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Hedonism is Not a Place

when you're on your own will you remember the last steps down my back porch? i still ache. i still hold my shame: against my wrist, on my sleeve, on my face. and i wouldn't put this on you for the world but when i am alone at night i hope you are too and i hope you hate it. Zach Goldberg

Little tickle chin hairs, Whispers against my neck Sing your soft flesh My hot breath Your hot breath And a thousand folds of warmth Black satin embrace Our love was laced with a taste of ecstasy You turned me Through forests and trees Smelling symphony Us, animal beasts, With our savage need Speaking hungry Finally, finish me.

La Mirp

My Crippled Train of Thought I sit at in front of a blank Word document And the dysfunctional ride begins. After what seems like an eternity, the train s l o w l y jolts on its way:


Stop. Lurch.

Stop. Jolt.

Stop. Backtrack.

Stop. The engines suddenly spark and carry the train up mysterious hills, down steep ramps into the infinite world of black confusion to spend what feels like forever trying to escape the thick and unforgiving puddles of quicksand defining the black hole of utter turmoil. Another ignition rockets to a relentless track of sharp twists and turns and upside-down corkscrews, all at unthinkable, ever-changing speeds, leading terminally to a downward spiral…and there I am derailed.

Ode to Imagination Dragging my feet through the door my rationality crumbles, Sending me on a twisted journey through my most intimate thoughts. A strange never-land where never doesn't exist unless it's demanded. Permitted violence and romance combine with passions and destruction Creating an empty void begging to be filled. A place where creatures roam free kicking up pastures With their strong, nimble fingers. Blank canvases with immense amounts of untouched insignias Calling out the material that was hidden for hours Away from enemy lines. Reality is muddled by phrases and meanings brought up by motions and pictures: Flooring and tiles string up by the chandeliers, Paints spilt and blended into unbearable hues, Words splattered and hung on the lines of purpose. I am the commander; the lady in charge. Sharing is never an option. The world is mine and mine only. A window is opened, allowing only a glimpse of bland polish For a selective few to admire and learn to make their own fairy tail. The pieces are picked up and tossed away to motion Never returning until another trip is in secession.


Zack Donnenberg

Mother. Oh, Mommy if you could see me. You crumbled under my honesty. You squirmed under my microscope I can’t stand your need for attention; I can’t stand how you gnaw at me. You scrub, and you push, and you grind me down My bitter bones bare, and embarrassed I watch as you rise; I watch as you fall It’s the same every single time You love strangers, but never me. I know you don’t love anyone for long; I know all about you. You are constantly putting me down. I know it’s out of habit. I don’t know what made you so insecure; I don’t know who you are. I’ll forgive you again and again I’ll let you pretend you are the person you pretend to be You are a fairytale; you are my mother. I am your feminine achievement. I forgive you for withholding my nourishment, my milk. Can you forgive for never being you?

You were sweet, like death, But my tongue was numb and swollen. I had licked the blood from the floor and off of your acuate incisors. I used it to write my letters to God. When the angels responded to my requisitions, I pulled apart your eyelashes, one by one, And I used them to solve for the variability of substance. They yielded to me solutions in fragments, sanctimonious theses superimposed upon one another. I told His messengers that I knew the enigma of creation.


They warded off my threats with callous remarks, but I saw their disquiet in the ruffled feathers of the ravens perched upon my windowsills. They cringed as I dissembled your atoms with my bare hands, their wings undulating in tremulous motions. And as they watched, I alloyed your molecules with mine until I was no longer one of God’s children. I ceased their protests with cavalier dismissals, my claws gouging the faith from their ribs. Your disciples are mine, God. The letters I wrote in the blood of my lover Were only to warn you of my arrival.

Gargled by Glutinous Vines Wrapping around the throat, Strangling the grief from her bones till she quivers and heaves Carving corpuscles from the corpse Showing the death underneath Only deathOnly deathOnly death will free her. Black, barren sockets showing only sadness The woes of never knowing Never holding it in her arms Never hearing its voice The angle covered in blood Take it to a better place And take her with it Let the roots tear at her limbs Devour the rotting flesh and bone Dig her a grave for her to sleep- and take her away Because wherever you take her Is better than here.

Fragile Content I am torn between wanting to wear the wistful softness of your eyes, and needing to sink into that look, stripping me of my heady disdain, the salt-rimmed stench of panicked compliance leaving you with the shallow, anguished pining of a marble statue my selfish love of living breath. But as I crumble, clamped in aimless tragedy you might think of how stones measure time And that we are bound to erode as well. Layer upon layer, mountains built with the memory of our kisses.

