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Unexpected Night

I look

At the empty wine glass 


With your fingerprints

And red lipstick

I cannot help

But grieve

How swiftly

Everything changed

In an instant.


A few moments ago

You sitting here

In front of me

The sound of your

Sweet laughter 

And your

Sultry voice

Still echoes in my mind


Now you left me here 

With my left cheek


In a room

Full of vultures

Eyes piercing



Yes, I am a fool

A word I shouldn't

Have said

You left me here to rot.


My mind

Still wanders in limbo

Perhaps of too many

Drinks I had.

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The strangest thing to ever happen in February was Chocolate.  A red-paper wrapped box of chocolates.  The air was telling me some thing suspicions was happening.  The air told me Caroline was lying when she said she left her shoes in the math classroom. But the air told me, play along, there's something sweet.  but my gut told me, don't open the locker, why else would they be pressing so hard, hinting so much.  Don't open the locker, this Pandora's box of chocolate.  

I open the locker and ignore the hear and the box.  Run away said my heart.  Stay, said my friends. This isn't what I asked for.  Bewildered, angered, confused and upset   I don't want to be your valentine, and I don't want your chocolate.

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Black Eyes

Her eyes were as black as a caves interior, just like the darkness I found myself staring into them wondering what they contained.

Her eyes were as black as 3 am, just like the night sky I found myself gazing into them, admiring their beauty and that twinkle that I dare call a star 

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Chasing Tracers

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it came & went--
time did--those that
remained after its
            lived death
            to pay for

meant for
follow suit
poison moons
--as wishes--
                   scattering seeds
                   growing weeds
dandelion sun
  only stains
sea green sea graves
--a grass ground ocean--

pigeon, mock the mocking-
pigeon--man, woman & child
each has a place -- fruitless --

fail to find that which cannot
                be found
ask the mayapples
                  devil's garden
ask the mayapples
                  they know not
                  to make truth

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Black Speckle

Were you a speckle of black
when I peeled away
all the lies?
from my cocrodile mind, that I tried
to keep
              locked away.

BUt You provoked
and shot, and cut every word,
the fuckery that you loved
...killed you,

pigment by pigment,
blood drop by drop.
I turned you black, and bit
that liquorice heart
                        into leather,
my art.

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The Fall

It is December 21, 2012.
The End of Days has come
and Apocalypse is upon us.

God is descending upon the Earth,
to pass judgement on mankind.

But He lands awkwardly
and now lies
mortally wounded
on the ground.

All humanity,
the dead from years past,
the living
and the unborn from years to come
encircle Him.

The dead wonder
what the Afterworld would become
without God’s presence,
the living consider
how lives will change
with the Divine Being gone, 
the unborn plan for existence
in a world 
devoid of its Creator.   

Believers and non-believers
feel exactly the same way
for precisely the opposite reasons:
The faithful are horrified
that God is dying
but are gratified 
that their faith has not been in vain,
while atheists are horrified
that the Almighty does exist,
but are gratified He is dying.

And so the King of Kings
lies prostrate
at humanity’s feet,
fatally injured by the fall.

Yesterday it was God,
looking at us from up above,
judging and deciding our fates.
Now the perspective has changed
and we are looking down at Him,
pondering if we should extend
a helping hand,
if it is our duty
to try to save the life
of the fallen, dying God?

Or should we pretend
we don’t see Him,
the way He ignored mankind
in its hours of peril
and took no notice
when we pleaded to Him
in our most fervent,
most desperate prayers.
And then
a dead child
emerges out of the
runs up to God
with no trace of hesitation,
finishes Him off
with a shot
to the head.

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The fog is frozen

over woods

like whirling dervishes

time forgot.



I watch pigeons soar,

while mental grog

slowly thins-

the world seems dazed.




Status quo : comfort zone,

security blanket

suit the very old.



What anarchist thrashes inside

I don't know : his fury seals

me off.



(c) Max Babi

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2# Misunderstood







A wall full of blood.




Cut's from a knife.




Hoping to die.





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