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The Poetry Warrior (c) Abigail Beaudelle - 2008.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.
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Vivisection
Benjamin Nardolilli
Hate drove you to that bar,
And you lost, gave up
Under the amber halo
And took that brain with you,
Until he was nothing more
Than a soft sponge guiding
Hands behind a hard wheel
And feet atop the pedals,
Not even a pair of eyes,
Just enough weight to press down.
I was possessed
Only of naiveté,
Your light was a ruby,
Mine an emerald,
I thought it was safe to go ahead,
But you, fallen heavy,
Your driver asleep at the wheel,
Kept on going, your tires
Scratching the taxpayer’s roads.
Love brought me here,
It was always planned,
My likeness was under hers,
Both of us laminated and waterproof,
Now we are in the open air,
To rest beside you, because
On a guilt-edged stretcher
They took you and your driver,
And your family relented,
Wanting some good to come
Out of your aorta, mine
Was too severed to use.
Brother it is all for science,
The white robed dominion
Where my love
And your hate mix
And like an acid and a base,
Become water,
Pure and mild.
Benjamin Nardolilli
Hate drove you to that bar,
And you lost, gave up
Under the amber halo
And took that brain with you,
Until he was nothing more
Than a soft sponge guiding
Hands behind a hard wheel
And feet atop the pedals,
Not even a pair of eyes,
Just enough weight to press down.
I was possessed
Only of naiveté,
Your light was a ruby,
Mine an emerald,
I thought it was safe to go ahead,
But you, fallen heavy,
Your driver asleep at the wheel,
Kept on going, your tires
Scratching the taxpayer’s roads.
Love brought me here,
It was always planned,
My likeness was under hers,
Both of us laminated and waterproof,
Now we are in the open air,
To rest beside you, because
On a guilt-edged stretcher
They took you and your driver,
And your family relented,
Wanting some good to come
Out of your aorta, mine
Was too severed to use.
Brother it is all for science,
The white robed dominion
Where my love
And your hate mix
And like an acid and a base,
Become water,
Pure and mild.
Climate and Dirge
I want it to rain
I want it to rain at my funeral,
Because if it is raining
Because if anyone comes
Because I am dead
And it is my funeral
Where it is raining,
My ashes will mix well
With the ground and become
Soil for things to grow in.
But if it is sunny and dry
Then the ashes will just be dust
That will irritate their eyes,
(Which I do want filled with tears)
If it is raining at my funeral
Then nothing will distract them,
I can’t compete with the sun.
Benjamin Nardolilli is twenty three years old and
lives in New York, where he looks for work and
inspiration. He is originally from Arlington, VA. His
work has appeared in Perigee, Thieves’ Jargon,
Farmhouse Magazine, The Houston Literary
Review and Perspectives Magazine. He maintains a
blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