Girl Pulled Apart My mind is tattered and tumbled around The sounds and smells of the living around me Drag my thoughts with their ropes Taunting and terrifying They twist and they turn until I’ve lost my place Bringing myself to places I thought I’ve never been This place seems so familiar Though I don’t know where I am Some places are shining bright Some places are almost breaking My world is sliding down the drain Losing control, sinking slow

Lucidity a landscape ashen and unadorned with silver tongued thoughts

barren passed had the acutely mirrored clarity of an era lapsed into oblivion left with naught but the winter’s chill for smoke laden is the plane of my mind thoughts encumbered beneath such lacking lucidity

no longer do these creatures respite within me as once were hidden in the corners that have become rounded.

‌And I Stare At My Feet it’s hard to keep the infinite everything at bay. i creep and hide in my old homes, my oldest thoughts. the quietly traced finger across a line leading from your house to my bedpost. i can look myself in the eye most of the time. i can brace myself against a farther fall from graces i gave up on years before you came along. i can stomach this.

You push petty pride, premature posturing you peddle as pensive portrayals of the parallels of your perversions. But you can’t prove you own worth with proverbs appropriated from other prophets. Pain does not pass for pontification, you peevish predator of pre-made poetry. If you perceive me promiscuously then be perturbed by your own pious prejudice; my performance is no pleasantry. Plummet, putrid peacock. pestilence is your only promise.

Incurable you had forgotten your towels, so i dried you with words. but when they couldn’t soak up your sadness , i wrapped you in the bathtub, thinking that the water would wick away your fears. as you emerged, slicker than before, i knew that i only soaked you in disparity, for the shadows beneath your eyes had grown; they were planets orbiting your pupils. in the end, i took your hair and i chopped it all off in the hopes that you wouldn’t remember who you had been and who you left behind. instead i found that the layers of gray were stitched into your skin, that i couldn’t unravel them even if i tried.

The pulchritude of a land much older than I Frozen in time by ink and paper Alive in mediums and spirit Honeycombs reflecting inner feelings Its utter essence wondrous The dwelling exotic, lonian brilliance The shadows mystical and enlightening Darkness has fallen on the hillside But the city is fluid Few things are more indescribable in zoom For we can see flaws at every crevice It is not often the contrary is true Maybe we aspire to live out of the details.

A Northern Italian in a Southern Bar A thin film of smoke lined the room, obscuring the view farther than necessary. The southern Italian club was already lit dimly enough around the dance floor making it easy to end up dancing with a complete stranger. It wasn’t like they would care anyway: everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves with the fast beats pulsing through ramshackle speakers. The mom-and-pop restaurant seemed to have transformed most literally overnight- or over a few hours- into a lively hangout full of young, active adults. The place reeked of various perfumes and traditional red sauce, overpowering the strong essence of cigarettes only slightly. Beautiful woman scattered around the hangout waiting to be wooed or swept off their feet onto the dance floor; many were dressed in their parent’s old party hand-me-down dresses. Young, handsome men took the plane by majority and shamelessly boogie their hearts out leaving only a few by the bar. Feliciano made his way over to said bar with a strut in his step. The click of his low-heeled boots went unheard under the extensive pounding of bass and the ring of charismatic tenor from the synthesized melody. A charming smirk was waved to a few ladies huddled at a bar stool sending them into a giggling frenzy. The tip of the boot was a strange place for the Northern Italian: everything seemed much more alive once the shadow of night fell. He took a seat at the far end of the bar near the floor and ordered himself a glass of sweet wine. The fabric of the seats stuck to his pants casually in an almost appealing way but creaked with the slightest of movements. Sipping the wine nonchalantly, he scanned the wild dance scene. Everyone appeared to know what they were doing with their feet, dance clubs seemed to be popular around here; especially old fashioned ones like this. He tended to stand out slightly against the old time milieu. His style was far too modern to ever fit in with the people inhabiting the area. Not to mention there weren’t any middle aged individuals in sight. The outdated décor clashing with the far more contemporary music sure was a sight to see, but what really entranced Feliciano was one of the dancers. He danced alone: sheathed in the blurred state of madness around his graceful movements. Boot-hidden soles traced agile yet random shapes on top of the terra cotta tiling, arms expressing the same amount of passion and ache for rave. Each new movement transformed the entirety of it all into something that much more mystifying. When you looked at the whole picture, his skills weren’t as magnificent compared to the specialists taking center stage, but nonetheless, it was a sight worth absorbing.

This Poem Got Renamed Because Capitalist America and Art Do Not Go Together

Credits Special thanks to the Board of Education, Administration, and the Teachers for all their support. Thank you to the writers, artists and all those who take the time to appreciate all of our hard work. Most poetry and artwork has been published anonymously due to the district’s Internet Usage Policy. Club Advisors Mr. Crane Ms. Imhof

Images 2012-2013  

Poetry and Art work from Voorhees students.

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