EX LOCUM » poem

Bellum

Yvan Maslennikov — Sat, 20 Feb 2016 19:12:08 +0000

decorated in Putrefaction –
the Soldiers surround –
sacrificial flames.

the Green Inferno besieges them.
wearing its Burial Garb –
Adorned – with blinking –
mechanized fireflies –

Steel beetles –
Hurtle through the air –
colliding – with the gossamer screens
of his cornea,
Biting – Forcing –
apart the eggshells of his pupil,
revealing
the Horrors –
that He had Hatched,

Hitting – missing,
bullets hissing,
Blood Pissing –
From the Stigmas on His body.

Napalm cruises
Through – curves,
grooves of the – Lincoln tunnels
in his body –
Influxing – onto the
woven canvas of his jacket,

Drop by drop –
sprinting away – from His
Legions of Lesions –
down his holy Hands and past
the Trigger of his –
“Commie Cleanser”

Droplets of Liquified Zippos –
burn through the Jungle –
Parka,
Descending and falling,
burning the dirt –
boring – Itself into
the crust of the earth –

scorching –
Cauterizing – the arteries of the World –
Free falling – past the Bloodied Mantle –
one that No Man could bear to wear.
accelerating for the Impact –
with the Merovingian molecules,
at the Globes Epicenter.

Initiating The Autosarcophagy.

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Siesta

Yvan Maslennikov — Wed, 13 Jan 2016 16:27:23 +0000

like sleeping hounds –
the Lead Plating of my eyelids
seems to adjust itself for –
The Long Nap.

vials of hazelnut –
leaking – trickling – silently
Stomping
through hairline fractures of my skull

my cheekbones
Fracturing
under the mass of eighteen Supernovas

Their acidic focal Spears –
dripping; lukewarm Needles into the
Screaming –
creases
of my Meditating body and now –
Trampled shut
eyes.

2015

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Expansion

Yvan Maslennikov — Thu, 17 Dec 2015 00:51:10 +0000

Phantom Steel –

against my Skin,

Eagle edge – electrified

by Nerves –

pumped from the Nucleus in –

my Bosom

gore into my Effigy –

Infiltrate –

My sanguineous Sanctum of composure –

Lacerate my chassis –

of this Current life

Disassemble it – Deconstruct –

Detonate the Mine

within the Minds –

and Infect the Cosmos with the

plasma, and the sierra

Presence that is –

I.

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“Home”

Clare Maceda — Sat, 14 Nov 2015 21:00:07 +0000

As children we depend on things, toys, games, stuffed animals.
Begging for the newest game, the newest toy, the newest this, the newest that.
Throwing fits when our wish isn’t met.
Take candy from a baby and hear it roar.
So imagine taking away a child’s house, it’s home, it’s everything.
Lumping it in with beggars on the street, previously ignored.
People that child has walked past for years hoping they wouldn’t follow or berate them.
Lost without the safety of the room they grew up in,
Lost without the neighborhood they knew so well,
Lost without the comfort of a house.
Four walls and a roof defining their everything.
Defining how many friends they had, if they could have sleepovers, if they met the standard.
And yet without such definition,
Having to attend school and pretend they were just like others. Feeling as if their soul was ripped out with the uprooting of a stationary lifestyle.
Nomadic, horrified, ashamed.
Coming back as late as possible and leaving just as early in order to be in their excuse of a home for as little time as possible.
Wondering why they couldn’t have a bed, heat, pocket money.
Why was this happening to them. Why now? Why me? Why this?
Blaming anyone and everyone; teachers, parents, God.
Having to ignore the comments on their weight because they didn’t want to have to explain they couldn’t afford the food needed to “put meat on their bones.”
Trying not to hate people that didn’t check their privilege.
We think of the homeless as bag ladies, madmen frothing at the mouth, but it’s more than that.
It’s your teacher, your friend, your peer, your enemy.
It’s hiding behind the identity of a middle class citizen they had seen on TV.
Praying that they won’t become a pariah.
Hoping they won’t become an outcast; doing anything and everything to blend into the walls of a memory.
But what doesn’t kill you doesn’t just make you stronger it makes you smarter.
Makes you realize how frivolous “things” can be.
Exposed to the elements; cramped in a car you realize that you can do it.
You can live without your iron bed frame. You can live without your closet or your dresser.
You don’t need a kitchen with an island or an espresso machine to be happy.
I found that you need support.
And in times of such dependence we think that “things” provide support.
But it’s your friends, your family, your self assurance that give you the power to be independent.
The weight that is lifted off your chest when someone says you can stay with them if anything happens, that you can turn to them, that you aren’t alone is incomparable to the false sense of security you find in a three floor townhouse in Park Slope.
You cannot depend on your next paycheck, your next interview, your tomorrow.
You can only rely on now.
Find security in the dedication of your blood, in the voice of someone close to you, of the beat of your heart.
Find your home, homeless.
A house don’t determine your value. You do.

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Salvatrice, the Iconoclast

Angelika Alberstadt — Mon, 09 Nov 2015 17:07:08 +0000

Lovely mute loose from her bruiser brute

Like a young child who cannot recite her address,

I sip slow poison

Across the rathskeller,

Incorporeal paws claw at the bodice of my dress,

The charnel house of our cherished hours

The band’s subway train has been delayed;

(A man left an empty water bottle on the seat before dragging his feet home.

We hope it’s not a bomb) silence waltzes through the room

In a banquette, I see the bend in your knee and in your nose

A gargoyle waiting for the right time of night to strike

When other swing-dancing couples have festooned themselves half-drunken and merry

across city streets

Then we are like two stray animals in a cardboard box

The last drops of painted pill alcohol stretch themselves down my throat, accomplices of your

ploy

Upon their breach of my brain, you reach for my wrist

We depart, myself on tottering tiptoe, you- identifiable thief of carnelian in the white night

Reluctant palms pushed up against the apartment’s peeling paint

Carnivorous breaths howling down my neck

And afterwards, always the same silicone apology

If only I hadn’t lost God between cracks of a wall

(A snake slipping- slithering through my fingers)

I would wash away pieces of you from my sheets

Whenever I put them through the laundry

I would-

Jamthewordsbackintoyourcoinslotmouthlikeoldbrokengamesatthearcade

Or make you drive for hours to reclaim your sentences!

but instead I find myself, the romantic amnesiac

climbing out of the silent rainforest.

coming home to the soft moss of your skin.

to breathe crisp morning back into your lungs.

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the samurai’s daughter

Emile Ravenet — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 22:39:12 +0000

tokugawa took every last grain of you.

on an empty stomach i awake to the smell of a new day

slipping out the house,
i walk the island,
down the red shore’s curves.

crowded among the morning merchants,
you and i are both artisans deep down i bet.

the cold air pinches me so i know i’m not dreaming.
the walk turns into a run.
i can’t wait.

crescents tug under my eyes begging to be given back to their father, the moon.

the dragon wind whispers my ears numb. i don’t listen.

daily chores cast aside for the chance
to catch a glimpse

of the samurai’s daughter

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