Overkill #9 - Even more poetry, anonymous

A Reminder to Myself

In my sleep, I have burnt down houses with a cigarette.

I have driven my car into a river in the dead of night.

I have coughed down drinks to help me forget

One accident while causing another. Two wrongs are not a right.

I would cut off my nose to spite my face,

I would cut off my feet to lose a race.

I have drawn my own blood in the name of art

Just to see the picture it would make. I tore it apart.

But I would never tear out my eyes.

They serve as a reminder of everything I lack.

They remind me that I am not human inside.

Playing Pretend

You are a child dressed in your father’s ties.

You are a child in your mother’s make-up.

Quit telling yourself lies.

Put down the cup.

None of this ever made you brave or strong.

None of this ever made you beautiful.

You were always so wrong.

Stop pushing, and pull.

Give something to yourself. Quit playing

As though you were born as a victim.

You know where you’ve been laying

And where you should’ve been.

Gather up your guts, if you have any enduring.

Climb over the hurdles and walls you built

From the accidents you found reassuring.

Don’t trip over your guilt.

I would punch you square in the mouth, you fuck,

But I do not want to risk seven years of bad luck.

Tower of Babbel

I will keep speaking Arabic, and you keep staring at me with those dumb eyes.

I do not understand a word of your advice; it can never be properly applied.

Talking to you is something like teaching calculus to a second grader

Because he will try his best, but he cannot do long division without getting a remainder.

I am good at math,

But I struggle at arts and crafts.

Everything get shifted or skewed to the left before the glue has dried.

I see that you mean to be sincere, but I cannot fathom your advice.

It is for people that think there is such a thing as love and an afterlife.

I am lost for words that make sense beyond a tombstone epitaph.

Everything you utter is foreign, even your laugh.

My throat is so dry

For water or a tequila sunrise.

I really cannot tell the differences anymore, like the one between death and life.

It is all so redundant and all of the metaphors are empty.

All of the comparisons are painfully obvious and adolescent.

Each subtle play on words is lost on carelessness. You cannot see.

I am waiting until summer. I need something iridescent.

Crime and Punishment

You cannot pretend you’re unobtainable or fake confidence.

You cannot fix all of the imperfections of your face and body.

You cannot say intelligent things about interesting topics,

But you can get on your back or your hands and knees.

You eyes look so vacant now, but nobody sees the fade.

The glint dissipated gradually until you were not even human.

Yes, you are still sad when you look in the mirror at the mess you’ve made,

But it is only because you know logically that it is a sin.

You ironically do not even believe in god’s existence,

And you resent the church, but you use all their terms.

You label your wrongdoings with jargon to create a distance

Between yourself and everything that hurts you. You never learn.

So keep crawling from bed to bed, and wake up in the morning

Feeling even more empty and alone than you used to be

Before all the drunken, weekend whoring.

The worst part is deserving it, as far as you can see.

What did you do to earn anyone to keep you warm?

What did you ever do to earn anyone meaning a word like love?

You know everything you have done has torn

Other people apart. You are too wretched for words, when push comes to shove.

Please, just stop talking and stop writing.

For everyone’s sake,

Just go out in an instant, like a strike of lightening

Or sleep but do not wake.

Cyborg or Almost One

He tasted like poison and tequila and broken glass,

And I would never apologize enough.

I wish that I could fall in love,

And I bet you are glad you did not. Or it did not last.

I never meant all of the mistakes that make up my skeleton

Or the torn wires and rusted machines

That made up my organs and kept me lean.

The only thing I wanted to eat was a heart, so I could feel one.

But I will never hold one, pulsing in my hand and still alive

Or even from the grave, cold and hard.

That is too much like myself, and the living are on guard.

I would just bury myself, but it would be redundant if I died.

So spit your cold words, and pull the warm ones inside yourself.

Keep them thriving inside your guts

Because everything I am will never be enough

To be a true mother, lover, friend, or sister. I am nothing else

But a robot full of nuts and bolts,

But mostly nuts.

Overkill #9 - Original Poetry by Rachel Panepinto, '13

Wasted Winter

Lost I was in the midst of a bitter night.

