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Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Poetry About Bipolar Disorder By Carl Wade Thompson

Carl Wade Thompson is a graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University.


Distortion

Mania—an avalanche,
it comes—I can’t resist,
as emotions rise so far,
over my head, I drown.
I am high now, happy.
No, not happy—more.
I think the world’s great;
I love everyone.
But it is not real;
Feelings so fake,
cutouts that fall over
with the push of reality.
I cannot trust them.
They are lies, poison,
distortions in my brain.
Now I know it’s not real.
Just a mirage I chase,
finding no water, only sand,
reality stretches—the  Sahara.
I dare not cross at day.
Wait until night, sleep.
Tranquilizers work their magic.
Drift off, the feelings empty
Like spilled salt from a shaker.
No bad luck—this is good.
Let me dream on,
at least I know it’s fake.


Smile
Depression is a disease,
symptoms I can’t escape.
So numb, there is no feeling,
hope, the word, makes no sense.
Every day is the same,
wake up tired, feel alone.
A zombie, keep walking on.
My Dad says: smile,
you’ll feel better that way.
He don’t believe in psychology.
Thinks it’s a quack science,
made up, make believe.
His words cut—a thousand razors,
feel so bad—I start to cry.
If Dad can’t see it,
something plain as the light of day.
There is no hope I’ll get help,
just sleep my life away.


Bipolar Tide

My mind moves like the ocean,
coming and going with the moon.
The tide rolls in—mania,
I am at the top of the world.
There’s nothing I can do,
mental waves crashing down.
Vision distorted by emotion,
can’t trust my brain anyhow.
The tide rolls out-depression,
I am the lowest of the lows.
Numb beyond numbness,
can’t feel anything anymore.
Meds help with balance,
keeps the tide at bay.
But the tide will come again,
constant cycle of the Wheel.


A Day in the Life of Mania

The day starts with pills,
always stick to the routine.
I need to walk my path,
try to keep mania away.
I don’t go low that much,
the bad days are long gone.
But sometimes I get higher,
feel like I’m one with all.
My job keeps me grounded,
love what I do.
Just critique those papers,
lose myself in their words.
Writing tutoring;  I love it!
Don’t what else I’d do.
But sometimes I get manic,
like I can do everything.
Then I love everyone,
just want to take their hurt away.
That’s when I get frightened,
need to calm down quick.
Don’t want to go off my path,
let delusions lead me astray.
Just keep calm, check myself,
try to touch reality.
I try to think clearly,
let logic rule my way.
I am not extraordinary,
got to keep those thoughts at bay.
I calm down as I think.
My mind stays in control.
Mania’s like high tide,
soon it passes like the moon.
Every day I check myself,
Just make sure I’m sane.
Just follow my routine.
till the end of the day.


Thursday, November 24, 2016

Zombie Art By Jack, Age Six

In addition to co-editing Outsider Poetry with Olivia Suchs, I am the editor/publisher at Zombie Logic Review and Zombie Logic Press. Last week my guy Jack gave me this zombie painting he made and told me to take it Downtown to my office because he noticed I didn't have one of his paintings on my wall. He also instructed me to share it with the Zombie Logic Press fan page. Earlier this year he made a pop-up book from scratch, and the dang thing worked! Jack is six. 


Thursday, November 3, 2016

November Poetry By Michael Marrotti

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon.

'Pittsburgh State Of Mind'

The parents in 
Pittsburgh
must've bypassed
the lesson

Where they sit down
with their children 
and teach them 
to mind 
their own business

Now I'm fueled
by contempt
the clenching
of fists

Jew lawyers 
and bail bonds 
will be the result
of this momentary
lapse of better
judgment

I'm not asking
for much 
besides a mutual
respect

We all do 
our own thing
who am I 
to voice out 
against it 
I keep to myself

I envy the New York 
state of mind
in this busybody town 
people are carrying on 
like they haven't been
brutally attacked
or introduced to scorn

One beating away 
from enlightenment
revolution through
the power of pain

Poet Michael Marrotti


'Pleading Guilty'

I've chosen to be 
brutally honest
in the digital realm
of mediocrity

I haven't bitten
my tongue once 
therefore 
I've never tasted
my own blood

All the punches
I've thrown
were never pulled
always hitting
their mark with 
force and precision

A few publications
ending in WordPress
ran by the same 
editor who claims
to be prolific
has forbidden me
from submitting
over a petty
little argument
standing my ground
like a statue
I'd be offended
if I admired his 
writing

CHEERS!

