This Calls for an Exorcism!
I wanted to belt one of those nasty
guttural screams, like a long-dead
hollywood actress in a movie I’m too
afraid to watch. “I hate gore” I tell
people, but how poetic it must feel to be
covered in the innards of a pig. Pretty,
done-up face splattered in thick blood and
smeared in sweat, ink and bile, perfume.
I’m logical. But sometimes I’m clawing.
At my eyes, and neck. Like a possessed.
A panic, conceived and birthed in the manic of
self-loathing.
“‘I’m not a real poet’ says the poet”
Said a poet,
now says I.
On the bathroom floor, in the dark,
I shake with rage and lust
for violence. Force my nails into my palms: I need to lap up the blood, that I swear pools in the basin of my fist like tears once did in the crease on either side of my nose. I’m not wailing out of pain, but
the satisfaction of tearing
my warming skin from my frailing
bones. I have to tell my mother to
hide the scissors: my gut feels awfully pierce-able. Take the towel from my
long, strong fingers; I’m trying to suffocate myself. Every tendon in this body is trying to bend the wrong way. I’ve convinced my parents to order the
priest, hold me down and chant a
prayer. Pull the Devil out of this growing chest. Rip me open and carve me out. Unravel my intestines like a roll of film. My restless arms need the authorities to strap me to a bed and shriek in my face ‘till
I come to my senses. End me, infect
me, declare me brain-dead, I’d rather be numb than curling in my bed. I’m gasping
and grasping at the door.
I’m scared that I like it,
this spirit in my veins, it never controlled me until today. So, I heard the voices
over the phone, all I want is for Mama to listen. My eyes are screaming and trying their best “this calls for an exorcism!”
Roaring (Screaming) 20s
It is the Roaring (Screaming) 20s.
Everyone is in their own world
we all think we deserve one.
We are all at war, we are rotting,
twisted,
mentally ill.
We all hate,
worship,
envy one another.
I am grinning on the sidelines,
like a Goddess
above them all!
Can't decipher,
who is playing the game?
who is manipulating the referee?
I am busy admiring myself
watching my shapely reflection on this mirrored ceiling
as I float through the water.
Gaining self awareness at ten
watching grown men have revelations
I had at eleven.
Tell me my generation is all narcissistic teens
I’d love to hear it,
happy to be a part of it!
Happy to watch us be blamed
for destroying a planet we were labored into
a mere minute ago (we are infants in this timeline)
Happy to be called lazy,
spoiled,
incomparable to the God-like generations before us.
We are going to raise children
who watch the world collapse
on (Apple) VR headsets.
Irony tastes like my grandmother's cooking
when she tells me
my Peers will be the downfall!
When she drove Volkswagens
smoked a pack a day
showered for an hour every time
She and I both think its laughable
how we fight the people
we are inevitably intertwined with.
Going down together
blaming the people
we pull with us (Our elders are the weighted leeches on our ankles)
I am no god
no savior.
Just laughing at our silly flailing arms trying to resist gravity.
Oh well, I suppose we are in too deep
I suggest we keep kicking
our bodies will surface eventually.
The aliens can find our fucked up palaces.
Character
How can we lead a proper life?
Without swimming we can’t dive.
Even that, character is the light.
It drives out human blight.
Character shows the conception of conduct.
It becomes pronoun if we plod.
It is not prospective thing-
But it is the part of human beings.
Character must be Serviceable
Without it, anybody can be imbecile.
It is human's highest site.
So that, it should not be depredated.
Character is the crown of a man.
But it is very herculean.
It means the combination of some good qualities.
That is why people must acquiesce it.
29/08/2023
Nurujjaman is a student of grade 9 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
dried-up sunflowers
in front of the house next door—
last week of summer
—
early autumn dusk—
the dog turns his head towards
the honks of the geese
—
the trees at the park
beneath Jupiter & stars—
a cool, moonless night
—
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
The river is another companion
The surprising stream was with you
The mystery was carried away with the flapping sound of water
Come down from the stone navel
Weapons wear torrent clothing
Hear the heavenly call throughout the centuries.
You made me mound
You are crazy and fickle about me
But a clear beauty blossomed under the current
Let's float in the waterfall
Make love to the river.
Fill the bubble with love
Our fate is written on the gravel
You are flowing with the river
You are flying in the moisture
That made my pores are wet.
Dreams wake the beauty of the boat
Moonshing washes away sweat stains
Drowning in your flow.
IN THIS FUNERAL OF LIFE AND LIGHT WHEN WILL THE DARKNESS COME?
Some of the things I see
Haunt and torture me.
I scream for silence.
I dream of confidence,
But it is never still
And I have a fractured will.
My conscience grows numb.
When will darkness come?
I need to escape the day.
Please make it fade away.
Crows congregate to murder 'pon murder
Whilst I contemplate things that once were.
wishing they had never taken foot in my way.
Though they made me who I am today.
We all have our plagues that devour us like locusts.
Ravenously, relentlessly eating at us with great lust.
Leaving us with no other choice as to burn the fields.
Lest the plague never yields.
It's a funeral of life and light
As we bury our haunting plight.
And the dirges drum; dum dum dum.
When will the darkness come?
I so need the rest from this ill
That hacks with murderous swings upon my tattered will.
As were the shadows that linger o'er head
Not enough I must too dread.
Fear this beast for its procrastination.
We are all doomed; damned in my interpretation.
It is a matter of perception
When viewing this twisted reflection.
In my search for peace I found madness.
In my madness I found a peace in sadness.
Mourning every waking day.
Wishing it would go away.
Emitting prayers to Anubis' ear;
To the Reaper, to any that might hear.
I know now the Gods must be deaf.
My only wish remains bereft.
I ask no more and question less.
Tired of feeling defenseless.
I tried to be wholesome
Waiting for the darkness to come.
The longer one sits and thinks
The more they are devoured by the Sphinx,
Whose riddle hangs like residue
And can only be answered with 42.
I care no longer for the why.
The answer lies behind the sky.
When Ravens Cry
When mourning ravens cry
it disturbs the silent sky.
The bells of afterlife toll
Welcoming yet another soul.
When a black heart bleeds
It spreads sorrow's seeds
Sowing the fields of pain.
Loss remains relentless grain.
I loathe the sight of raven tears;
Loathe the taste that lingers for years.
Oh, how I do so despise
When a mourning raven cries.
Oh, how do I deeply mourn
That which is forever forlorn.
I can relate to Edgar Allan Poe;
'Tis such misery that I know.
When mourning ravens cry
So too does a black heart die.
From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.
My Mother
My mother is my world.
My mother is really great.
She always loves me,
She is my guide and teacher.
When I need some help
She is always with me.
She works hard day and night.
To make my future so bright
Abdullah Al Mamun is a student of grade 7 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
