Dark Shit Vol. 1 by Nicholas Osella

Dark Shit

Vol. 1

Dark Shit is a collection of poems and prose, which feature open topics of shared honesty. Our voice reflect our environment -- those reflections aren’t always good, but always worth sharing. peace + love

Dark Shit Vol. 1 October 2016 Deonte McCoy_________________________________________pg. 6-11 Nicholas_____________________________________________pg. 14-19

© MAWA Creative Co/Op ; Dark Shit, 2016 All words in this publication belong to Nicholas Osella + Deonte McCoy ; Any reproduction of their words without intent or awareness is unlawful and mean. Don’t do that. 2

Deonte McCoy 4

Conversations Past Midnight Once again kissed by this endless abyss, All alone and completely free. They say it’s dangerous to be this deep, But every time I visit, I slip Further and further. Depth steadily increasing. Chances of death increasing. I love it. I’m lit again from the adrenaline.

Outside my own. Look me in the eyes. Let your soul rise. Come with me, I have what you need. I have everything you’ve ever wanted, Everything you’ve never even dreamed. You can have the house on the mountains With nymphs by the thousands. Breasts bouncing in sync with Incessant moonlit howling. With morning comes showers of acid rain Covering the fiery fields of frosty flowers. Enough to dive for days. Comfortably lose control, mid flight. It’s alright. Let me be your wings. Let me have your being.

The room is growing and shrinking, somehow, Even though the walls fell down Already. Steady Breaths.Yes always remember to breathe. Don’t let suffocation be the cause of your defeat. It’s not your time, Yet, at least.

Underneath this blanket of black paint. Heat. So much heat In the midst of these black flames. Frustrated matches with too much tension, Too much friction. Even wearing my glasses, I’m completely void of vision. I can still, however, Feel a presence

Alarming

The Sad Bird’s Song I rose before the sun 3 days in a row, still unborn. From the womb, once torn, Ripped and kicked into the void. A room with no bounds, No walls to bounce the sound So infinite, the echoes of my mom’s voice saying “you need to cure that illness, boy.” Mama, I’m trying I promise I ain’t lying, But these injured wings make it hard to keep flying. A lot of barking, no biting, And that’s what hurts the most. The trees are dying, along with summer’s soul. “cure that illness, boy” I’m trying, mama. That’s why I treat these pills as toys. Let’s play. Bring me the joy I had back in the day. Bring me the joy that was taken aback by pain. It’s hard to wash clean, Still I bathe in these puddles of rain.

At some point it clicks. That’s why you’re here. The alarms ringing repeatedly. “SHUT THAT SHIT OFF!” You can yell, but unto deaf ears Your cries fell. These sirens are just a gift To be accepted, And only these, when you least Expect it… Peace.

Mind Yours

If Only…

It’s only right To live this life With your head down. Keep your brim low. Keep your face shaded Under a dim glow. Fill your cup up to the brim. Take a swim. Black is the only color As you dive down further. Drown, In your own thoughts. You’re only worth the amount Of the things you’ve bought. Mount your money and Fly on its wings. Feel the bitter wind As you pick up speed. Careful not to fall, For the fall is forever. The trees become bare With the ever changing weather. But you’ll never notice. Live life with your head down And arms folded. Don’t ever let them in.

My only savior is this razor. Blades of glory Gracefully skating across my skin. Satisfaction as you watch it split And brown becomes red. Oh, what a sensation! My only love is for these drugs. Take me up To the highest mountain So I can jump. I know I’ll grow my wings And finally Fly into the sun. My only freedom is this rope. It feeds him hope For new life. The credits roll Until the screen eventually fades to black. If you travel long enough Through the deep, complete darkness, You’ll soon stumble upon New light.