Unaccompanied, but comforted for I

saw myself standing between

two dark outlines; a silhouette of trees

all leaning steadily. And me, arching my back upon its

tense, torn bark, looked through and up

around the fog to find all the misplaced birds

absent with black feathers

that welcomed themselves upon my winter skin.

Yet flicking them once, I was baffled to find—

looking up, what my eyes observed

were all but colors upon their bare wings!

And the fruitless vines, broken branches still

watched over me as the birds let out a fierce trill;

tipped the skinny cigarette between my fingers

downward, down, until the ashes met the grayness

on the ground. How I realized still, that Me, Oh I

was older than now. Smarter, braver, wiser—

altogether I saw what I could not see before,

sinking in my darkened essence I remembered

to look back at me-that-was-lost and point

toward home. That's when I knew I was not

alone.

Rachel Panepinto

Overkill #9 - Original Poetry by Kevin Brazda, '12

While I Wait

Every word I gather, I take a chance

That you’ll be there: my soul’s romance,

For even when you are gone, you still remain

Like a painting that needs no frame

There is only time between us,

And so many signs that will give way,

And on the day I have you again

We’ll hop scotch over the sun,

And wag it’s tail until it begs for night

I’ll never deny it-- you are a gift

For so much gone and yet so much achieved

I’ll be climbing the hills seeking you

Because you are so fun to chase--

It is what made us happy in the beginning,

You were thumping your paws beckoning me

Ready to venture off with me, next to the greenhouse

When the crowd was in session.

Every word I gather, I take a chance

That you’ll be there; my soul’s romance,

For even when you are gone, you still remain

Like endless pleasant thoughts on board a train

And when I reach my destination

I won’t be sad that you are not there

Because your presence will linger the air,

And that is prize enough for centuries without you,

And your trail will carry me forward again,

My sprightly evening star like a beacon above a vengeful sea,

Showing what light has come to be--

Only space lies between us,

And all that can come in a day-- means nothing,

When I dream of the curiosity in your heart

So many signs will give way so quickly,

Before I know it, I have thumped home again,

And your warm footprint is upon the grass,

And when your not there I will look up and smile,

I’ll bask in knowing I’ll wait awhile,

You are above,

My shining sun and promised song,

For in this endless repetition of buildings, bombs and squares,

It is you that I follow so fair

And every word I gather, I take a chance

That you’ll be there: my soul’s romance

For even when you are gone, you still remain

Like endless pleasant thoughts on board a train.

-Kevin J. Brazda

April 6, 2010

Fishing on the Shenandoah

Open your curtains

to the sight of burning pages before the sun.

Watch each word make its way softly into the glow

While children play market music with picks and wooded instruments.

The trees have given them time,

and ripped each day to shreds,

so that they can say, “we’ve made them mine,”

but keep they’re shadows wafting the mind,

they never go, they have all of time.

Look now—down at the passing streams –waters covered by shadow:

a combination thick with incognito desire,

and restless charm like aqua wire

then stare deeper into the waters meeker

what would the bottom say if it had a speaker?

pass on and see the clear shimmering bass,

whose scaly-sunned bodies echo color like brass.

Shake out your rugs upon the waters,

that you want to believe hope for daughters,

wash them consolingly,

red bold cloth turns dark brown in water--

dock your canoe so to Fly-Fish in the shallow waters

under the shade of both species: tree and fish.

Eyes closed, as you smile because of the sound of water

playing around your legs,

that sound whispers to you:

“Love the surroundings so much because they are silent,

and yet still so loudly in love”

Purple Velvet

Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy

That one that is clothed in purple velvet

And it engages the invisible while you know nothing

But the smell, that of rose water, so full

Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy

Again, a figure in purple, this time angry

And seeking blood to be thrown upon

That invisible something, so that it can be seen,

But the smell, that of sadness, so full

Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy

Much the same, a rocky red road,

And that damn purple velvet again

Beckoning you for bowling pins

But the pins, are the heads of vanquished innocents, so full

Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy

That one when you sit in silence,

And a tickle works its way up your spine

And your eye-brows curve like waves

But the sharks, they hide in those waves

And bid they’re time, for evening is giving way to dawn, so full

A Poem of Titles:

