The institution

A person caught on fire and burned as they walked by. They pressed record and continued walking.

They found a bear market with traditional tapestries and sparked up a conversation about the discolored hues… “Get two for price of one?” They laughed and were giddy awaiting a lavish dinner. Their money went far. They dropped a penny and a conventional smile into a child’s cup and wished they could do more.

Days passed in new adventures; some welcome and some unwelcome. Still no thought of the burning man entered the institution of their mind.

Today was the day they would journey across the ocean home. She was ready to be back in her pristine dwelling and he was ready to relax and catch up on sports. All the sports. As they boarded the plane, they took one last look at the exotic country. They had experienced so many new adventures.

Mountains Beach Jungle.

They drank red wine and cognac on the plane. And snored away.  They arrived home on a Thursday. Continue reading “The institution”

After Chernobyl

Growing skin on a slab

beside a cup of herbal tea,

pair of sun glasses, book of graphite…

 

In her pocketbook there’s a few test tubes

busy with cells from some mouse’s saliva.

Through the lab sunlight bakes bricks,

sets nacreous brilliance on tables.

Later it will be even more yellow.

 

She makes science comfortable, homey,

talks to the surgeon, the biochemist.

About tissue cultures she places daffodils.

Other lives are depending on such,

heaving with spasms, breaking off limbs.

Their bodies can’t help it. Continue reading “After Chernobyl”

Only in dreams

I have never seen teardrops

that haunted a troubled mind.

As deeply as the ones she cried

the night she left love behind.

 

I have never felt loneliness

as vivid as that night.

When she built her wall and closed her mind

driving love from her sight.

 

Then I found another way

to hold her in my heart.

My dreams are my very own.

In them we never part.

 

The dreams are warm and tender

as I look into her face.

We hold each other tightly,

in this, our private place.

 

The night is always welcome.

That’s when she comes to me.

Then we join our souls together.

In dreams, our spirits are free.

 

The darkness is my friend

and I bid it, forever stay.

It’s the only time I feel her love

and the night never sends her away.

 

 

By Gary William Ramsey

 

Off the record

“I’m trying to think, don’t confuse me with facts.”
― Plato

 

He was the Sun. She was the Moon.

“How’s it hanging, bae? Let’s chill at noon!”

“I’m good, but thanks for asking. And, hey! You ‘hot!

Wouldja come over to land at my spot?”

So drop-dead gorgeous did she seem to him first!

Such a lit Moon was she that he quenched all his thirst.

Not only was gentle the Sun but also damn sweet.

There you go! A day and night meet!

Curves of the Moon would enchant with the shape;

rays of the Sun kept embracing with grace.

Both were jonesing to find ‘comfort zone

having being jeopardized by the roam.

Where was it ‘they were planning to go?

Where eye-catching great lakes shimmer and glow!

So they were! Presumably, dashing in ‘hot, steamy way? Continue reading “Off the record”

Bookworm

Yes it’s a book.

Books are where I live.

I have digs within the covers.

And plenty of words to feed on.

 

Books are to be happy in.

To be moved by.

Even when I leave a book.

I still dwell in what I’ve read.

 

A man can never

have enough books.

Otherwise, he’ll think

he has everything already.

 

 

By John Grey

 

The complex

A series of negative thoughts she hangs onto. One is let go of and replaced by another: people cluttered self-esteem; a christian chain expecting admiration; a diabolical need linked to the outside world intrinsically operating with the inner day of a cockroach nation.

The roach in one crevice creating the next and the next; they cannot be neutralized; it is the same thought pattern masked.

A high pitch bile oozes in and out of her ears starting to build and live under her skin while cleaning excrement the complex is weaving. Be it a worry, an errand, or an itch. It is a calcified reminder prevailing; a leaf that drops to remind her they are only a vessel simulating the psychosomatic energy trapped in the unit.

Status quo’s and tables repeating beliefs through the archives casting back meetings with others that always seem to involve explanation. Everywhere she goes there is some type of unwelcome ootheca within.

As she moves to the motion of fall, she lets loose commemorating the progress she has made without a fly swat or dalliance to subdue the wasp.

There is a constellation shifting, working out the source, syncopating, tracking tissue, compelling the cyst to also manifest in another and another. For when the cockroaches continue to crawl on the invisible line, we call hers, his and mine it breeds; cycling like a wheel turning in direct reproach of ages involved in opposition…I am right and you are wrong.

Perfection only subsists within the aria.

Where there is one there are thousands more.

I feel the roach around the corner now, I sense it.

A crunch and ooze. This is where they come to die.

 

 

By Adrian Voss

 

Numbers

In the hospital Critical Care Unit my drugged grandmother

lay repeating these facts:

her name, maiden & married,

her husband’s, deceased,

& the various addresses where they both

once lived. Not only that,

but bank,, social security & telephone digits.

Not only that, but safe codes

& dates of anniversaries, of births.

 

Oh operator, plug in:

memory’s intravenous is running around circuits,

this shorting out overload.

 

Sorting through calendars, road routes,

the debits & credits of doors, an assemblage

changing with income, habits, years —–

Is there some great rank & file

to which we belong?

Where is the document, the hall of records,

a sort of mantra, that corner & street? Continue reading “Numbers”

Never alone

The shadows behind her wall

hold darkness for her disguise.

She enters the addictive shadows

and closes her beautiful eyes.

 

I alone am standing there

quietly behind her wall.

She stumbles in the darkness

my heart flutters and breaks her fall.

 

In timeless hope, she’s’ been there

her loneliness is hard to take.

She wants someone to be with her

to softly ease the ache.

 

Her wall allows her peace and quiet.

Her wall is her best friend.

She stays behind it looking out

allowing no one to get in.

 

She built the wall for her alone.

Her mind protects its space.

She allows no one with her there.

It is her private place. Continue reading “Never alone”

A happy-go-lucky suburbanite

The place where ‘genius is likely to be born is a suburban area,

 not choc-a-bloc a place; In case you’re getting ducky,

there’s no denying that suburbia will do. It will be ace!

At first, you feel like bailing on small town, yet, just take it easy;

She’ll be right! There’s no reason not to see you there, mate.

Alright. Is there a chance you could arrive this arvo?

To put it other way, would be fantastic if you did go bush

with your beloved or cobber, especially if you are devo

or simply want to contemplate about ‘sense of life

somewhere far from bustle of big city life. Yay!

It’s heaps good way to make a getaway! Besides,

 it’s needless to dress up. Put on your darks and flannie,

however, grab a coldie along with sanga roll,

and fight a lion’s hunger after knocking off. Stroll! Continue reading “A happy-go-lucky suburbanite”