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Rachel
Harper Joseph
(faith)
The
line that leads the eye
from the thin-boned foot
to the birdwing gap...
(step
right up and listen close)
"Observe
your God
in seven by two
by two
Contained."
(the
sign said "Come See Christ On Fire")
I
slipped my ticket
under my tongue
and took a seat
by the tentpole.
(Save
This Coupon #47305)
In
the darkened tent
a naked man
is kept asleep
in a case of glass
(the
line that leads from head to waist)
His
eyes are glued shut--
not sleeping.
His arms weigh nothing.
And that is all of the show.
The
man down front
(call
him turtle, if you will)
is the first to move
in an hour of silence
(wrappers,
coughing, murmurs, sighs)
He
lifts his bulk
from the folding chair
and stamps his foot,
enraged.
A
wrinkled woman
(who
hasn't won the lottery, in all these years)
clutches
her bag
and spits out:
"Pisspots!
Fraud!"
They
tear up their tickets and leave.
(Sa
Th Cou #472)....
The
disappointed crowd
surges out of the tent
while the talker smokes cigarettes
under the stairs.
Alone,
in the dark
an hour of silence
(
)
I
rise and walk to the case..
a
fishline is thread
from cheekbone to brow
(I
see now, that it's not really glue)
but
he is awake
and he sees me...
(I
am as simple as vertical travel)
An
inch from the glass
my
breath becomes white
I
place my hands
on
the front of the case
(faith)
they
come back
minus some skin.
Copyright
© 2001 Rachel Harper Joseph
Bio:
Rachel Harper
Joseph is a scenic artist from Philadelphia, PA.
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Colin
Van Der Woude
Her
I
can hear the music cats play
melodies and harmony
sacred notes in disarray
a chorus plucked from a broken piano choir
a choir of haunted souls
The
enchantress of unholy salvation
purifier of thought
pontifical to a God of love
Mirrored
minds the son of thee
disappearing twisting images
My
mind outcasts friends
and mends broken ends
Copyright
© 2001 Colin Van Der Woude
Bio:
I'm a 24
year old writer from Tassie Australia...was diagnosed with
a mental illness at the tender age of 14...I write about
thoughts and experiences, mainly at night when I'm too tired
to reach for a pen. I have written poetry since the age
of 15, a year after being diagnosed with Schizophrenia...
used to also be an artist but my creativity in that area
was "haloperidolised" and I gave up painting a year ago.
Writing is now my main creative outlet.
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William
Cannon
same
lives from different views
a thousand a day cross this path
(exaggeration, perhaps-fluke)
dump the marbles over the Verrazano
no need to keep the little time
spent sitting still, sitting-trapped
against her large buxom hips
every ghost's trip
when
finally it's won
they pull at my arms and clinch my hand
as an excited child does
at first entering an amusement park
abandoned
again along the skyline drive
I was once so curious
I was once, at one time, so eager
Now my splitting head…
Moves me back
Measured.
Sunken.
Downhill.
Some one
Capture this
Copyright
© 2001 William Cannon
Bio:
I am 26 years
old and have been published in a couple of minor e-zines.
I've been writing for 12 years and am aware of my voice
and my target audience. I am the pronunciation of a new
generation. My will is to free association with all that's
around me. I want unadorned realization. I want to be scared
and yet readily accept my environment. I want to change
the mainstream from being pleasant greeting cards to altruistic
consideration, not in verse but action.
The
writers of the gospels claimed to be under divination when
writing; I too know not where my structure forms but am
deeply compelled to develop the passages I find before me.
I take my craft very seriously, I am an artist granted the
privilege of communication. My medium is the English language
and all its various slang; the life of mine is given purpose.
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Rae
Burton
The
Insecure World of The Blind Clown
Keep
on digging up brand new ideas
facing the day of hell on earth which is New Year's
Eve
Locked up with no chance of parole or receiving visitors
then comes the day when all emotions disappear for
good.
I never realised i was in hell until it was too late
but we all live in one kind of hell
You can't go outside to play when it's pouring with rain
because there are more puddles than jackets.
I
watched the explorer once as he was exploring
i could run fast but he could always run much faster
And i screamed aloud but he could always scream louder
now i am walking down this lonely road alone.
Desperation has once again entered into my life
if i listen hard enough i can hear God laughing at
me
Sometimes it's as if even the poetry seems incomplete
maybe i finally have become my own worst enemy.
Why
work when you can play?
if you think you know the real me sorry you don't,
When it isn't good but as good as it's ever going to get
with 456 poems written ten times over.
I'm never what you expect to see
what monsters in my head giving false answers weekly,
Acts of pure weakness hang around like smells from a lavatory
eyes see but not always the truth.
it
is possible to live without knowing it
kiss the wind and those liars play their cruel games,
One day every answer will show itself loud and clear
for now i believe this game is real.
Every one of us born with a killing instinct
as mighty as the devil can make a sound,
The truth hurts me like a knife deep in my soul
life is a cruel game and i must find the missing link.
Copyright
© 2001 Rae Burton
Bio:
I am 30 years
old and i suffered a nervous breakdown a few years ago which
lead to a few problems but it also brought a new strength
to my writing as i find it easier writing down my thoughts
and feelings than actually speaking. Although i am no longer
considered at risk to myself and no longer have to hear
the b.s my shrink threw at me the thought of suicide goes
through my mind everyday but i have learned to fight it
.
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Peter
Wilson
The Unspoken Word
The
enthusiasm of a sentimental kind
Full-dressed in broad daylight
A splendid mendacity distinguished in fashion
Is a toil of a faithful companion
The undertones of a half world
In the midst of surroundings
Where sweet idle lies flows the spring of sorrow
A mere form of words within the breast of sympathy
There is the toil without formality
A silver plate neither rhyme nor reason
Of words spoken at a shadow
Peculiar to itself, there are tears for things
Work and play, love and hate are one and all of the same
It will be pleasant to recall this some day
Diamond cuts diamond, ignorant by ignorance
A fallacious debate through adversity to the stars
A potential existence in empty space
I know not what; it doesn't follow
Everything unknown come in! Tomorrow
How do I know? What does it matter?
It's pleasant to play the fool sometimes, while I breathe
Copyright
© 2001 Peter Wilson
Bio:
Fellow schizophrenic
and poet
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