vanguards of the vine, do speak now,

or hold in silence the drops of Los Angeles rain,

keep in secret the wisdom of all time,

while i nuzzle my head into the hedge maze

whisper small notes and clues,

and here is what you told me:

table scraps and worn keyboards

as umbrella companions

under a once red moon

in control of our little italians

so we don't steal away from those writers

they're own idols and emeralds of connotation

tapping away all day on one useless machine

wearing it thin until you see your reflection

ate away yesterday's leftovers

and syphoned serenity out of television pipes

over that rainbow when there is no sky

but fluttered Veterans hoping to die,

richer and taller in the rain,

hopeless and kind

under a once red moon

Yellow bush Driveway

In my old cracked cemented driveway

where I used to live and play,

the gentle summer breeze

filled my sneakers with pep and charge

to climb the tree in the front yard,

where I leapt with superhuman strength

onto the roof and looked down

at my old cracked cemented driveway

where grew a yellow bush.

Up here I can see it all,

from my cul-de-sac

onward I would dare to look—

at Other worlds down the street.

The binding sounds of youth would fill me,

chalk spread by small hands on asphalt,

someone, somewhere playing Crash Bandicoot.

There is no question about it,

Deer Park Lane was the Origin of something wonderful

My own yellow driveway bush-

a marching free lion upon pale murmurs in autumn.

No endless volume could describe where I have got to now,

don’t go looking for me in that old lane,

or in the bulb flashes of a Name,

I am charging by in all directions,

bringing communion to earth’s inceptions

like the birth of that yellow bush

in my old cracked driveway.

-Kevin J. Brazda, April 6, 2:30pm

The Strength of Strings

Feelings –all, we know too well,

Like storms approaching us on our

Little row boat –that we fear but still

We smile back at them

Feelings –all, we know too well,

The approach of dark green skies

Troubling our still waters with rain drops

Words from angels who wish for play time

Feelings –all, we know too well,

The instruments in tune with each other,

A romance of time that cannot end

As long as talent abounds like curious listeners

Strings –all, we know too well,

Awaiting for the crescendo and refrain

The promised song of god breaking quickly

Like damsels and swordsmen running

With haste to the cathedral door.

Love –all, we know to well,

Like a gentle snow falling in silence

On our little tea cup house, cold but –

Warmed by one heater in the corner—

Melting snow as we smile back at her.

Lost Poems: A Lament

I shed tears in my arms

For all the writings I have made, have been erased,

Either directly or have been lost in time

I still cry and miss them like they are mothers and fathers

How can I find them, where can they have gone to?

Maybe if I create a search party we can look through the forest

But the rains have come and the wind howls down the trees

And their leaves flip and shake away my hopes

And my eyes are burning because I have lost the pen

Where has the paper gone?

Where is the promised group that will guide me along?

But, suddenly -- such a gentle and ease of spirit comes down in the lightning above

And it scares me with its unkind delight,

Oh -- how can I ever tell you where I am going if you cannot be in here watching with me?

This forest of endless mockery and scorn, it shreds my mind to conclusions.

Why do we fight I ask so simply? Please listen, I promise:

I promise that the refrain is coming, the chord that tickles your spine will arrive

But first we try to scower the soil for my leaflets

There is a dense smell of tobacco smoke wafting from a house that I see ahead

No, it is a cabin, and a man is looking at me, he stands in the kitchen doing the dishes

His hands move rhythmically applying soap and a smile digresses onto my face

Because I know that his movements are like the return of spring--

And his form is the assurance that there are many tears to come before we can go home,

Before we can hold hands again: but I am also smiling because I know

That even though the writing of my early teenage hood is lost,

That man is still standing in the kitchen window:

Applying soap, lifting, cleaning and staring out at me,

He sees that I am part of the woods,

He sees me.

Playing Poker

Here it is, the, the entrance of this, this great, hopeful, majestic

And innocent child, he dances with his arms chopping the armies of the air

And the commandant reaches down to scratch his back,

The response from the audience is one of endearing emptiness

People, here it is, what you paid for, the entrance of this, this great,

This pure and unblemished child.

