We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
Please sign up
or login to post a critique.
The Man who walked backwardsFor thirty years, Praveen had only walked backwards.Through the city, he spent every day pacing the streets making scribbles in his notepads. He didn’t pay attention to the confused expressions of passers-by anymore.He didn’t care for the comments, the questions or even the accusations of madness. He heard all their theories to why and even their concerns to his ability to walk forwards.He continued to walk on, backwards.Sometimes people would join in and walk backwards alongside him. It wouldn’t take long before they’d give up, realising the art meant crossing roads and dodging lampposts. He’d glance at them pointing their smartphones at his face as they filmed him with fascination, sometimes breaking a smile to let them know he understood.Sometimes he would answer their questions. He walked away watching their confused expressions as they tried to understand his answers.He did explain to a journalist once. He told her he’d taken this vow thir
OverworkedWe set aside a time, one hour for a meeting;our search for a room hindered by our searchfor the solution.Can we set aside a dayfor creation and have a canvas we can all paint onat the same time in the same roomand order ice cream or chip-shop chipswhilst we make our master design?Then do you think we can turn our ideainto a real life innovation?Or do we continue to scavenge old buildingsfor neglected conference rooms oncebooked by occupants no longer present. Dowe panic about the problem and confirmwe are in shit before we've truly understoodthe colour, depth, and complexity of the shit?Do you think we could stick to our plans anddo what we say we will do when we do it? Wego home on time and drink gin-and-tonic ina local beer garden, enjoying the warm sun insteadof an overheated, over-exhausted office.
Machine WindWind tip-tapping againststeel pipesdesperate to attract attention, off desolate rooftops where there's no blue skiesbut the lingering pollution of yesterday's work. The wind infers longing, where they once worked, sweeping each corner in search of their presenceor past existence, a distance too farof just what happened and why now absent.Still tipping and raising the alarm, there must be someone there-a twisted gust takes one more lap of hope. no more than hope.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywoodthe movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,tilt towards the camera.She weeps.The executioner motions forward; a tall man, no guardian angel.She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glidesto prep for the grand finale.She prays.A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.Black and white replaced by orange overalls.She was found,She was judged,And Judy Monroe will be judgedUntil opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallowand her pretty head drops. She dies.When the tall man grazes her last touch,leather grasps her wrists tight.the poison plunges and she falls before them all:behold her final bow.intense silence, release and exhale. applause.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
This is IronyI count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,and stillness in the words of dead poets.We write our secrets on the inside of our lungsand hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivionwe press back, backbecause death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girlwaking you upwith coffeeon a Sunday morning,than keeping you upwith vodkaon a Saturday night
maybe god is in peoplehe closes his eyes during church when they pray.it's a tiny white place of worshipbehind a gas station in the rougher part of townhe sways his hips whenever they sing(which is the majority of the time)and he gets full of this inner light thati've never experienced--though of courseif i had experienced it, i'd have no idea.his eyes flutter back and his neck bends likehe's howling at the heavenswhile his foot steadily taps awayan energetic partner to his illuminated soul.but then it stops.a shy glance towards me and a sudden cease of spirituality makes me realize thathe is uncomfortable with me there(i was sitting hunched in the pewtrying not to look anyone in the eye).i wasn't raised on faithi've never been granted withan instruction manual on how to get iti think it'd be nice, butmy curious nature that required me to question everythingcouldn't make logic out it.when i was little, all i noticed were theodd looks and heinous whispers we'd get when we'd tell
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill
LesbianMy thoughts wandered back into my fourth grade mind frame.She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes,And a perfectly white smile that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.She was a good teacher, mmmhmmm, good to look at,And I even knew it back then,Before I knew I was a lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Ranbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of Sam, my first girlfriend.She was shorter than I was, with wavy black curls,And with hazel eyes that seemed so enchanting,And she had beautiful pale white skin, mmmhmmm, lovely girl,And I knew it then,I was a pre-teen lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Rainbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of "coming out".She came out on accident, and 'she' was me,Brave enough to accept the fact that people were noticing,But smart enough not to get myself into trouble, mmmhmmm, that's me,An
Amnesia Why labor with such diligence, in silent desperationStruggle under time's insistent paceBowed beneath the metronomic weight and pointing hands, accusing faceCatching, unsustained, at evanescent dust motes fired by winter sunLost within my tale's unlighted hollowsUnraveling behind me, skeins of memory ghost like smoke threading thin and wanAcrid in the fire's empty aftermath, bereft by dawnStir the ashes as I will, no spark now followsFingerprints and footsteps silted in, landmarks once familiar, now obscuredSo too the ridges of identity wear awaySmooth and voiceless in the echoing vaults of unrecognizant new dayWhere once resounded crashing waves of self, and continuity unyielding was assuredBut if I am denied the light of my own historyI leave behind the vigil at the grave of what I could not keepSojourner still, the unknown fairway beckons from the Lethe of sleepMy last bequest to you: a lifetime's mystery
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
Still LifeAs a child I planted a single seed where the sidewalk ends,near the place of your remains.It grew into an oak; strong and rigid.Every autumn, I would watchthe leaves as they witheraway; as if to tell me that thedarkest times are comingAnd that I should brace myselfFor your deathAgain.Winters, I spend looking outInto dusk, and admiringthe beauty of still life.Through your slumberI patiently wait forThe ferryman to carry You home, but I've yetTo feel your warmth set free.Springs, I see the branchesRekindle their light,I see the sunshineFor the first timeIn forever ago.I feel at ease.I feel at home.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.