It’s Time for your Operation                         


Now, which ache, pain, or disorder led to Peter and Pat being at the hospital checking in for Pat’s major surgery, doesn’t matter at all. All that matters, is that her day had come at last. So now they sat, in a bare beige box of a waiting room. Peter sat idly thumbing through magazines. Pat nervously studied the otherwise empty bland, silent, room.
After some minutes, Peter said, I need to use the men’s room. You okay here alone?
Yes, sure.

So, Peter left Pat alone. As she idly picked up something to read, a man entered, and took a seat across. Pat glanced up from the page. Oh—blank face he has—tiny eyes. He is looking away. He is quiet; good. So. And, at last, an interesting article to read—thank God.
But—
Miss. Miss.  
The man. Look up.
Yes? 

The man said quietly, Are you here for surgery today?
Yes, I am. Why?
Are you nervous at all—about your surgery today? 
A bit, I suppose.
I bet you don’t know the real reason you’re here. 
Squint, but—what’s this—
Ma’am. I’m really sorry for this, but—you got to know. They told you you need this. But that’s a lie.
His eyes—what—
You’re not sick like they told you. No—you’re not.

His eyes—somehow—turned different, now.
—where the hell’s Peter—
Leaning slightly toward her, the man went on, saying, Have you really pictured what’s going to happen after they take you back there? You’re about to go back there to be slowly and methodically wounded. Really badly wounded—you know? Then, after today, it might take months or years for you to recover—if ever. It’s all an experiment, you know. They say you need this, that it’s to help you—but that’s a lie.  You don’t need to be here, Ma’am.  

She stared—motionless, afraid—don’t move—Peter, come back, Peter—her hands clenched hard as if holding on for life above a great drop.
Heh, he said, shifting in his chair—heh. Heh. They call it—an “operation”. Heh. Not hardly strong enough of a word for what they plan to do to you. They’ll use this blade, that blade, this drill, those saws, each tool designed to inflict a very particular type of injury. Heh. Heh.
Peter. Where’s Peter—

You’ll be knocked out lying there, with them shouting over you things like, scalpel! Forceps! Yes, heh! You won’t know, but they’ll be yelling scalpel forceps sponge sponge forceps scalpel hollering, and cutting. Cutting, and hollering—

—no—no—let go—let him go on. Breathe, calm—Peter’ll be back—this is just—nothing. Don’t look at him. Don’t look. Like—yes like you did way back driving to work in that stopped dead traffic by that red light waiting by that scary big teenage preacher, always there on that same curb you passed every day; scary, in his black suit and wide tie, holding his big black bible-book parted open, bellowing the word of God at the top of his lungs, staring at you, staring—always there every day—even in that blinding hard downpour that day—just don’t look over—these’re all just crazy. Just harmless. Just—don’t look. Just don’t look at th’ miserable drenching downpour soaking him to his skin, sluicing ice-cold to the gutter, or his book, or his yelling down, out, ’n away—no! It’s just sad. It’s just miserable. These kind are just miserable. Feel sorry. Just feel sorry. 

These can’t be saying the true words of God; no, these just shout loud-n’-long, all nonsense, all deluded, all ignored—‘n every time over’s just thank God, ah, the green light. Green at last—but where’s Peter—

The man went on speaking into the side of her face, saying—and when its all over, they’ll roll you into what they’ll call a recovery room. They’ll bring you around. You’ll think it’s nearly over. But the real torment’s just begun. They’ll surround you laughing loud down in your face as you waken to a world of pain—pain so horrible, that you’ll immediately regret having let them do this to you. You’ll hurt so much, you ‘ll wish yourself dead; maybe even wish you’d never been born. How fun! How fun! Then—and get this—for the next few days, they’ll toy with you. When your pain is most terrible, they will sedate you, and—and all will sink to gone, but, heh, you’ll slowly come around again, rising into torment, then, sedation, again—down, then up, back into torment—cranked tighter, harder, worse and worse every time—until they tire of you. They’ll cut you loose and send you home. 

But—ha! Ha! Your old life will be gone. Your new life will be—pain. So much pain, that you’ll cry inside, Why did I do this to myself? What was the reason? Was there ever any reason at all? You’ll struggle for hope. And sure, in time, things will calm a bit. But the pain will nag you. So you’ll go back. For more scans, examinations, tests—then they’ll tell you, hey, listen, Just one more small procedure will cure you. Oh yes, yes, don’t worry. It’ll be very small. Another minor operation’s definitely required, but—it’ll pay off. You’ll be totally well again. In your desperation, you’ll have no choice but to agree; bad memories slather’d o’er in the turned back to time, so, back here again! He. Hee. Te’heeeeeee! Yah, back here, for their pleasure, again—and again and again and again, as many times as they see fit! Because, you know—because your world’s not your world anymore, it is theirs! 

So now—tell me. Do you still feel good sitting here waiting for them today? Hey, listen. Enjoy these last moments you’ve left in your old world, because they’re about to blast it away after they take you back through that door—there’s a reason we’re the only species who cut each other apart for fun, and put each other back together again! There’s a reason and you—you are part of the very sick reason ah ah sick yes very sick sick sick sick reason—

Blam! 
Blam? 
Whut?

Hup, flinch, and duck! A blast of red engulfs the world, earsplittingly loud; the horrible crazy yelling man disappears, gone, transformed into a hot red boiling mist expanding out,  dissipating away from what’s left, which collapses, tangled, torn, red-soaked and sodden, onto the floor, a steaming bag of rags, and there, stands—the drenched crazed boy preacher, shotgun lowered, muzzle smoking, face pushed in your car window—why the hell’d y’ roll down your window, in this pouring rain—You, he shouts—you passed by every day, even now where I stood freezing in the rain, suffering to bring you God’s word, yes, God’s word—to save you! To save! But; look at me, soaked and suffering; why did you not help me? Why did you not help! He reaches in, grasping, yelling, You need punishment! 

Punishment! Punishment scalpel forceps punishment sponge sponge punish forceps scalpel punish’ no! No, no—you’re yelling, No, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—dear God, let the light turn! Let the light turn—now please, dear God—
Green!
Thank God! Bu—
Blam!

A final blast of red engulfs the world, earsplittingly loud; the miserably drenched raving holy boy yelling at you disappears, gone, transformed into a red roiling mist expanding out dissipating away from what’s left, which collapses, tangled, torn, red-soaked and sodden, onto the floor, a steaming bag of rags, and there, stands—Peter, leaning, shotgun lowered, muzzle smoking, standing where all the crazies had been, but now, thank God, all’s gone.
Peter! My God, my God!

It’s all right now, Pat. Come on. It’s time to go in the back.  
Uh—thank God, but—why’re you all in white? Those gloves, that mask, the—are you really Peter? Why do you look that way? Why those clothes? Why—my God.
What?

Where did you get that gun? You don’t do guns. You’ve never done guns.
Peter waved her face into silence.

Never mind. You are safe now. The only important thing now is—your operation. Come in to the back, they’re waiting.
Hear them? They’re calling. 
It’s time for your operation.


 

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.