Do not do harm on the child that lives within, never dare tamper with the muse

That cold oboe and clarinet that elongate themselves onto the trajectory of sin

Try, how the muse tries to stay calm and remorseful and without canopies of copies

This is the invention of emotion, the return of what you have already danced upon

But no sword stroke is like any other

No sand pebble is the same nor -like the snowflakes—such clichés

No, the people seek for their elbows and knees to be only so sore,

Truthfully, only a select few are strong enough to dance.

Here it is, the, the entrance of this, this great, hopeful, majestic—

Just stop it there, the adjectives need to go, the words should remain:

But only in small portions, the music should rest, the cards are random

We cannot choose nor burn those who lose, but play well the tunnel:

When you are fenced in from both sides by stronger hands,

Engage in speedy prayer and swift removal,

The way back home is thin, narrow and nearly impossible.

Thus you must forget the roaring of the engines that echo

And reverberate off the cylindrical cone you find yourself in.

Go not forth into unreasoned decision,

But prefer the damaging truth to advantageous error.

And when you win, which you will, slowly smile into the denouement.

For a smile, a smile can command oceans.

Rise

There is a place on the distant shore

Where all is new and you never bore

And to this rock we gently offend

The markings on it that bear no trend

To the markings on our rock in our den

For call me foolish or forceful or both

But do not expect this to not help my growth

By speaking with toxin’s tongue

You have climbed that ladder another rung

Of which Jacob championed and fell again

For it is the nature of all the men,

To appeal to places, appearances and sores

But I sing not from a shallow bluff

Hidden in the risen cuff,

While I have avoided metallic chains, hooks and gangs

Where all is new and you never bore?

On that swiveling rock do you gently offend?

What I see is a swinging arm bent to snatch and erase

All of the most juicy wonderful dreams and leave no trace

Well, that is the battle,

We all want to call our rock the true and only marking

But call me foolish or forceful or both

But I see plainly --- many rocks scattered about this field

Overkill #9 - Original Poetry by Emily Sale, '13

Poison

You were wild like a banshee,

Reckless and it hurt me.

Only because it was you that you were hurting

Your rolling while walking, your harshness while falling

You think you know everything when you’re like that.

But I do.

I saw the pink slithering towards you

Like a snake filled with poison.

It nipped you and you were left still, heaving.

I don’t know why you like feeling this way.

It makes me question my allegiances,

While you lay there and I struggle to hear you breathing.

Glow

I saw you tonight, walking back when everything was silent.

All I could hear was my breath and see your glow

As I walked through the cold winter snow

Your light was real and warming

It made me feel alive and full.

It safeguarded from the crack of ice.

Your light wasn’t like some streetlight

Or a headlight or halogen glow.

It reminds me

I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in a while.

I just forget sometimes that you’re here.

I’ve been busy, really busy.

But I want you to know,

I love you and I know you’re watching me too.

Overkill Issue #9 - More poetry, anonymous

Forgiveness

Never forgive me for my sins

I know what I do, yet I can’t stop

I can feel it crawling under my skin

But I can’t stop the change

Save me if you wish, but never forgive me

Flawed and scarred, I am who I am

-Anonymous

Untitled

I sit here alone, contemplating my existence

Hoping for somebody to reach out towards me

Every time I hear footsteps, I want them to be coming to my door

Every time I hear a voice, I want them to converse with me

Yet here I am surrounded by people, alone.

-Anonymous

Overkill Issue #9 - Poetry, anonymous

Infinity on a Number Line
Tonight, he is wrapped up tight, sweating out a fever.
He cannot promise that he will love her tomorrow.
But today he knows that he cannot ever leave her.
He has not learned; hearts are to break, not to borrow.
She has something contagious on her lips,
And she is hoping he has not built up immunity.
Her lips must be so cold against his.
The irony is not lost on this unity.
When you are invincible, forever is meaningless.
Days become seconds, and lovers become hobbies.
There is nothing salient in living like this.
Names become jargon; bedrooms become lobbies.
We are just passing the time
Until we can accept that we all have to lie.

Daphne

Until she was seventeen, they called her Juliet.

Then they called her Daphne; it seemed a better fit.

She didn’t chase after love, and quit fighting just to hurt.

She chose to flip her hair, smile, drink, and flirt.

Everything she used to say chokes her, steals her air.