Nicholas 12

Pretending that we hadn’t already been caught. What happened was fate, or something there in it – We hadn’t been changed, at least not that minute. magnolia (for Jamie) we were younger then, as I look to remember – the days we spent in the arms of another. quickly we ran, to our tree of magnolias – the sun danced swaying like their scarlet begonias. during the summer our hair would stick – stuck to our face, the air lay thick. running around, hair swaying cooly – hearing another what the other’d say rudely. it mattered not, since we’d known each other – from a past life known from sometime whenever. the foot of the tree we’d sit in the shade – and beyond us, the children, they’d dance and play, games from their mother, taught in the day, taken by their fathers, memories which fade. racing another to the top of its branches – perch and wonder of when the other advances. grabbing the limbs, reaching for air – thickening dense in the belly we’d tear. from inside the tree our world was bright – carved by the leaves, were beams of light. as he smiled they’d tear, shine on his braces – seeing one another by the skin of our faces. Floating together, never alone – We existed as one, part of a whole.

We left each other soon thereafter – one morning, years later, I was told of your death, from my mother she howled, blood came from her breath, and what loomed beyond us was thought of disaster. Your room was dark and I walked in slowly – It smelled of death, or something un-holy. I noticed the carpet, stained from your vomit – You had lain there dying, in front of your closet. I scanned the room, for signs of a struggle – But you’d done this to yourself, beyond the huddle. Your father had cut you from the anchor you hung – In the light of the moon, your neck it stung. Your braces would glisten; your heart had stopped – Your house became sacred, a pilgrimage, we flocked. Now I stand watching, from across the street – Waiting for us, in the arms of our tree, un-knowing you’d soon be beneath, seeds in the shade, falling to our feet.

I can see you now, running on home – The sun had set; and we’d only been gone, A few minutes, I thought, across the lawn, Though I hoped forever, of what we’d become. Chasing us home from behind our backs – the thought of us older, those thoughts we lacked. We came to your house, opened the door – Your house was the same, dog on the floor. I can remember the smell, all too familiar – The sight of your parents getting ready for dinner. We ran up the stairs, hid from the thought –

And when a gun kills civilians, instead of the billions – Who are overseas fighting, the criminal demons. When the asphalt looms, blackened into the night – Streams of its arteries, soaked from the fight, (Untitled) I was floating out there in the middle of the Atlantic, While my raft lay sinking – Shooting off flares. We watched the red tails soar into the blackened sky, Perpetually blinking – For someone who cares.

By men of the slaughter, just like spit in the water – Drowned of their solace, they were black, like our father, We bury them in media, which is a thoughtful reminder – Of the powerful message King wished could have been brighter. Stepping in between bodies, in the midst of the road – The voices and outpour of yelling overflow, Although nothing was there, in the silent heat – We were alone, with each other, eyes at our feet,

The American Dreamt

Wandering, slowly, and confused of our fate – I seemed despaired, like our future was up for debate.

I was walking yesterday, across the street – Thinking about people, faces that repeat,

Arguments aside, when I stepped off the street – I began to see more faces, bounding from the beat.

And to my dismay, or through my aggression – Found the absolute definition of our collected confession,

Men would glare, and point in my direction – Killing me slowly, we’d offer no protection,

Hasn’t progressed or made a difference – Just sat there waning in the protest of distance.

A Dream, out there, clutching for air – Lost in the mounds of hope, and fluttered despair.

I’m confused on gender identity, coupled mass conformity – Victims shaming their body and calling it equality, Feminism exists when we are in corners – Oppressing gender, back turned, closing your borders, We’re helping your vision, not wasting your mission – But calling us demons helps, to see your inspiration! Celebrate the slanted unconscious, and semi-depraved – War torn heroes of the unconditioned slave, Who find themselves fighting, sending off lightening – Inside of schools, fools, who just want to see a dividing,

