Andrew Baron macbaron4@hotmail.com Bio (auto) My name is Andrew Baron I live in Sugar Land, Texas I’m an autobiographical minimalist. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Andrew Baron and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
That Night I cannot remember that night: January, cold, beautiful, bland? But I imagine it was just the same: all itch and ache Well, maybe your eyes, fireflies when I get it right, did not shut down with our bodies Perhaps that crushed green held a steady glow beneath your eyelids and we panted, our hearts thump thumping back to pace Yes, I whispered something uncommon: Lovely River, Moon Tear, Blood Blossom, Sweet Fire, Perfection I love you No, nothing like that Only that night, something else: an accidental flicker fastened An ember, unending I remember that night: January, freezing so disturbingly still You swung the front door, a bitter slam against the cold So, we kissed My chapped lips burnt on your prickly mustache; two lightning bugs pulsing, and then it was over You muttered: How was it? Alright? Okay? I love you I love you, and your hand smoothed over my belly I cannot remember what else: if the lashes of your eyes fell before mine, if you zapped the T.V on, if my dreams bled from child to woman to mother, or if I awoke any different .a human being But on that night, something else: a lucky speck, buried and spreading The tiniest wildfire, ignited Yes It will consume us, slowly, forever. |
M.K Harikumar mkhkumar@gmail.com Bio (auto) The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by M.K Harikumar and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. Dusk is not poetic anymore Dusk declined to be poetic anymore And it laboured hard instead for a new poetic genre Though it did succeed In framing some patterns of red, It gave it up unsatisfied That some strong patterns came up, As though they were instances Of some mysterious riots let loose By someone, was just an experiment And the dusk now remains tired of trying out many colours It was unsuccessful for it to conclude that the most trying of challenges was to live without any poetic shades Life is like the dusk It’s a constant effort to be as much less poetic as it could But before thinking in this line, someone else had set a canon on the dusk’s declining to be poetic This is yet another reason for the dusk to be deviating from the poetic fold |
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