‘2 Poems’ by J.B Stone

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To Every Minute Missed, and Every Museum Left Untoppled

For Frank Turner
Oh how I reminisce over the nights
ending with us
strolling past the bar strips
of Bleaker Street
moving in the image of
damaged marionettes
slacking from bent strings
just a raging youth
cutting lose of the chords
that kept us bound
as we vomit echolocation
instead of leftover rounds
trying to find each other
after poor attempts at finding ourselves
we took these nights to moon every
passing vehicle plastered with
‘Pro-Trump’ bumper stickers
still tried to spray paint the words
“Nazi Punks Fuck Off”
over every swastika grafffitied brick
in a 40 mile radius
placed flowers from dying gardens
onto the windshield wipers
of every ticketed vehicle
just to show them there are others
who give a shit about them
even when they stop giving a shit
about themselves
feeling like a band of Robin Hood wannabees
trying our best to feel like heroes
if not through a series of late night antics,
but for a time where worries were less
& joy was a convenience store
only a block away
no one ever told us
how far the distance would grow
when 700 feet, turns into half a mile,
then to a mile, then several miles, then ten,
then 20, then 40, and so on..
until the thoughts that once put a smile on our faces
become an uncharted territory of distant memories:
this is the moment where our minds
become mausoleums
and buried underneath these marble tombs
lays our youth

Listening to 99 Luftballons on the Eve of Election Day

the night of November 5, 2018
the world is a panic switch
a nuclear detonation button
placed below a mad man’s desk
& I’m sifting through spotify playlists
trying my luck as a translator
rewriting the messages
in the Google-search lyrics tab
just thinking how long the finger
upon this doomsday device
has lingered
postcards from the apocalypse
slipstream to the P.O. boxes
of an anxiety-induced mind
Nena echoes the spirit
of Nostradamus
launching a vocal barrage of truth
astral projecting visions
of an ultra-violent state
crawling out of cold war rubble
as nightfall looms
so does the fate of a nation,
yet I sit here, waiting,
hoping the music will save us all

J.B. Stone is an neurodiverse poet/fiction writer from Brooklyn, now residing in Buffalo. Stone is the author of A Place Between Expired Dreams And Renewed Nightmares (Ghost City Press 2018). He also has work featured in Occulum, Riggwelter Press, Peach Mag, BlazeVOX, Mystic Blue Review, Breadcrumbs Magazine, Flash of Dark, Crack the Spine among several other publications. You can check out more of his work at jaredbenjaminstone.com, and follow him on twitter @JB_StoneTruth

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