Dark poems nominations

 
This May or the last several minutes
I believe when I set foot in a place invited by happenstance and synchronicity
met a manic writer
who wrote much better shit than my dribble.
 
I am grateful to her for  
now I had an outlet for
my diagnosis, my strong emotions - new discoveries.
 
I am grateful for meeting and making some friends.
 
I’ve lost some too.
 
I don’t know if it is my failure to read the abstract painted throughout the world and the life,
the lives contained therein, or if it is my blind lust to help others at all costs
or my FUCKING demons who whisper sweet nothings to me daily
& try to get me to give in…
 
If I knew what ever gets me to
Fuck-Up my closest of friendships to a point
of no forgiveness,
well then I could stop these behaviors and change.
 
I think it is much too late for karmic clean-up as the rotted flesh of group opinion still lingers like an ooze from an advanced wound full of yellow puss of hate.
 
I have a theory
(yeah, I got a whole book of fucking theories)
 
that if I stop to think about the pros and cons of every single decision in my mental daily interactions then perhaps
I would not lose so many friends who I love and cherish
with a fierceness.
 
Hmmm, another theory:
why my real life family participated in the physical abuse and tortures upon me – because
 
I AM A MULTIPLE FUCK-UP WAITING TO HAPPEN.
 
I have stumbled upon a realization moment
and I didn’t even have to
light a candle and meditate.
 
Wow!

the battle rages on. tracers pierce the obsidian night, quick flashes
of death eating the air. the enemy’s thunderous guns drive us mad,
and still we advance. cowardly stars slowly fade from the sky.

the luck that has shielded me is savagely torn away, as a bullet rips
flesh above my hip, burning, just as the sacred side of Christ was
desecrated by a Roman spear. another round finds me, & another; I
stumble & drop to the mud. perhaps a dozen stars, bravely, still shine.

in my daze, I sense a comrade grab me & drag me back. like a broken
marionette, I am tossed into a jeep with other wounded, driven to a
makeshift field surgical unit, to the rear of our line.

dysphoria clouds me, ghostly memories rise like Lazarus. I see the
children of my village playing in the dirt road, mimicking soldiers,
sticks for weapons. I watch my mother weeping, as I march to battle.
and there is the oak tree, where I sheltered from the Spring rain with
an auburn-haired girl, maiden of the willows, who startled me with
kisses. all the admiring stars in the sky regaled us, whispering ‘this
is love, & it is good.’ for one moment I embrace the vision of her,
whose lips I will never taste again…

barely conscious, I am on a gurney in the open air, medical personnel
probing my flesh, chasing bits of metal, evacuating blood, suturing,
under a sweating, dimming sky. abruptly they cease, their barely heard
mumbles telling me their efforts are wasted.

the final star blinks out. the black sky descends. it covers me like a
shroud, & I sleep, in absolute peace

beyond all the calendared morrows.

Good morning beautiful            
let’s get shit-faced and set this town on fire            
fill the empty wine bottles with gasoline            
and pay our respects in Molotov cocktails            
‘cause I’m tired of hiding behind graffiti’d walls            
that’ll be painted over in slate-grey boredom          
in a week’s time, like we were never there            
to mark our territory - dogs of the underground            
           
There is a sweetness in your lips            
that no wine can sate or cigarette eradicate            
despite the gang of Jehovah Witnesses now attempting          
to run our streets and save our souls with stupidity            
when we not-so-secretly worship that holy ferment            
in fingered prayers to the pagan God of cunts            
           
And we’ve never been so fragile            
than when the bottle’s run dry and a bible            
is knocking at the front door with the promise of hell            
for those that dare take a peek and lick the vellum pages          
of history like it’s the latest hallucinogenic trip          
           
In the early hours of the morning            
after the fires have been lit and stoked in devotion            
we cum our praises and swear solemn oaths            
to fuck ourselves to oblivion doused in the grape-fermented            
Blood of Christ poured liberally down our throats          
staying awake long enough to watch the fire of the sun rise            
a picture of hell dawning on the day that we’ll cheers          
Molotov cocktails to, on the other side of the grattiti’d wall      
we spent our days painting with love and a “fuck you”            
           
Good morning beautiful          
You get the bottles
I’ll get the gasoline          
           
© Indie Adams 2012        
   

Madness is the bridge to cross
to enter the parallel world
stupefied by calmness of serenity
I look back and see
the molecules of nerve endings
in blue and red pulling me back
like snakes of Medusa
hypnotizing me as a cold stone
into oblivion of realm.

There I am;
a speck of light in blackest black
dancing with my broken doll
with no arm
weightless and soundless
twirling in a white nightgown
with one torn shoulder strap
whipping against the raw skin
reminding me of
the pain on the other side.

This non-existence
stagnates all thoughts
the rendering flesh of my heart
trapped in a cage of bones
brittle and fragile
soon turning to dust
blown over bridge of madness
unto the other side
illusion of pollution
diseased imagination.

In the midst of my grey cells
a ruined dwelling:

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