I may not be 
the most amiable
writer available
but I've never 
pretended to be 
something I am not
if candor is a crime
I'm pleading guilty
to the charge


'Second Hand Society'

The insults continue
to arrive in the mail
telling me who much
I've used this month
when my supply
is dwindling

Occasionally
I'm conclusive
sustain my 
mental health or 
posses the ability
to flush the toilet

When there's no 
compensation 
for inflation
I may have to take 
the next narcotic shit
out in the woods

This is me 
being responsible
ripping ticks off 
my asshole
aggravated assaults 
and time wasted in 
Allegheny county jail
become a reality
once the bottle
is barren

It's a second hand society
when our basic necessities
are on the incline 
everything keeps going up 
my high remains stagnant

Friday, October 28, 2016

Poetry By Adam Iannucci McClelland

Poetry by Adam Iannucci McClelland

August

A small fire in a brick ring.
Paella pan, saffron, rice, mussels, quail.
Moonlight sags from the rooftops.
Fat oaks, rose briars, iron gate.
Dogs prowl corners of the lawn.
My eyes red from smoke 
watch a woman brush 
brunette hair behind one ear.
Night and memory are inevitable.
Like names on headstones, 
like nightfall left withering
at the crimped edges of the fire.



A Toast

                                  ~ for J. M.


This cold front knew you
years ago. Already on your
father’s breath, the license plate
of the truck you would buy years after him
memorized
as if a son’s eyes were not enough.
How funny to be recognized.
And here in this place
with a bride and a truck.

A tarp and straps to hold down
dreams you kept from dust.

It isn’t unexpected.
          Your fathers timbre voice 
falls to your ears - 
never if, but when.



Filamentation on Mulberry

I.
The pigeons braiding above the cemetery
are gray headstones,
the men black beaks
heap furniture in a pile
behind a trash truck
– someone has died.

A wooden leg snaps
like knuckles when it hits the street,
the duct tape a string grid.

A block North on E. Houston
mango neons spell CIVILIANAIRE
– always waiting to burn out.

I am a block North of their endurance,
bound by an apartment
of an old man who – for 14.00 
an hour – I sit with to make sure he is OK

listening to the same stories on Wednesday
I heard on Tuesday, but happened
fifty years before tomorrow will.


II.

They have placed  

in the graveyards

three sheep

muddy and black, 
                                                                     not white
among the grass and gravestones belying the dead

and across the street a young construction worker on break
does not care what color they are.

He is doing chin ups on the cross bars of scaffolding.
How peculiar, a body upright, yet

his work boots float inches
above ground.


Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Ten Outlaw Poems By Paul Tristram

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.


No One’s Listening


That’s the third time that ‘Love Spell’ hasn’t worked,
she’s pretty certain she’s doing it right
and they’re £10 a shot and all.
She’s prayed and begged both God and the Devil
but either no one’s home or no one’s listening to her?



It Isn’t Remotely Clever… Any Old Trout Can Do It


She calls it ‘Needling The Answers’.
Re-shaping promises
until they resemble the opposite.
Gossip is a blanket term
for children’s tittle-tattling
and garden fence confidence chatter.
This is something completely different
… or so she tells herself.
It’s an art form
when honed and executed
with such devastating brilliance.
Playing God with other peoples lives
is what she was born to do.
(Although in The Scriptures
it was someone else completely
who helped ruin and destroy folk!)
There is no cleverness
in being secretly dishonourable…
lies are easier to live with than the truth.
She was born without
a good bone in her entire body.
No ‘Talent’, ‘Shine’ 
or ‘Specialness’ to speak of
from ugly tip right down to rotten root.



Running Out Of Boomerang


I just woke up one day 
and thought
‘Enough is Enough, 
God Damn it!’
I simply felt different,
it’s hard to explain,
something had snapped.
The tension 
and mixed emotions
were settled somewhat. 
But of course 
it wasn’t reciprocated,
she was just as angry 
and nuts as ever.
I threw my phone 
and wedding ring
off Penryn Harbour.
Walked into Falmouth
and filed for divorce.
The very last thing 
she screamed at me was
“I’ll never forgive you for this!”
‘Fine’, I thought
as I walked away at last 
from that narcissistic mess
‘That’ll give you something
nice to remember me by, loser!’



Forehead Stretchmarks


There is nothing bigger
than a yawning frown,
it clouds over everything.
Eclipsing moods and physicalities
in a long drawn out
blinking of an apathetic eye.
There are now deserts
were your innovation just was
and crumpet crumbs
upon twisting bedsheets of forever.
The day’s turned inside out
and drying upon
the unkempt garden’s
washing line
in the drizzling rain.
There’s an annoying frog croaking
in a corner of your soul
just out of shoo-ing away reach.
Good news and Sunshine 
are a-coming but not today.
No, today’s for burying ourselves
up to the neck in junk mail. 



