Let's Get Fucked up and Die

Author's note: I apologize for the explicit nature of this poem. For any committed readers out there, do not let the cuss words themselves deter you from reading, instead I hope you understand the importance of their influence in this piece.

What more are we than muscle, bone and tissue?

Motivated by hormones and misplaced sperm

And what purpose do we hold more than

Bunnies bouncing back to breast and then to die?

Then what is life if not a massive fuck and die vortex?

Falling, flailing, struggling, sailing, prevailing in no way

What else is there than the

Crescent evanescent and decline of the sublime

Acute ability for servility and incivility

And I try

Sure there is more than fuck it?

Give me a higher purpose. Fuck for God!

Fuck for the bunnies, and unpredicted death

Fuck for the hormones and misplaced sperm

Fuck for the long dreary days and lonely nights

But what more than to fuck?

In the sucking muck bullshit

What purpose other than the death

Trudging and budging my way through existence

Monotony, monotheistic, monochromatic masturbating bullshit.

Make me feel more than fuck it!

Give me higher purpose and desire steaming fresh

On a plate spray painted gold and gussy shine.

I’d be lying to deny

That I didn’t want to be held and meld

In the dying arms of another

They do in romance movies…

But what is more fun than sex?

For we are imbued to be screwed

And to be prude is quite surely rude

For those in the mood of “love.”

So let me get fucked up and die.

Best,
Anna Belle Lee

Wartime

35mm
We are different yet the same.
We both aim.
You fire, I frame.

Your eye is pressed against your scope.
My lens flashes as your soldier falls.

We have orders to hit head and chest.
You- literally.
Me- to provoke thought and strike that place we call the heart.
I strive to capture the desperation and send it to pretty home where it will
Blow up in their faces.

It is a blur of sights and sounds that I bring into focus.
You scurry about urgently, energetically, but your eyes are dull.
I know mine are too.
I see you glance at me.
We try to lift eachothers spirits, though distant, we are comrades.

A disturbance rushes through the ranks and we're off.
It’s a flurry of excitement but it’s all the same.
Dirty blood smeared across solemn faces. All to hear is painful, endless noise.

We share a few questions, a few fears:
When will it end?
Will I ever be the same?
But I have one that ticks through my mind all the time:
This camera in my hand; is it Dead or Alive?

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Chivalry

People shouldn't have to fight just to exist: to see, to breathe, to live. Here I am suspended in my world of chaos with much left to conquer. I thought this struggle to control sinew, muscle, and bones was the exclusive source of my qualms until I realized that I’m often frustrated by trivialities. What irks me most is hearing the story of The Knight in Shining Armour, galloping about on his way to rescue me.

I do not need to be rescued. I am strong. I've fought many a battle and I've slain my fair share of dragons. I am not shallow; my wounds are deep. There is a javelin thrust in my back, a sword through my stomach, arrows have grazed my throbbing skull.  I'm in danger of bleeding out.

But they expect me to sit here daintily waiting for him to free me.
That will not happen.  
I don't need a knight in bloody armour. I want a damsel in distress.


Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

An Abysmal Anthology

I collect buttons.
Shiny, beautiful buttons.
It's surprising how they pop off, unnoticed, scattering in multiple directions.

Easily forgotten.
They wander along and come to a sudden stop.
Until I pick them up.

Green, Orange, Yellow, Black, Turquoise.
I find them; I give them life.
I turn them into cat toys.

Somehow I've lost my buttons.
I'm not sure what happened.

They must have rolled away
To some obscure corner.

They probably gather dust
Sad and Alone.

I collect buttons.
Now they have gone into the abyss.
My poor, shiny buttons, I do miss.

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart