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August 2011 A Cynic Online Magazine Publication Volume 13 Issue 8 

By Michael Keshigian - Contributing Poet

He lies in bed,
the early morning hours,
and next to him
her spot is empty.
Throughout the turmoil
that is his sleep,
his mind wanders,
his eyes burn
the image of a question mark
upon his brain
as his flesh
cooks in sweat
greased by a silent rage
he cannot control.
He thinks of everything wrong.
At the station in the morning,
he awaits her arrival.
His heart beats
against his ribs,
thumping like a caged orangutan.
She exits the bus,
runs with abandon to meet him,
her face flushed by icy wind
and snow that causes her to slip,
bare knees above her socks
transport the pasty flakes.
She embraces him
though her skirt and coat
are spotted white,
a pure white that exacerbates
her blood shot eyes,
gaping, tired eyes.

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By Roy Sutirtha - Contributing Poet

And Gauguin said :
If You really wish to
Draw, better choose
Greenest of the green
Or Bluest of the blue
Never be in doubt!
But I really gave it up.
She was bluer beyond
The firmament and
Greener than the woods
No color could ever
really match her soul.

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Coming Back
By Hanaa Elzahabe Elsayed - Contributing Poet

I go away, just trying to be free,
But I soon realize my freedom lies in thee.
So, when I go away, so far away from you,
When you think I am no more,
I will come back, I will come back to thee,
You are the subject of my being, if I forgot you, I'd forget to be.
I will come back to you as breeze,
Touching and kissing your cheeks and lips, flying your hair,
But you won't know it's me who is in the air.
I will come back to you in the sun's rays,
Making you feel my warmth,
But you won't know it's me who is holding you in my unseen arms.
I will come back to you in music,
Flowing through your body in a joy stream,
But you will mistake me for a dream.
I will come back to you as a cat,
Hanging round you, rubbing my head against your leg, hoping for a pat,
But you won't see,
That cat is me,
I will come to you as a baby, come to you as a son,
And you will know it is me,
And you will love me, my mom.

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Cut You Down

By Kyle Mosher - Contributing Artist

Night Roads

By Paul McMillan - Contributing Artist

By Reid Laurence - Contributing Poet

Just because
You cannot see
Doesn't mean
It cannot be

Are we destined
All to stay
Is there any
Other way

Is the struggle
All in vain
Does there come
One final pain

Is He watching
Is He there
Is there ever-
Lasting air

Where is Heaven
Where is Hell
Should I march
The street and tell

Belay the deck
And hold mast tight
There is no sailing
There tonight

We may not go
Or so they say
But something made
Us all to stay

And every star
And all our might
There is no after
In my sight

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By Nabin Kumar Chhetri - Contributing Poet

I remembered you yesterday
when I saw those roses
perfectly cut, wrapped
and placed for sale
I saw those blood red petals
how they curled upon each other
to become a rose
tight and warm
as though they would fall off
if they did not cling to each other.

I walked out of the store
without buying any
but as I went
your memory unfurled
like those petals
which I had just seen
blood red and intimate
I walked out
thinking of you.

These days whenever I think of colors
I think of roses
and when I think of roses
I think of you.

War Cry On The Stone Earth
By Alessandro Cusimano - Contributing Poet

if the Judgment didn't lay the blame on me
the defeat
if the Assassin asked for mercy

under a priesthood of disgrace

the Whitish Light of the Icy God
is in love
with the beloved
first blood in the morning

in the pale carnage
short bodies fall

half a shadow
of the vermillion child
glides along the blade-beast
of a bluebottle-razor

in a rusty and purple garden

the amaranth sting whips the shot
and the Martyrdom with the rope flame

if Endless Father shed his own blood
if Heaven had no more blood

Enemy of God
I were a butterfly

Demon of Devils
I accepted
on a whim
the agony and invoked
the madness

If upheld
I swear
the torment
if implored mercy

Beautiful Prince
I tore my teeth
and my eyes

if small arms
rich in blood
waved flags
like butterfly wings

Flawed Concept
By Bruce McRae - Contributing Poet

A nasty burning sensation.
Going shoeless at high tide.
Tipping over the fingerbowl.

All sights and sounds conspire
to invent an evening.
The senses relate and relay
an on-going storybook in the mind --
six billion realities, and none real.

Tim said to Alice who asks of Jill
something soon forgotten, such as
‘how many is a trillion raindrops'
or ‘what is it we perceive so uneasily'.

Here we stand, at the pinnacle,
the airy peak of our amassed history,
and what have we learned?

That hell is an outmoded punishment.
That time is wedded to the sin of the self.
How a single sneeze will bury millions.

Red Shift
By Sameer Nath - Contributing Poet

red shifting luminescence
drag, wind resistance, and I vector downward
the weight on my shoulders is overbearing.
I would walk but nature fights me.
I would breathe but the air itself divides me.
mud grinds the gears of war to a halt
mired in desolation, my eyes strain for a foothold
gravity restricts me. inertia suspends me.
cold suppresses movement, freezing liquids slow
ice sparkles. statues of once living forms
stasis. cryogenia
absolute zero.

Mid Enchanted Summers Night
By Darryn John Murphy - Contributing Poet

Mid enchanted summers night
Befall thy hands in pure delight
Bathe beneath the sea of stars
Gathered thoughts so near, yet far

Flicker once thy hand, I shun
Mystic River, valleys hum
Fall of grace upon thy thunder
Vanishing hand amidst my wonder

Cobblestones beside the brook
Yee hath come, beneath thy valley thunder
Vestige is thy, hand I wonder
Who has seen, thy chastised look

Merciful be thy, breath I take
To crumble beneath my earthly whims
Will the earth beneath me shake?
Heaven knows, the path upon which I've taken

Moonlit River, mountain gong
Quill thy hand the day is long
Pursuer of thy heart I cradle
Cards are left upon my table

We the Melancholy
By Brian Looney - Contributing Poet

We the melancholy,
Are restless and silent,
There is a rainy haze in every reflection.

We the melancholy,
Are tired and cold,
The shivers of age creep up our spines.

We the melancholy,
Are pestered with boredom,
An awful silence hums in our ears.

We the melancholy,
Are intelligent and deprived,
No challenges rise to meet us.

We the melancholy,
Are listless and indignant,
We're cut out for something more.

We the melancholy,
Are destructive and incomplete,
We welcome its slow grief.

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