May 10th, 2021. SICK

“ʞƆIS” by Conal Gilliland

– – –

"Unpleasant Buzz" by S.J. Delaney 
The stupor of dark pubs on late nights,

of stumbling home by pale light; sun

bathing the body and purging the soul.

Of music directly by your ears so

loud it spills off and into the night

unheard. It was one too many.

A baby bean down and away and

away and away, waiting until it dissolves

and falls through the blood and to the mind.

Sitting up at night choking. It feels

like dying, the pale light through the blind

signalling more hours to come and to come

they do, whether you like it or not. Waiting

it out. Impatient, you check the bottle again

and still there are minutes left.

Unfocused. Bones cracking in strain. Body.

It is all Body. Painfully aware of Body.

It has finally betrayed you, dearest Mind

and now you must wait, gaoled and restless.

– – –

– – –

Feeling Blue” by Jonah Anderson

– – –

"Sick" by Harrie Costello
I made myself sick 
For days
In a row
And little did you know

The bitter aftertaste wasn’t the vomit
It was the comments
And the constant
Need to remind me that I’m not all I think I am

I made myself sick
In ways
I didn’t know
Some I couldn’t show

Festering inside my brain
A subliminal illness
Thinking of ways that I could kill this
Constant narrative in my head that argued with itself
Whilst doing my best to try and expel
The thoughts and reasons in my head that were the obvious truth,
But if I couldn’t bare them,
How could you?

I made myself sick
With nothing to say
I let go
Of all the promises I made to myself all that time ago

It comes to a day where there’s nothing to puke
Your body is empty but you have had your fill
And with the simple concentrated power of will
You muster up what ever energy you have left
And you wipe up your face and your eyes that had wept

I made myself sick
In place
Of letting you know
Of all the things you said to me of which I couldn’t let go

– – –

“Red Alert” by Vian Borchert

– – –

"Osiris is a black god" by M.A.A. 
To this fortress of emptiness - this citadel of snow
climbing from the well
rejecting oneself - all thieves, but this one was a loan

Candles signalling the fire for the rats,
head so far under the desk -
it may all be in the dark, life of a floor dweller
a joke to know, but a pain to live;
perpetual sting, poison that caresses the well
antidote to the external, sickness within
a sentiment beyond the thickest skin
they wait behind the Sun
whether you will it
or not
there's a sombre blush of green
in these hills of greed
for affection,
they'll climb up
to finish the deed
As the ground turns upside down, towards the towers of discord
one falls up the mountains, towards the castle of errands
nature inversed, throwing out the fields of marigold
it is the same vain along the nadir
flowing with madman's aphorisms
and with fear to live
they knock on hidden windows
whether you will it
or not
there's a retreating moon
above the air sweeping alone
its giving up its rule,
they'll see themselves in
its grief and rue
And when the rats finally come
they utter those damn sonnets
it's all so wrong, one must admit
but the boats never came back
the well is flooded
with the discreet and the morbid
with what came out of the hatch
bad lyricism kills the will
(and yes) as ironic as it may be
it is easier to believe
than to see
they welcome the fires
that keep the nights so swift
and the air thinner,
they'll find transcendence
in calm apprehension
Now we crawl along the muddy floor like parasites
and ask the distancing walls to eat
what remains of hearts pretending to be alive
a joke to know, but a pain to live;
yet one should not say but merely feel
prohibited to project, prohibited to inwardly reject
what then? black with purple hue invites to see
candle smoke to force the end, to cut us like reeds
windows opened by the freezing winds
every surface scribbled with our sins
in this fortress of delirious kings
upon the virtues of decaying things
we crawl on
the fields are but mounds, now
the watch has found the smoke
the winds enraged, sudden and loud -
they'll find no dignity in the coming dawn
and they will crawl on

can’t look away.

– – –

“Healing” by Vian Borchert

In a sick world
How can you fix me?
Is it through love
or, simply to kiss me?

I yearn for that touch
that I like so much

Perhaps my soul
will be consoled

A trip to the sea
will make me see
the beauty that surrounds me
the beauty that is around me.

– – –

Next exhibition theme: FACE

Deadline: Midnight, May 23rd

Submit at:

More information under ‘Submissions’ tab

Published by artisticdifferencescurator

My name is Seán and I am the creator and curator of the Artistic Differences Project. I started this project during the lockdown in Ireland due to COVID-19 in March 2020 as a way to get my friends and I creating during a troubling time. From there the project as gone from strength to strength and now we publish a new exhibition every two weeks.

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