your coffee has been standing
for so long it has gone cold.
you’re busy trying to explain
why it is better this way.
but all i hear is the sound of your voice
how this will be the last time.
we had to sit outside because you needed to smoke.
as if anyone needs to smoke.
the sweet wrappers you twisted in your fingers
while you talked fly off the table. that image
will stay with me.
and you say its okay, that its been a long time coming.
you’ve left already. Paid for your coffee
because you do not want to owe me anything.
and finally i understood;
my heart did not break loud enough for you.
the pieces did not shatter and cut into you.
but it is in pieces none the less.
clarity
On a bad day
I step out into the world.
the glass on my shades cracks and shatters.
I do not believe what I’m seeing.
this can’t be real nor can it be a figment of my imagination.
These stories i hear are uttered in a foreign language which no one knows the translation.
The earth beneath my sole is battered and bruised.
the ones who walk above it are heavy handed and flat footed.
This is a sight for sore eyes.
mother nature has been crying all night.
Her children are all dying.
her existence is just a pity and a shame.
Blood flows down every river stream.
hence I conclude we are all separated by blood.
In a time of great danger we cannot even distinguish between sign language and hand gestures.
We cry for those who cannot be with us today.
but they lay down chilled in an iced out fridge.
We hide our deceased in dark dirt pits.
they get to heaven and they see the light.
Why
Why does it feel like the same people
Who Brake my Heart are the Same people
Who are there to pick up the Pieces?
Funny it May Seem its true
Why Am I always The Nice Guy?
Why am I always the superhero that Never Gets The Girl?
Why Do I feel heart Broken?
Yet I knew We Could Never Be?
Why Have I stopped caring?
Why did I have to fall for her?
Why Do I ask My self questions I Know no answers to?
Reality is Questions unanswered are questions not asked
I loved her and still I Ask My self
WHY, WHY, WHY
The Tormented Mistress
His eyes pierce through her flesh
Scraping around the edges of her heart
Slowly amputating her compassion
His voice travels down her spine
Prodding against her backbone
Slowly destructing her courage
His touch commences perspiration
Draining all signs of vacillation
Slowly extracting her shrewdness
His kisses drive her to ecstasy
Rushing blood through her veins
Slowly agitating her composure
His embrace ensures, to her, security
Guarding her from trepidation
Slowly confining her independence
His heart shows no compassion
Neither courage, nor wisdom
His state of mind, disturbed
Captivated by his own desires
It may not be hers
Both subsequently perplexed
For it is time to depart
She stays behind while he heads home
Home to his significant other
-By SI.Barron
love so strong and true
I miss him
I miss more everyday
I love him
I am sure he knows that through anyway
My love for him is very strong
Yet his love for me is undecided
Though he is now gone
I hope to find him and be loved
How long will it take?
How long would he take?
I wish he would come back to me
The here and now
Beholds his coming
Miles away,farway now
Where is the love of my life
vicarious living
You. Are. Killing. Me.
she yelled.
she threw the mail in my face
thick hard envelopes
flew into my face like
a quick gust of wind
quick and harsh.
she said i was doing myself in.
that i was killing her.
my life was starting to have meaning
and she woke up
woke up and did not know who she had been
all these years.
she threw at me all the letters she meant to
but did not send.
about how her everything had collected
into an inconsiderable amount of nothing.
how she had to stay in one place
so i could have somewhere for my letters to collect.
but all i managed when i
picked up the mail she threw at
my face when she yelled
that my hands
were tight around her neck;
were bills and paper cuts.
skin
You wear her on your skin.
Her darkness overshadows your light.
People recognize you as a pair,
And you cannot bear to tell them that she broke your heart, but
your neighbours know.
When you come home with a grocery bag – no groceries; you’ll cry
and curse her angelic name.
You hate the music only
because she taught you how to love dancing.
You wear her on your skin.
You’re unintentionally content with this being,
You live in quiet chaos.
Where’s the oeuvre of a female Chinua Achebe (a series of haiku)
Haiku for Jean Rhys (suffered from alcoholism and manic depression)
The photograph in-the-red-box.
Like the juices of the succulent-roast –
The-death-kit it keeps me sane.
Haiku for Susan Sontag (died from breast cancer)
Fragmentary in-my-world-reality.
Here comes the blue nurses’ sleepwalking-again-writing-on-my-body
Ice-cometh with their death-kit needles-galore.
Haiku for Sharon Olds (suffers from and still lives with estrangement and divorce)
I like your death-kit-beauty that-pours-out-of-you.
Your territory so-pure-like-childhood – I-surrender-to-it –
Like Alice-in-wonderland, star maps, our-wedding-cake.
Haiku for Anna Kavan (heroin addict, died from heart failure)
In her volcano-garden there was-death-kit’s-silence –
Hellish ice-revisited. Human-stupidity. Heroin was-the-mistake.
Your weapons-against-the-tigers was writing-it-brilliantly off.
Haiku for Ann Quin (died from a suicide attempt)
The-portrait-of-the-sea- came with mansions –
Brighton’s waves shielded all this-drowning-visitor’s-barefoot-experiments.
At-the-borderline bloodless-flesh staying at-the-death-kit-hotel-forever.
LIFE
Behind thick university walls they taught me nonsense
The totalitarian despot scribbled on the choke board
Trying to create an economic and political slave
Empty of self-uplifting notions and far from being brave
A slave that never gets enough bread
The navel-gazing despot spoke through the demagogue
Feeding his self –centered heart with the evil-curriculum
An instrument of slavery and torture
He muzzled and goggled my fellows like an ox
So that they will never think outside the box
Being the victim of the same apparatus
The teacher worked like a zombie
Gauntly wasted and robbed of his true self
Decorating the manipulator’s shelf
With more gold and riches
Creating more vicious cycles of poverty
Africa’s poverty is created by their hideous designs
Yet they have cleverly deceived many into believing that it is natural
Now my fellows wallow and worm in this quagmire
Having shrunken skulls and poverty-turgid heads
All these diseases are part of their creation
There are no values, skills, and confidence
But poverty’s feast
Where is confidence when poverty ravenously devours it into shame?
They shout OBE, justice, democracy, non-racism, and human rights
Yet these words have already been emptied of their very meaning and purpose
They are just dry husks of locusts blown by the wind, carrying no life
Ann Quin
Water has become
like my own alcohol
While I bask
In dreams of writing fiction
Hallucinatory illness
psychosis, threads
Always communicating
with each other
As if I am not there
only eavesdropping
On the conversation
Don’t talk to me
About tortured souls
or the ones who never
made it, were transformed by it
Lived through it, survived it
The atlas of their brains
and limbs asylum pieces
every one possessed
with a hard substance
Animal awakened by ritual,
Don’t talk to me
about the loneliness
or the Brighton people
As if it is supposed to mean
Everything to me like scar tissue
What terrible dreams I have
Of the ghost house, of insomnia
Of my childhood continued
Animals are dream catchers
The pigs are lurking there
Behind the looking glass
Their horrifying yet vital
dream-language must still
Be translated by inhuman me
By my incoherent brain.
