poetry
There are many kinds of poetry, and we want them all. Freeverse, iambic, haiku, sonnets, romantic, humorous, dark, send us your best!
untitled
I'm really not feeling it
The Veteran's Day arctic expedition
The unseasonable assault of
Nature offended
The Garden of Eden in
Full on revenge
Waiting for corporate cupidity to die for it's own sins
Instead of this hamster wheel of vicarious atonement
Braving the elements for a lousy fifty bucks
By Tamara Binsfeld
I'm really not feeling it
The Veteran's Day arctic expedition
The unseasonable assault of
Nature offended
The Garden of Eden in
Full on revenge
Waiting for corporate cupidity to die for it's own sins
Instead of this hamster wheel of vicarious atonement
Braving the elements for a lousy fifty bucks
This sucks
I'm not even sure
What's right anymore
Doing what they say when
They never do what I do
Not like I can't or won't or even shouldn't, for that matter
Just that I don't want to
And half a pot of coffee, a big bowl of oatmeal, and a modified version of Chloe Ting's ab workout have yet to fuel my resolve
Knowing my heels will be dug into half a foot of snow
Whether I go to work or not
But at least if I stay home, I can shovel at my leisure
Without being exhausted by achy old biddies
Sitting pretty in the assisted living facility I'll never be able to afford
Reciting the spoiled rotten croakery of a long expired generation
As I type out my very own death sentence
On bald tires and bad rotors
For a boss who insults me under their breath
For doing what they say
Not what they do
All while being the element they themselves are afraid to brave
A living, breathing parable
A mirror to how terrible they truly are
The lowest bar
The legislators of slave labor
Sharing the holiday meal with their families
Ignoring the famine afflicting their serfs
A lousy 50 bucks
And no fucks to give for it
Anyone want to join me?
I think I'm calling out after all
About the author
As a writer, Tamara Binsfeld is a polyamorous whore, carelessly flinging her deepest thoughts against the wall for anyone to casually lick like a Blarney stone for the broken. But in the real world, she's made a name for herself telling the boss how much she hates her job, and dedicates her spare time to curling bars for the revolution, never ending fasting rituals, and perfecting the pose of chihuahua furniture.
untitled
It’s a regular occurrence
Almost daily
Overtaken
Suddenly
I prostrate myself
Willingly
By Tamara Binsfeld
It’s a regular occurrence
Almost daily
Overtaken
Suddenly
I prostrate myself
Willingly
Swept away
Teased out
This meaningless
Dimension
The four legged specter who never left my side
She wants to snuggle
Stretch her neck
Press her head into
Whatever part is
Most accessible
Or show me things I should be abreast of
Like her loyalty in the afterlife
But mostly, remind me
She’s always here
Even if that means
Knocking me out and yanking my essence from
my third eye
It’s comforting to know
Her persistence is eternal
As she is
Her demands are welcome to continue to Inconvenience
How I cherish these
Astral encounters
Couldn’t care less what anyone thinks
They’ve probably never been
Rescued by a
Rescue Dog
About the author
As a writer, Tamara Binsfeld is a polyamorous whore, carelessly flinging her deepest thoughts against the wall for anyone to casually lick like a Blarney stone for the broken. But in the real world, she's made a name for herself telling the boss how much she hates her job, and dedicates her spare time to curling bars for the revolution, never ending fasting rituals, and perfecting the pose of chihuahua furniture.
channeled message
There is no saying, though the hour, as always, is ominously nigh, the signs in the sky, crossbar of Aleph, apex at Kerrville, next stop, Makanda, Illinois, somewhere, the portal to hell sits conspicuously behind a Tim Horton's, maple glazed and graffiti sprayed, in the land of milk and honey
By Tamara Binsfeld
There is no saying, though the hour, as always, is ominously nigh, the signs in the sky, crossbar of Aleph, apex at Kerrville, next stop, Makanda, Illinois, somewhere, the portal to hell sits conspicuously behind a Tim Horton's, maple glazed and graffiti sprayed, in the land of milk and honey, where the Mammonites duke it out with the Mennonites, how I wish I could hit a spliff with Abraham’s hoodlums one last time, sublime in the Jubilee of the Age of Grace, race to the finish, a fetus factory in recycled PFAs, razed from the landscape in time for an Omega of a full corn moon, too soon, but somehow not soon enough, Magog could not be more obvious, or less oblivious, assaulting God’s children with TikTok videos, armor of disinformation, the nation is the demon seed, but nobody heeds the warning, where have all the good times gone, to worry is naught, the battle to be fought is rigged, but AI will claim a premature victory, stamping out the dissident tread, loaves of silicone, bred for your pleasure preinfected, a flesh devouring sexbot species, 3D printed nephilim beasties, when the hyperbaric Puritans spring from graves for the sole purpose finger wag, everything is ugly and barren and hot, the living are dead, vanity rot
About the author
As a writer, Tamara Binsfeld is a polyamorous whore, carelessly flinging her deepest thoughts against the wall for anyone to casually lick like a Blarney stone for the broken. But in the real world, she's made a name for herself telling the boss how much she hates her job, and dedicates her spare time to curling bars for the revolution, never ending fasting rituals, and perfecting the pose of chihuahua furniture.