​I left the city and went back home to the countryside
carrying a suitcase packed with the silence,
the journey of time could be identified upon its wrinkles
and the foundation remain with regrets and balcony splits,
after I wiped the journey from off my heels, I stood and looked
at the future through the grey mist of caducity, fat and overweight
as it eats nothing else except arthritis.
then cold shoulders administered themselves to my welcome
at a cold place beneath the roof,
where nonverbal cues are louder than my voice
and cigar puffs the air to sedate all that lies within,
but wounded words which fell from toxic breath
is stronger than barking dogs,
and the fragile window glasses fail to withstand against the martyred words,
which exposed to a neighborhood of vile tongues louder than my dislikeness,
as the twilight frowned upon the post meridian the sea rest upon my lashes
only to be hushed by curtains and doors,
the crewing dawn open its eyes with wine brawlers of passerby
spitting reality in drunken tales that become a stir of echoes for barking dogs.
Through shifted curtains intoxication identify itself
with tilted bones that rocks with the wind, while expose nerve open to dispute.
Into the west of a hard knock life, a place that reveal how weevil dances in dry cornmeal,
Proves how stronger I am than a giant, because I carry the thunder inside my belly.
and if I complain those around me replied and said, God didn’t make the world
with oil only salt, this is the bitter wind at my ears when I still complained and the world
replied and said, God didn’t make the world with oil and dead meat, only salt proverbs and poetry.

About the author: 
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.  

Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers,
and massages their temper before we misunderstand.
let us have them submit to our attention
and call that moment the vibes,
so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars
and the smell of intoxicated pores through thick skins.
let us speak to them in silence
since they already know the meaning of that word
but not in the shape and form of poetry,
let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands
or sweep away the river with their lashes.
let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see
and release the clogged tunnel in their veins,
let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking
but birds and butterflies will know.

 i have never felt safe in my purple framed mind.
i lay on my side with my brain wide open, hoping love
 
will blow through my window. the door swings
open from the emptiness of the wind, and creaks
 
gently at me, before it slams to a frigid stop.
as if to remind me that i am more alone than he.
 
he has his handle, his screws and bolts, and his frame
to fall safely and comfortably back into.
 
i have nothing but my restless mind,
and some dull furniture that shines brighter than i.
 
even the roses outside in the neighbours garden have had
more growth than i in these past few years. Growth.
 
a word that floats in a wavering gold liquid on my tongue.
i want to touch it, taste it, embrace it. and i do. it is disgusting. tiresome. cold.
 
it saturates my mouth like curdled summer ice cream,
melting in mid air. the taste of another dreaded friday enters my mind.
 
reminding me that i have a whole new week ahead of me to feel
low again. to feel stunted. to feel grey, not gay.
 
i wish i was a somnambulist. i would do all that i needed to do in my sleep
washing myself, eating, exercise, perhaps even act polite and social.
 
without the pain and bore of it all. without having to actually do it.
without being myself. without being by myself. alone. cold. Icy.

i imagine you as a morsel
while i place you inside my needy mouth
tasting you before I submerge you…
tasting you before i hand your delicate scallop like flesh
 
over to my violent tongue
as it swirls you around and around
like a merry-go-round in the front of my mouth
thrashing you so wildly
 
that your skin starts to tear and flake off,
falling upon my curious gums,
like autumn debris
brushing against my velvet cheeks.
 
my molars grind you into a flattened flesh
diluting you with saliva
so that you can slide easily down
the dark pit of hell where you truly belong