breath, I bent down and picked up a, what looked like clean shirt, and threw it over my body. I remember being frantic for a few seconds, I was looking for something, tearing at my messy, poorly light studio apartment room for something in my sheets. Finding my watch under my pillow, I checked the time and saw it was 6:43am, causing me to go into even more of a flurry – I was probably just late by a few minutes, though. So, tucking my shirt into my pants, I was straightening my back and fixing my belt to my fattened waist, tearing my undershirt more under the armpit and exposing the skin tags to the rugged, well-worn police officer uniform, which I consoled in some Gold Bond for, though there were some leftover blotches of powder from the day before. After gaining speed , I managed to step into my shoes, get a bagel from the fridge and leave in my car, making it to the station a few minutes after 7am. (Untitled #2 - For Rae) I was a policeman in this dream I had the other night – like, I was a fat, old, tired cop that had been on the force for a while and I just hated everything. It’s funny because the dream had started with me looking at my pig self in the mirror and I was naked, just having stepped out of the shower and everything. My penis was small, probably from the cold water, probably just given the fact that I was kind of heavy set and didn’t work out much so I was much fatter around my waist. My skin was very white, and even under my rosy cheeks were a pale, expressionless tone of agoraphobic colored skin. Raising my hands to my face, and kind of massaging my eyes, I could see how tired I was – balding, sagging pieces of flesh attached to my skeleton, I just looked really miserable but I could tell I didn’t care all that much. The towels I used to wash myself were dirty from the previous days spent on the floor – noticing the other laundry around the room that hadn’t been picked up, I could tell this was a kind of characteristic of mine. Anyway, I remember smelling the towels and using them against protest of a better, cleaner alternative. My skin had tags under the armpit and it hurt to move my arms above my head, to put deodorant on or my undershirt that had holes in it. It was yellowed around the armpits and collar; it was probably my favorite shirt, right? I mean – that’s why I wore it so much and everything. Anyway, I could see myself putting it on and struggling to find my cop pants, which were draped over the kitchen sink, out of the way from the dirty dishes mountain stacked next to the broken coffee maker, mildewed by the leftover coffee I must have forgotten to empty one stressful morning. Putting on my pants, I could see in my eyes the sweat rolling from my baldhead into my eyes, blurring my vision behind my glasses. Going up past my knees, I had to wait to finish because of my exhaustion, breathing hard, I almost passed out over my bathroom sink – afraid I might throw up. Getting back my

I don’t remember what happened between then and when I was driving the police cruiser, but I remember making a U-turn and driving at a high speed towards downtown. When I got out, there was a frustrated looking white guy calling out to another man a few feet away. He was black and had his shirt ripped, eyes aggressive. Walking towards the white man, I went in to separate his violent attacks from making contact to the black man. He accidentally swung at me, which missed, thankfully. Due to my stature I could tell I wouldn’t have a problem with stopping his attacks. Though seeing a shoe fly by my head, I remember turning around and staring at the black man. He looked like a bull, ready to charge, eyes red with hate, hair matted to his head, he stood waiting. Charging the man, he lunged, attempted to get past me and I pushed him away. Again, he made his way to attack the white man and instead hit me in my arm, causing me to lunge for my armpit, hurting; I stared at him, expressionless. Turning to run away, he dropped his knife on the asphalt in front of me and bounded away – I drew my gun. His shirt danced on his shoulders, flowing from the direction of the rip across his chest. Sweat stains on his back, it looked like it was one of his favorite shirts too, well worn and all. Aiming in his direction, I could feel myself shouting for him to stop. He didn’t, so I shot him, twice. Once in the leg and another in the back. I walked to him to see if he was alive and blood poured from his chest, soaking into his favorite shirt. I remember looking around and there was no one, the world was empty except for me and this bloodied, dead man. The sky grew black, the asphalt turned to water and the body floated away down the street into the neighborhood for children to see. Feeling the water up to my knees, I knelt down and washed the dirt off my hands. Looking at my face, I was tired, and heaving. I fell backwards with a gigantic splash, and sat in the river, letting it wash over me – it felt good on my skin, warming my clothes.