Sunday, September 21, 2008

Free Verse: Signified


You are a word.
Without intrinsic meaning,
A string of random letters bound together
Which reminds me
Of Christmas time
And stringing popcorn on a thread
(1. because there was no money
for real baubles)
In no order, with no meaning
Except we all knew we were poor

You are only a word, made-up
Unreal, fake, only a hallucination.
Your pattern has no meaning
And the only significance
You have is
That which I apply to you.

Your syllables sound rough
In my ears,
But despite your lacking
Despite your jumble
You remain to me
My only language.

Justine Bienkowski

Free Verse: Coolness, revised


There is a coolness living in me:
Unexpected. Necessary.
Possessing me as a wraith,
Yet woefully accepted and welcomed.

In my eyes: piercing twin icicles.
In the twitch of my disapproving lips,
Which have long been dry of any hope.

Ingrained in the chapped skin of my hands,
(Refusing the warmth of naive gloves,
And instead choosing a numbing frost)
Palms turned only towards myself,
As I unhappily peel away layers of lies.

In the whole pulsating being of my body,
Shuddering in the face of this everlasting winter.
It is not in my nature to carry on this way,
But winter has always turned me into a child.

It is a coolness
That can no longer be melted away.
An exhausted ember
Which cannot be revived
with any amount of tinder.

It cannot be combated,
Only submitted to.
All that is left to do
Is walk among graveyards,
Where winter can only inevitably lead,
Among new beds and old.

I can only become the flowers that grow,
Up towards the sun,
Away from the coolness of stones.

Justine Bienkowski

Sunday, September 14, 2008

A Beat Poem: Banned


I see sickness everywhere. A blast to my senses, my sense perception; haggling whores and
Hobbled drones, following in the clear cut footsteps of breaking mothers’ backs.
Droves, doves, droves of people stepping lightly and at once completely concerned while
apathetic to the soft soles of shoes before them.
Humbled, vain, cross, aware, indifferent, imitating their wants through outward possessions and
making sure that all can see, as long as it is not through blindfolds.
Black boxes cover words, seeping into video stream, into our mouths, covering our lips with
censored boxes to make parenting easier.
Black my lines! Cover your ears! Cover the children’s eyes! Focus, focus on values divine.

The difference between locking a car door at night when you pass by and smiling simply while
fooled, taking a life, taking two shots to the eyes.
Appeal to sense, to senses, to cold beds and empty promises.

No matter your properties, your make-up, your head—dissent! Dissent! Rally against the
inevitable, rally against truths and lies. Rally against invisible fears.
Hallways overrun with adolescent drugs: send in the dogs. Put bologna on rye, processed meat,
processed thoughts, an empty pathway to slaughterhouses and sex.
Darkened skies and darkened hair, every paint drip, every bottle cap, just another addiction to the
widening gap between golden chains and golden dreams.
A sickness: lives built on theoretical dollars, we’re all just crumbs at the bottom of the bag, we
will all be thrown away or licked up into oblivion.

Justine Bienkowski

Friday, September 5, 2008

Anglo-Saxon : In Referencing Marauders

In Referencing Marauders

I danced in the deep dark,
Forgetting the green grass’s dreams,
While craving the cold of a chilled
Embrace. I bore it with burning
Abandon and black brawn for fierce
Denial. Nude nature keeps me
Still, in shock, in shambles,
While tender and tense. Terrible
Longing only lends to loving doom.

Justine Bienkowski