FLORES PARA TI

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A father and son
Sharing beauty and hope
As Aleppo she swung
From humanity’s rope
To him, hell became music
As war played its tune
What a life to endure, this
With endings too soon
They survived and they thrived
Until Dad lived to death
Now his son must decide
Upon what happens next
The bomb didn’t miss
O! The slaughter war knows!
But still, life persists
If we water…
…it grows.

Berg

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A pawn in an incomplete game uncomplicated by black static madness, their blood loss grimace once left you tongue-tied like blind serpents revelling in eternal shallow madness.

Madness’ descent might pause on this: a salvation that would appear
in a single kiss that’d had no reason to exist until this moment. And once it did, once it does, it would and will see through all this.

Through all this, and after spending too long in the half-life, you reach out to claim that which would make you whole. Geiger-counting your blessings, you undulate and beat, finding yourself pulsating and clicking like morse – no, remorseful – code on a dry ocean.

Oceans are ready to embrace and replace; for as you’d already sunk, so would you prove yourself The Unsinkable, bound and unbound for the surf-state where stars would board and disembark at once.

Once under, twice over, you would backstay after coming up for air; air being the thing that filled the glass, whether in totality or in a lesser role of topping-up the space.

Space time, or time and space, or Spime – however you label it, the glass is always full. This made it neither half-full nor half-empty. For at least evermore.

Evermore, the specifics of whyness depend upon the vantage point of the glass-looker-atter. So Look. Look at the glass. And see. And drink.

Drink the liquid water and crunch the solid; the glass is still full.

You are still full.
You are the air.
Breathe yourself in.

 

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CREEP

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Creep,

You continue stalking? I will name and shame you. I have social media at my fingertips and I ain’t afraid to use it. BACK THE FUCK DOWN.

Linda.

He Could Be Mine

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The boy, he sits – I notice how he’s grey
My kids are being difficult again
He’s dry, all caked in wall from war’s new way
My kids are yelling, fighting in their den

They pulled him from the rubble here to sit
My children make this noise I cannot stand
A living ghost across the world transmits
My children keep on getting out of hand

He’s there because of them, because of us
My babies all say sorry, make amends
He lifts his hand to wipe away the pus
My babies need to stay this way – be friends.

The grey boy sits his life down on a chair
I look at him and see my own sat there.

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1,2,3

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I started to write a story
That story was all about me
But somebody said
First person was dead
And I should write it in second, you see.
So you must try again and pick up the pen
To make sure that your best voice is heard
But you can’t pay attention
To the second’s intention
So the girl writes a story in third.

 

GAMES

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I wanted to take some photographs
Of sports and stuff
Like swimming ‘n’ all
And that thing they do with the girls and the balls
And the stuff that defies all known physics
So I took a whole bunch of Olym Pics.

Tongue

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Now let me win you over with my tongue;
Sensations too persistent to ignore;
Emotions that are hitherto unsung
Perhaps I’ll make you drop to bed, to floor.
And let me make you beg and salivate;
My tongue shall fuck your being to the core;
So eager to explore and lubricate;
As I enable beauty, ripped and raw.
Then let me finish off by my own hand;
Designing and refining love’s ascent
Ascending to a place that should be banned;
All happening with passion and consent.

My tongue, of course, refers to words I spoke;
My hand to this: the poetry I wrote.

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