poems by Matt Finney
the sound of my heart in these claustrophobic spaces or a dark wind blowing. my hands without anything to offer and these words are distortions. lungs full of ashes and who i dream about is mcveigh. all of this gore in the name of freedom. the violent ease of one century moving into another.
the war torn towns and abandoned cars. all of the miles that were driven in silence. our small addictions and dying religions and i can’t make the clocks move forward. every action is driven by greed or fear. the blankets hold infection. the machine’s stomach is bleeding out. this is the end result of history.
these landscapes on fire or without oxygen. and we expect more. drug money and the illusion of christ. this pain has no depth and i trace a gun up your legs to your thighs. ready for the birth of something worse than myself.
you’re here or somewhere else. these dark houses and the way the clocks run backwards. how long it’s been since you were immortal. your face pressed hard into the ass of a god you never believed in. the windows break but not the fever. any faith in the future is steadily diminishing.
believing or burning. i’m small and frightened in a crippled america. the smell of car exhaust and disease. children are skinned and placed in front of the sun. my wallet is pumping blood. everything gets distorted under progression.
Weather by Lajwanti S. Khemlani
It’s close to freezing outside
No different to the inside
There are those who love it
And others who hate it.
I am one who has no care.
Because the weather is nothing if not transitory –
Like life –
Like a candle in the wind –
Which glows brightly
No matter in which room of my house you light it.
The difference in my house is not like my heart,
It’s warm all over.
Like my mama’s love.
But it could not keep her body warm
Which froze all over
Like the blowing off of the candle
In the middle of the daylight
No different to the weather.
What does it matter if it is freezing outside?
When I am frozen on the inside.