Dark Poetry
By Amit

My bald heart is
breaking like an egg
squeezed between a child’s
fingers. They say the egg seems to
have two yolks, so I must be perverse.
I’m teardrops rolling into
a satyr-like beard, an
inverted pyramid
of mummified
Chinese Cicada Slough
By Amit

I’m now a civilized hairy monkey,
part of the folk handicraft of old Beijing.
A Chinese girl’s calm has turned my heart of gall
into a delicate ten-by-five millimeter body.
She has dwarfed and sweetened the
black monster found in my blue blood.
Steel has melted into Magnolia bud,
shed cicada skin and akebi, in dire winter.
I can creep into her room every
night with an air of charming naivety,
unseen too, being so minute now.
But I hear people gossip that she
is slipping into madness, seeing
a gentle midnight ghost on her breast.
It’s a pity she can’t recognize me;
I should have stayed monstrous.
By Amit

she brought hebenon to pour into my ears
she bought some chocolate too to
fill my dead ear furrows to grow some potatoes
don’t call her a murderer, it’s my fate
after she plucked my beautiful eyes she
said I didn’t understand that she wanted
to see her youth and smile in them
don’t call her a white witch, she
has no mirror
have you seen how God has pumped
the gray earth into a mountain over there?
that’s what she told me, adding
how she wished He could pump
my miserly heart a bit into generous balloons
don’t call her a Hitler, she’s a divine blunder
she’ll tattoo her name on my forehead as
my new sexy neighbor has just said
that she is a lucky woman
she has torn all 13s in our calendars too
don’t call her jealous, it’s all about love
she’s so sorry if she’ll be tearing my leg too for
she has lost her golf club; my precise gait
might finally help her
don’t call her a murderer
where’s her tee?
can’t see it
I'm So Sorry
by Amit

I am the glowing moments I spent with you,
I am the fresh air you breathed before.
My fingers are those with which you caressed
the khaki-colored tea cup every morning.
In my absence, I know you would shoot the
birds in the nearby forest to think of me. You
would spread my virile fragrance all
over the staircase. Neighbors tell me they would
hear you shout commands at night.
I have seen death and people
turned to clay while fighting for greedy men.
I’ve gone to war, and come back,
only to see you dead! Self injury.
My tears are stuck in my nose; I’m so
sorry I made you mad.
Let me assure you my love, I looked my best
and gave you a kiss good-bye before
the heavy lid of your coffin was lowered.
I’ll live like a cracked vase with
the beautiful flowers of your memories.
You’ll now live
in the bullet buried near my lion heart.
An Orphan’s Biography
by Amit

I’ve once climbed the mountain of human skulls.
I’ve climbed the tree that bears a hundred years
of parasitical sincerity to its soil.
I’ve once tasted the chocolate that’s very gory.
I’ve tasted the moments of agony that cut
the golden hands of the body.
I’ve twice risen from the darkest crater of suicide.
I’ve risen just like a sun behind fat towers
of nauseating nightmares.
I’ve twice seen death in moments of blindness.
I’ve seen drunken shooting stars in the
burning-glass of my senile mind.
I’ve thrice resolved to be the man of all men.
I’ve resolved to be the man of a woman who’ll
suffer when she makes me suffer.
I know, I know
I’ll have to know the sun that saves the soul.
I’ll have to know the sea that erases your footsteps
and makes you a better man
to love like a woman within a man.
By Christopher Hivner

Pictures of light
hung on my walls,
streams of photons
framed by soft wood,
balls of electricity
dancing across glossy paper.
Pictures of light
spread over my walls
illuminating my mask
and its dead socket eyes.
It’s So Cruel
By Amit

My tongue howls only for sorbet.
I dream of wine and frozen strawberry
lovingly, and without your go-ahead,
I want another moth dance, sister,
without your cigarette smoke,
reawakening my heart’s fire
near the dead fireplace,
telling me that you may be still around.
Our pregnant family dog ogles at me
every hour
knowing she can coax me into
sharing her nothingness
but there’s a handful of
snow that’s refusing
to melt in my mind these days
as I remember the winter picnic.
Time seems too short to mean anything,
it is too long to mean nothing
but everything ends in lost days—
I want you all back
because without mother
and her mother each time I open or close
the door, it hits me.
In this cruel summer even
honey can’t sweeten my tongue
as the kitten in my
lap purrs into my numb ears,
with faint redolences
of my innocent childhood.
There Were
By Christopher Hivner

There were
perfect whispers of clouds
hanging in the perfect blue sky,
children’s voices carried on the wind
of a perfect summer day.
The smell of steaks on the grill
and iced tea sun-brewed like it used to be.
The sounds of mid-day love-making,
two voices wrapped together as one.
The sky was set on fire
and the rivers choked with ash.
Clouds of smoke
billowed around our eyes and down our wrecked throats.
Sirens blared in tortured screams
barely louder than our own,
We died in agony, where we stood,
without a fight, for no reason.
And now
The Earth is once again
a lifeless rock adrift in space
waiting for its final destruction
by the burgeoning Sun
and we have rendered ourselves
as not even a memory.
The Things in the Dirt
By Christopher Hivner

The trouble with you is
you won't stay
in the box.
It was built for you,
with your measurements,
sprayed with your perfume,
to be like home.
My kindness
is being repaid
with escape attempts
and vexing pleas for mercy.
I told you
when we first met,
it's either the box
or the root cellar
with the things in the dirt.
They still call your name
and ask for your skin.
Should I spread the lime
for your bed
or drive the nails of the box
back into your hands?
Oh, it's too late.
The things have tunneled
into the house,
it will take
more than skin
to appease them now.
I’m afraid
internal organs
are next.
I told you to stay
in the box.
Poetry by Amit and Christopher Hivner
For poetry by Alexis Child
and Matt Rawson,

For poetry by Amit and
Christopher Hiver,

For poetry by Lawrence
Buentello and Emily
click here