Her eyes are always shifting; she never tends to stare.

She wants nothing from everyone that slides into her bed,

But she wants everything from nobody that exists outside her head.

Stigmata

I never intended to break the wooden chair,

But there are splinters in my palms.

It looks like stigmata, but God cannot see me.

I’ve gone into hiding for the sake of being free.

I am too proud to sing these psalms,

And I am too cold to breathe in the warm air.

Save your pity. If I wanted to drown,

I would fall into the ocean.

Freezing, black, and pressing on my heart;

Everything should end the way it starts.

Suspended, free from motion

And finally on my own.

I cannot be near you. You are too fragile

Like the glass I shattered when I drank too much

Or the hearts I broke when I was sober.

The cycle goes on. It is never over.

You cannot bounce back from my punch

When I take a good swing, swift and agile.

Please, do not forgive me for my sins.

You never deserved this.

Ghosts

There is a ghost living here. I hear its feet.

It breathes on my clothes and my bed sheets.

There is a shiver in my spine.

I feel a change in my design.

It crawls across my skin,

So I try to get warm by drinking. That only lets it in.

Under my skin and to my nerves.

Synapses become more like spasms, and I am lost for words.

It haunts my dreams, if I am ever asleep.

It shatters mirrors and burns pictures that I keep.

The smell of hatred engulfs my system,

And I cannot even listen.

Noises become static.

People become erratic.

I cannot help anything that my hands do.

I cannot control where I move.

This is not my fault.

I know I am wrong, but I cannot stop.

I am in a bed that a phantom made.

I have company; I do not know his name.

Spare the sympathy.

You have not been with me.

I hate you.

I need you too.

Issue #9 - An Introduction to The Music Issue by James Hepplewhite, '09

Music is magic.

Really.

It's also the thesis of the Phonogram comic series, which you ought to read, so here's my Kieron Gillen attempt.

When the imprecise and erratic alchemy of sound is mixed correctly, music does more than transport you. It reshapes you. It remolds you. For example: When I hear Nightlife by Kenickie, I grin and I want to get my boys together, head down to a club, drink and dance. (It looks silly, I admit.) When I hear Nothing Better by the Postal Service, I collapse inside and out. It is the serrated edge sliding between the armor, deftly navigating the contours of my ribs and it breaks into my clean, squishy chest. When I listen to Spring Divorce, a Planes Mistaken For Stars track, well, all I hear is the white noise of the crowd and all I smell is the fresh kill in the bloody sand.

This is a fraction, idly chosen, of music's remonstrative power. In our darkest places or in our brightest days we are not safe or we are never totally lost. Magic is something that alters reality without warning, without terrestrial accounting and music does just that. Music is not something that can be touched. You can touch the instruments. You can touch the players.. You can touch sheet music. You can sense the pages between your fingers, but that's just the driving directions to a feeling. It remains: You can't touch music.

There is a lot of poetry and fiction in this issue. That's okay. This is a literary magazine, so that's to be expected. Find a soundtrack that fits and see how that colors what you see and what you connect with. It might not surprise you to hear I have suggestions for artists to listen to.

For your consumption, two bands, divided into boys and girls. (Yes, there is more than dudes or ladies. I acknowledge, respect and celebrate this.)

For the women: Kenickie. It's music written by and for razor sharp girls who want to go out, dance, enjoy female camaraderie and maybe attract attention of boys. Maybe not. The track that will sell you on them is Come Out 2Nite. It's 1:58 long, from a record called At the Club. (Not that being a woman has to consist of getting dolled up, dancing and drinking, but it's an enjoyable pastime.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIEj1gCDP0A&feature=related

For the men: Trap Them. It's a d-beat/thrash/sludgy band based around the concept of a zombie apocalypse. If you think Dragonforce is the greatest thing ever, Trap Them's going to blow your mind. Listen to Gutterbomb Heaven on the Grid or Guignol Serene from their 2008 full-length, Seizures In Barren Praise. Try not break things in your room. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_9Wo9C1a8k

Like magic, with music, the possibilities are infinite. Now turn the page, put your headphones on and start casting spells.

James Hepplewhite, written o

ver the Ides of March, 2010.