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Poems On / About IDENTITY  7/24/2014 3:04:13 PM
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Me, myself and I,
best friends
and worst enemies
of my being
since curdle days.
Metaphoric chaos
to reconcile inside out,
no ideas but only things
to feed my booming belly,
holding tight
to the emptiness of my head.
I thought I was a man,
Or at least something similar.
Now my thoughts,
weeded and weak,
crawl sleepless to meet
the people and stones
of my useless civilizations.
Let the writing be of words.
Invent! Compose!
The flower that splits the rocks.
Masa MbathaOpasha

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the alligator...

detach the cover
the book is naked
its face is blanked
it has no identity

open the page
there are no changes in
those prints
the letters still make
the command

the sentences end
in their usual paragraphs
in a new sense,
to signify a little difference
there shall be no periods,
as you notice
there are only commas,

there is a meaning to this,
something in us always moves, continues, serrated,
double-edged sharpness of the mind
sometimes, a comma creates a sense of suspension,
like a bridge, a lull, a disbelief,
no one likes it, because everyone in us, trained as we were
in schools with always in mind
completions, and endings, we, do hate, incomplete returns
like a rumor with nothing definite as to
what happened to the

the scene is frozen, nothing thaws it,
the word is hanging, the journey of the feeling is still at the middle
of the map, the red dot still unreached,
and there is no stopping and this precisely makes you breathless

like you are having a swing, like you are
suspended in a rope still not well tightened,

feel it, do not be horrified, just feel it,
precisely, this is the truth about our existence

sword of Damocles up
and the gaping mouth of the abyss beneath
looking like
the more than sign in
basic mathematics

the mouth of the
see you later alligator,

Read more poems from RIC S. BASTASA >>>





Within how many layers of clothes
That cannot be pulled off,
Should I smother and perspire:

At times
The soft beautiful cherries
That crystallize within me
Vanish like dream in thin air.

It is true
In the freezing cold that chills my body
And the heat that scorches my soul
I have to clothe myself
With something.

How could I breath
In a place
Where the freezing cold
And the scorching heat
Cannot meet.

-Ponniah Ganeshan
Ponniah Ganeshan

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His father dropped out
For no rhyme or reason
At sixteen, Confusion
Struggled for identity
With a desire to be respected
He joined a gang,
Bought his first gun
And killed a man
Ever since
He's been on the run

Time, as if on wheels,
Moved fast
He turned eighteen in the hole
Living a condemned life
His only hope
Is the sliver of light
Set in the jail-cell metal door

They showed their power
By walking up and down
The concrete-paved corridor
Slapping their palms
With wooden battens
And with an occasional spit

He hates this
He hates this so much
Oft times he wished
He had a gun
I would show them
God knows
I would show them
Who is the man

Buxton Shippy

Read more poems from Buxton Shippy >>>
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Poems On / About IDENTITY