Poetry. - Connor Stevens

I.

The flames enveloping
  the corpse of the slave
are lapping at the feet of the master.

II.

fleeing from the unsayable
  warm glow of memory
       and ash
i am running sideways through things.

III.

the violence inherent
  in the flesh
    beneath
  his eyes




"Petulance"
(September, 2014)

The feeling of pages in my hands.
This has become my primary reality.
That, and the superior transient joys.

The ants crawling across my body.
Eash one a lesson in patience,
in compassion.
The sun summons a flame
that rises through my flesh
surfacing in blissful
golden-brown.

Our bodies dance 'round
and come together
intertwining all our contradictions.
Words
like lust lose
their burden.
Loosen yourself
inside of my,
a rapturous surrender.
Tower over me,
a monument of muscle.




"Condemnation"
(October, 2014)

Condemnation
    pours forth
    like magma
Affirmation
    it seems
cannout be found
amidst all the bickering
in cinder blocks
held by pliers
spat upon
by fiends
imitating men.

The most wretched
shadows can imitate men.
It is nothing special.
But they are, finally, phantasms
  and incapable of this
    realness glimpses in dreams and sex and prayer

The spit evaporates into nothingness
    but here we feel the heat of affirmation
in the breath of a lover
the exchange with a distant being in a close dream
being cradled by the ancestors 'round that ancient flame

And words do not mean much
    approaching these lightning bolts
       burning with realness
          and temporality.

i am suffocating because my breath cannot touch your neck.




"Mother"
(9.22.12)

Mother i
have chosen the path of life
Mother
i swear to you in this wretched ink
  that must be waded through like a black swamp
That you will not have to bury me.

The gray skies pull the sorrow
so gracefully condensed into such a short time
to the surface of my face,
and in the cold i cough alone
Mother i have foresaken you.

Now i will not shed tears
which never comforted me
But where can i go for warmth
only found in Mothers?

In this time of sowing
  cut off from the womb
    of Mother-earth
i exist on a desolate plain
with no fire, no warm embraces

Did we ever know
  a time of reaping
amid all the laughter and
lightheartedness of foregone days?
Only by persevering through this
darkness can we come to love
  the flame.




"dead time"

suicide
  is on the minds
of so many so young
beautiful souls and wretched
shells
  of former warmth
  desolate, to the touch

What kind of space are
  we passing through?

Were it not
  for the brevity
  already ordained
  in creation's process
i too would have slipped
  to such a jagged passing

It's easy
  to be pulled in so
  many frivolous directions
And yet
  i lose track of my
  inumerable blessing

What have i done
  to deserve this?

Why have we come
  to pass through this space?




"January 17, 2015"

It would be so much better
  to crawl into that summer
what seems like a lifetime ago

There was the rattle and the thunder
  the sweat and the tears
  the hunger and the innocence
The warmth of his companionship,
  the most intimate i have ever known.

Sitting knee-to-knee
  eating our soup
  after soccer, or exercise,
the orange glow of the setting sun
  spilling through the bars
We talked about everything
  with our mouths and our hearts and our eyes
We entered into an intimate vulnerability
  and his beauty overwhelmed me.
i still love him,
  and am learning to love him more

He walked with me, sat with me,
  shielded me and set an example for me
  and we passed the time together.

What can be said about the love?
  It was the greatest i have ever known
    and i shiver at the slightest thought
of those passionate nights amidst that vast silence.




"Social Justice in the Year 2032"

 The crowd surged in the direction of Downtown, the city center.
 There were thousands of them, amny delusional from hunger, drugs and sleep deprivation. It was difficult to determine just how many there were.
 As they came to the bridge that separated their neighborhoods from the city center several black helicopters, monstrous insects, formed a line some five hundred feet in the air above the bridge. Loudspeakers boomed: "Return to your homes. Do not attempt to cross this bridge, or we will take action."
 Some towards the front of the mob attempted to stop, to turn around. But there were too many forcing their way forward.
 After the mob made it about one hundred feet onto the bridge it began to stop, as people began stumbling and collapsing in the street. Some were vomitting. This was due to the audio frequencies being emitted from the helicopters. No human with functioning ears could withstand it. But some had learned to adapt, blocking their ears adequately enough to continue forward. As this more experience crowd came within two hundred yards of the middle of the bridge (above which the helicopters hovered), lasers began dancing among them. Some fell to their knees, hands clasped to their faces. The disorienting lasers were overcome by most of these experienced rioters through the use of specially-developed sunglasses.
 However, after this core group of rioters came another seventy-five feet or so further, the helicopters began unleashing a different kind of laser. One that boils flesh. In an instant dozens of rioters began howling in extreme torment as their flesh heated and popped and oozed beneath their homemade armor. Still some 200 people persisted along the bridge, and the helicopters unleashed their .50 caliber machine guns, quickly reducing the rioters to a heap of corpses.
 And the loudspeakers boomed: "Terrorist aggression will not be tolerated."
 A rock, from a slingshot no doubt, pinged off the bullet-proof glass of the cockpit. The rattling of the machine guns came to a stop, and all that could be heard in the crisp night was the moans of the dying.

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