities

and seen

the Ducks

hiding coyly

among the lions

and thieves;



all huddled

together,

at once

defiant

and

terribly

alone.

Concrete

and Shoes,

sunglasses

and Stuff(!);

coldly

ablaze

like

science

fiction

just

w aiting

to

happen.

*www.davidtomaloff.com

*http://liontamersblues.tumblr.com/ Posted by Opium Poetry 0 comments

Labels: David Tomaloff

Thursday, July 15, 2010

11:45



by Stephanie Wytovich

The phone refuses to ring

I wonder if it’s broken

Silenced

Or was quietly murdered

During the dead of night

It taunts me

Stares at me

Its numerical patterns

Circularly counting repetitively

Around the clock

While it ticks away seconds

And tocks away minutes

Relentlessly stealing hours from me

From my day

The carpet itches my thighs

And my nails dig into my arms

A nervous twitch

That draws blood

I try to distract myself

My spinning head is to full

To think otherwise

You’re probably busy

Wrapping yourself around her legs

Your tongue down her throat

Panting to the rhythm of her movements

Dancing in the crevices inside her

Or screaming to the beat of your heart

You’re probably occupied

Talking to your friends

Telling them about your night

You spent in a drunken stupor

Drowning in whiskey

Swimming in beer

Yelling at family

You’re probably lying

Telling them you’re in love



After you beat me in your room

Left me stained with tears

Dried blood on my lips

As you passed out in your bed

And I drove home

Battered

And broken.

You’re probably living your life

Going about your day

Like nothing is wrong

While I’m left

Sitting by the phone

Waiting…

Waiting…

For you to call,

Because I know if I leave

You’ll find me,

And I’ll be worse off

Then laying on this itchy carpet

In your run down apartment.

I’ll be dead.


Labels: Stephanie Wytovich

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY by Lyn Lifshin

There is nothing to eat.





We are going to die of hunger.



My teeth ache,



my left leg is frostbitten.



I almost finished the honey.



What have I done?



How selfish I am!



What are they going to say?



What will they



spread on their bread now?



Mother looks terrible–



a shadow of herself.



She works very hard.



Whenever I wake up



at twelve or one in the night



she is bent



over the sewing machine,



and she gets up at six.



I have no heart, no pity,



eat everything



I can lay my hands on.



Today I had an argument



with Father.



I insulted and even cursed him.



And this was because yesterday



I weighed the noodles



but this morning took



a spoonful for myself.



When father came back



he weighed them,



found there was less,



started yelling at me.



He was right, but I was



upset and cursed him.



Father just stood



at the window



and cried like a child.



No stranger ever



abused him like I did.



Everybody was home



I went to bed quickly



Older Posts

I thought I would die of hunger

*Lyn's website:



Labels: Lyn Lifshin


Let Us Play by Santosh Kalwar

Dear Women,

come out and let us play,

reveal your secret and let’s swim

In a river of your pain with enthusiasm and excitement

Let us swing with the melodies of birds

and let us be passionate

over our love

I know you are bothered,

by the mindless cults

The pursuit of your happiness

Lies beneath this earth so, let us play

beautiful women


Labels: Santosh Kalwar

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Blog Archive

▼ 2010 (185)

▼ July (28)



To-uncaring

On Religion

Waste of Time.

38 years of an alcoholic brother.

I ONCE GOT A GRANT TO GO TO PRAGUE

A Real Man

Country Fair Weekend

THE SIGH

PAULETTE, LIVING IN HER CAR

boston girl, well, I am chinese firecracker

lame

Tense Darkness

CRUDE

Coastlines of My Dreams

The Grandest Gestures

11:45

YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY

Let Us Play

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON BY

RAPHAEL

Searching for the anchor

Morning Breeze

AIR

In My Letter

WHAT PATHWAYS

poem

Document 13

Ripped From Us During Endless Harvest

For My Mother Who Gave It Her All

The Voice Of Despair

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