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 Untitled by Zeke "Childhood" by Sarah Bonifacio "That Beat, I Hear It" by Megan Diamondstein Untitled by A.M. Smith Relic (Memento) by Ramon Contrera Untouchable Face by Daniel Sanders Untitled by Farrah Fidler Creeping Light by VB unfamiliar ceiling by Taneka Stotts A Lost Love by P. Withers submit a poem for next month's edition go to current edition  |
"That Beat, I Hear It" by Megan Diamondstein A beat I heard it hard, sudden, played on the blood, sweat, tears stained hide bongo at the aged and callous grip of a tired cat Echoes in my ears, in my veins Going to the rhythm of the smoke-filled club Mood felt deep in the jiving heads of its stray audience A beat Wonderin all around, who's he? who's that sick sad fool playing so so rough, beating it, beating it crying, screaming for another chance throw down that god damned bottle of stale J.D. on the TV Show 'em, show 'em they were wrong, wrong 'bout me Sorry, no good, rotting shell No good for a wife, a woman, 'Memberin her skin, that warm flesh besides me under the crisp cool sheets Didn't mean to, didn't mean to scream, didn't meant to throw, fight, stamp, stomp HIT! A beat I feel it dark, smoothe as he touches me My hand, my knee, my trembling flesh It quivers as his lips grace my neck A nerve of passion is struck inside of me, crying for his warmth Uneasiness, a virginal virtue, now as fleeting as the breath escaping me as I gasp, biting my lip, all for more and more My hearts throbs, his quiet force flowin' through me The grasp of a fist as it digs against the headboard I hold on hard, as he reaches further, as I scream for him, for all of him In a single blink, a brief moment, I see deep within those eyes, ever deeper as he and I become- A child's innocence exposed in his face, in my arms and I need him that much more A beat A beat A beat Back in this seedy room, back to reality, gone is the dream, the past, the wants, needs, hopes Some two bit gathering of wanderers, drunk over who-knows whats and who cares Glowing table lanterns now absorbed by morning's early wake as ears are quieted to the sounds of exiting footsteps That pitiful old man dragged back into his existence Just another end to another trivial musician's set Wantin' to cry, wantin' to yell, but sorry, in this, the only life, second chances are just another pop rocks, pop culture gimmick And there, in a booth for one, Alienated, alone and waiting for a single instance of the pleasure so easily received and redeemed in the safety of my fantasy All which came in the echoes of a beat |
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