A Couple O’ Bitchin’ Spaniels


“I don’t know who she bloody well 
thinks she is anymore?
She’s from the same cowing 
council estate I grew up on.
Walking ‘round the place
with a stick up her arse like Lady Muck.
I remember when she had a snotty nose
and shit in her knickers like everyone else.
I’ve got 2 more GCSE’s than her!
Now she’s being chauffeured 
‘round the place like Royalty.
Tesco’s and Sainsbury’s 
ain’t good enough for her now
(Might run into the likes of us riff-raff!)
She’s always getting her scran 
up that Waitrose where all the snobs go.
She won’t set foot in a pub anymore
she’s always in them wine bars.
With a smug grin on her face,
a dirty fanny between her legs
and a couple o’ bitchin’ spaniels
‘round her good for nothing fucking feet!”




Here She Comes With Her Put-Downs


Almost tripping over 
her own feet
in her excitement 
and enthusiasm.
Vile, mean-spirited, 
hag of a creature
out to butcher 
and maim a reputation.
Gets her jollies 
by verbal stone throwing.
Armed with half-truths 
and speculation,
she runs the feared 
‘Gossip Gang’ in town.
Talking to her 
is about as safe
as juggling 
brown paper bags
full of razorblades, 
scissors, skewers
and pins & needles 
in the rain.
If there’s a time 
and a place to be rude?
then trust me… this is it.
Don’t stop 
to look her in the eyes
or explain 
whilst walking away.
Show her only 
the silent backs 
of your heels
as you escape 
the vicious net 
she’s forever casting.
You shouldn’t 
play with fire,
dangerous toys
or The Devil…
and with that witch
you’ve got all three
wrapped up 
in a Hangman’s noose.
She has a rancid 
quagmire for a soul
and her mind 
is a dusty, old attic
full of scrapbooks
filled with 
newspaper cuttings
of Prison Announcements
and Obituary Sections.



All Is Selfishness… Shut Up It’s My Turn To Talk!


What did you say?... oh, you are cute.
I did not invite you here
to talk about your problems.
I’m in the middle of a crisis
with one of my lovers.
Your homelessness thingy
will sort itself out, you’ll manage,
I mean, people like you always do.
You are not much of a friend are you?
Trying to belittle my troubles
with your silly accommodation worries.
It’s not my fault you’re Oliver Twist,
I can’t magic you up a family can I?
Don’t cry… truth hurts though doesn’t it.
See, you’ve upset us both now.
Never mind, forget it, wipe your face
… no, not on that, it’s special.
There, come closer… do my nails for me,
you know it always makes you feel better.
Make them sparkle 
just like my eyes and personality. 
So, as I was saying, before you went weird
… he’s stopped reacting 
whenever I’m ignoring him
and I just don’t know what to do about it?



F.A.Q.


Where were you on the night of… ?


How many have you had already?


When are you going to grow up?


Why would you do that, it’s crazy?


What the fuck are you doing with her?


How the fuck does that make sense?


What’s wrong with you?


If your friends jumped off a cliff… ?


Are you ever going to calm down?


Did you think that through at all?


And what the hell am I going to do with you?



Look At Him Talking All Intelligent Like,
He Thinks He’s Better Than Us
(Because Stupid Is Clever, Mate, Innit?)


It’s like being in between worlds sometimes.
The more I self educate instead of just self medicating
the more separated I become from my roots.
It’s not ostracism on either part
just a headshaking frustration.
All I said was “I glanced in that direction”
and it started
“Glanced? What the fuck is ‘glanced’? … Direction? 
‘You looked over there’ is what you’re trying to say, innit?”
We ended up laughing and drinking beer,
we grew up together and know each other inside out.
Yet, there’s a strange gulf widening between us,
this is just a small yet significant example of it,
and they are just as worried about it all as I am.




People Are Funny (And I Don’t Mean Funny Ha, Ha!)


They caught her on CCTV.
A normal looking 45 year old woman
walking down a suburban street
around lunchtime.
Stopped by a wheelie bin,
grabbed a cat from a garden wall,
lifted the lid of the bin and threw it in,
then walked off as if nothing had happened?
Anyway, they nabbed her for it later,
after the cat spending 15 hours
in a hard plastic solitary confinement.
She said sorry and called it a 
split second of misjudgement.
They fined her £250.
There was a Facebook page set up
calling for her death 
(The woman not the cat, obviously!)
and the police had to escort her home
through groups of angry animal lovers.
She’s a bank worker,
no former criminal record to speak of.
The kind of person who sits on Jury Duty.
No mental health issues
and no drug or alcohol problems.
It was an unfamiliar cat
not belonging to anyone she didn’t like.
Just a spontaneous act of cruelty.
My first thought was
that I’d have cut one of her feet off.
But then I calmed down
and realized that I’m not as cruel as her.
Be careful how you go about your business
out there in that big old world
for you are surrounded by these people.
You can see the ones with gang colours
and prison tattoos coming easily
and normally avoid them without bother.
It’s the other kind that worry me,
until one steps out of line 
they all blend and merge far to easily.