Poems of the Week
Interest is criminal in desire without value.
Interest is criminal with intent outside of purpose.
Interest is criminal.
Interest IS criminal.
Criminal with it’s curiosity shedding consideration,
Criminal in it’s approach lacking caution,
Interest is criminal in it’s action without consent.
Will boredom suffice?
Only if it exists.
Illusions are fun,
Before realizing the criminal in interest.
By Jazmin Mehrmann
As I wait for your call
I’ve chosen to remember
The way my heels hit the road
And the sound that echoes
From the frozen city’s floor
I see how those cold months
Of lonely lamplight
And bloodshot reflection
Are taut and distant
In contrast to your affection
Yet it still holds sway
And tempts me to stray
But I pause to consider
How you’ve pulled me away
And whether it’s better
Or if you’ve lead me astray
Whether or not I am right
I have always known
That this feeling will always be
What I call home
And the path I will walk
As I evoke the memory of you
And this moment
A Prurient Glance
In a space outside of time
Between the valley and the sky
They never ask how one comes or goes
All place to them is foreign
So accustomed to the familiar slow loping paths
Their bodies estranged from movement
They regard the landscape as an extension of their mind
They deny themselves
The sexual potential of a field’s plane
The hills’ gullies understand
Their connection to the throat
The most erotic location on the body
All this to say
They pass a prurient glance
To the land
Title: Mugwump Metanoia
The careless, care-free and cared for have begun their solicit for anxiety,
The pipe-line has returned, it must love us.
The focused few are shedding their irritated skin to feel the acid rain
Let’s hold hands
Mugwump mountain is making a move
Bumbling towards metanoia
Activists are still standing at a stand still with their heads together
Lay your head on my chest
Life is moving away from us so slowly
It’s nice to take a step back and watch in awe
Before the separation jitters take hold of where we are meant to be
We want anything when it’s out of arms reach
By Jazmin Mehrmann
We are the spaces between
All the things that we pretend to be
The slits that the light shines through
Are cranked wide by our instances of truth