In my dreams I breath underwater
I sleep and all is well
upon my waking moment I feel cold winter’s bite
despite this fiery hell
Wishful Sleep
Enough!
You said you needed a finger
That one of mine would suffice (It wasn’t enough)
I went and cut off my hand
And later bore the price (But it wasn’t enough)
You said you needed a foot
That mine was way too small (It would never be enough)
So I cut off both my feet
And later had to crawl (But it still wasn’t enough)
You said you needed a lung
That you were short of one (It wasn’t enough)
I gave you one of mine
Well, then, I was short of one (Yet, it wasn’t enough)
Before you needed anything else
I ripped my heart from my chest (Maybe that would be enough)
But you looked at me and said: ”Actually,
I’m in need of something else’
Dreams
High up in the sky in the glistening moonlight
My dreams float on clouds, comfy and right
Somewhere they won’t feel a fingertip
Somewhere I won’t have a sip
of them
It’s better they stay out of sight
So they won’t ever have to have a fight
Their soul awakens only in the night
They wander and wander but don’t find light
They cannot handle the hand of one
The fear of being ashes to the sun
They CANNOT, they WILL NOT shun
In one of the 24 hours, they gave in
It felt like a joy but it was a sin
They were hoping higher in one’s hand
Little they knew, soon, they’ll be grains of sand
Higher and Higher their hopes flew
Higher and Higher but none of them knew
The ray of the sun was striking at their heart
It shot! Bulls eye! Just like a dart.
Down and Down they fell
Still in the air, on the way to hell
One sin! Giving in! Led to a deadend
They shattered like Glass, It was the end…
Of them
The moon sent a shooting star
It was so near though it was so far
It awakened their souls In the day
To their home, they made their way
My dreams float on clouds, comfy and right
They made sure they stayed out of sight
They vowed in that very day
To never give way
of them.
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
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.
Love Hallways
Some doors are open and one can see the superficial displays,
some are closed with windows that are double glazed.
Some are clean typifying a kind of naivety,
some are less so because of perhaps too much gaiety.
One but stands out –
not spotless but quite impressive,
the door is shut but the window open –
delicious aromas escape through it,
the sound of sweet music suggests a disposition wildly innocent,
and so on this door he’ll knock.
Heath Muchena
The infertility-kit
I’m not yours, birds sing
Your hairdresser, mummy says
Your Ophelia, your Julia
And this also means that I’m
Not your cosmic admirer
After the glimpse
Of the grotesque
Laughing carcass
Turn away from it
The Bostonians
Are marching –
They are all
Calling out to me
Lowell, Sexton,
Plath, psychoanalysis
I have a child’s heart
The impressions of a child
The intelligence of a detached
Cold woman who can
Still feel the cruel blood
Of family, of mummy,
Preparation for upheaval
Chaos and disorder
Has been prescribed for me
Long ago
What is relaxation?
What is warmth?
All I know of the world
Is ego and sacrifice
Women must always be sacrificing
Nurturing and care-taking
It is impossible for them
For men to understand
Women can be poets too
And celebrate life
In the end it will either be
A case study of who was the most stimulating
Who was the most attractive?
But I was the one who was obsolete
For all my childhood years – imprisoned
And in the end I just gave up.
the poet
it was a given
that he would return
once it was over
and the funerals had been held
he stood alone,
quiet and unnoticed
watching people and chickens
scratching in the dirt
he recognised what he saw
burnt out homes
that once held families
charred machinery
bought on hire purchase
all that remained
was debt
no equity
victorious enemies
dreams no longer possible.
The laughing carcass
I’m back –
I’ve made a full recovery
From being condemned
To inferiority
They’ve said
The qualities
Of ghosts no longer
Frighten me senseless
Like needles and nurses
The taste of both that I feel
In segments
And how it hurts like fresh tulips
The fate of snow
In my gloved hands
Life has become the enemy
Standing in front
Of the mouth of an open grave
With my purse mourning
Morning and how it inflicts
Pain on my existence
Or being thrust
Into an hallucination
Dissolving into
A blank space, stiff, comatose
A carcass – an experiment
I want to be –
Surrounded by mountains again
My home, my home, my feast
Your death-ray is a distraction
There is only silence now
In this velvet garden
Of green leaves on the arms of trees
The sun, black butterflies
Is like the wheel
Simple machinery
Alien face in the mirror
You seem to be embarrassed
To be alive, of having wasted
Your life away in hospitals
Gorgeous swimmer – project yourself.
A young woman’s thoughts in the silence of her bedroom
Rain has given quite a performance today.
Leaves the property of trees drowned – the phoenix
Found the exit out. Winter’s gospel, the school
Teacher who shouted at me became an offering
To a museum. Cracked my pomegranate-skull.
These are the memories of my youth – bleeding,
A life drawing of The Great Depression of the year 2014
I found loyalty in intelligent people, Rilke, Hemingway.
My fingers melt across the wilted pages of books.
They are uninterrupted. I am uninterrupted in this.
This damaged inner silence, this filtered cycle of illness
That has not yet found the exit out. There is planting,
Planning, fingers clenching and unclenching a poem.
Hands tightening, there are no more poems for mummy
Like Noah’s ark, they are autumn, going off to wars
In Africa, I have my own fears to whom it may concern.
But the human voices that I hear bring me tulips.
I have eyes. I march like a tiger. Sunlight like a swan.
All I see is red. A red dawn. A red world. A red sickness.
They are waiting for me in the waiting room. Lucky me.
I feel like a bomb ready to go off, unseen, crazy coming on.
Chains charm me, omens and relics. A knowledge of
Turning, twisting that key in the ignition, sabotaging
Myself in secret and quiet ways, finding sanctuary, hope.
Where do I live? It is dark, rotting driftwood, gravity is rough.
All can be found there concentrated. These surroundings
Have become my country, this hospital too. But people
Will grow in this silence, in this arena to compensate
For the fact that leaves will fall and flowers will die.
They speak to me as if I am from outer space, an alien.
What to do about all of this nonsense, silliness, and gobbledegook?
I have two-heads now, feel vacant. Family-life does
Not and will never suit me. Splinters. Tell me am I the lotus flower?
I grow in mud. Roots knotted in mud. Dendrites
Made of lightning and thunder. Nerves like uncommon butterflies.
Surfing. Triumphal. Serotonin like smoke.
