For You | Mónika Tóth
Dedicated my nice Romanian friend Vasile
Sweet soul,
Sweet heart in the chest,
A sweet symphony
Sweet heart,
Sweet heart in the chest,
A sweet symphony
Dedicated my nice Romanian friend Vasile
Sweet soul,
Sweet heart in the chest,
A sweet symphony
Sweet heart,
Sweet heart in the chest,
A sweet symphony
Slum dwellers are erratic
why look
dwelling in slums
they smell
their food is molten ash
why look
turn your faces (off them)
your bodies must not come close to theirs
why look
slum dwellers die with the hurricane, calm the storm
and before it dies banish
them.
There’s a hole in my arm–
Where the mind goes
Where the dead howl excretions
Where the blood meets the oily needle
Where memories die
Where heaven touches hell
There is a hole in my arm–
Where the mind goes
Where the soul screams
Where death shouts with applause
Where paradise costs a twenty dollar bill
Where paradise can be reached, touched, for the meanwhile.
the scare tissue, debouched, depraved, reaching for heaven’s bargain
of eternal needles.
There’s a hole in my arm
Where the mind escapes
Where seas foam
Where teeth bite
where the arm is looped off– and the world begins again.
Where the story ends, every time.
More at http://midamericanthought.tumblr.com.
a chalky stew
the hungry stare
yellow is a while
the news is blurry
layers of chocolate sauce and fiberglas insulation
we ate the flowers and they were delicious
and now we are floating above the city in a bubble
once I was a hen using magic
an onion kiss from the cook
More at http://www.madverse.com/.
this is the continuation of the earth
this room here is the starlit nightery
ripe for the moon
earth is bursting with eggs
one rice for the oil derry oil
to program better peas
earth is a long way from earth
More at http://www.madverse.com/.
I wish you hadn’t done
All those things, but I’m
Not going to let our history
Dictate who I should be.
You have no power over
Me any longer, nothing
You say can make me do
Anything I don’t want to.
I will walk with confidence,
Look at myself in the
Mirror and remember
Who I am.
Is the answer to our ills
in the fluttering of pages,
the volley of discourse, or
the dust of the library?
Education is the invitation
to a thoughtful existence,
sometimes to revolt and
liberation. Sometimes to
the ability just to read, to
plant those first nascent
seeds of idea.
Soon grown to full bloom.