Z.M. Wise is a champion of poetry. A poet, an essayist, and editor, Z.M. has made poetry his life's work. Today, he shares some of his writing with ALSO THAT. To see more of Z.M.'s work, click one of the links below:
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(Flyer Poem) #72
Published in Harbinger Asylum
Love the rain by our slumbering heads and
love the thunder by our bare, cuddling bodies.
Love the intimacy that makes the day seem like a breath away.
Love the jump-start touch of your hand and
love the fusion aura kiss.
Love the carefree times that make life worth living.
Love the intensity of ravenous lovemaking and
love the mutual eye contact post reciprocal climaxes.
Love the sound of your name that makes the human population repeat it incessantly.
Love you only.
Love:
just a word until the days of You.
I Have Lost Your Memory
Published in The Painted Brain
I walked down yourcomplex.
I distinctly recalled yourlaugh.
I smelled your scent.
I lived your life.
I wrote your poems.
I wrote your lyrics.
I sang your songs.
I loved your muse.
I dreamt your dreams.
But, I am not you.
The streets are still destitute.
The quips are just as humorous.
Your aroma is ever so thick.
The life you live baffles us all.
The poetry has become meaningless.
The lyrical words do not belong to you.
Your songs have destroyed the name of music.
The muse, untamed, is forever promiscuous.
The dreams are of a visionary, none manifested otherwise.
But, I am not you.
Sweep the streets for your white gold random acts of kindness.
Forever laughing, no other medicine needed but that grin.
What a scent, for it attracts the magnet-headed beings.
A life that is full makes for digestive death.
Poetry lives, but you shan’t last years next to words.
These lyrical drafts accompany a masterful melody.
A swan song, your legacy, pines for companionship.
Promiscuous as it is, the muse is for everyone.
Dreams belong to the dreamer, but the dreamer touched my hand.
No future plans, no past regrets.
I have lost your memory.
Whose piece have I been writing?
But, I am not you.
Ouroboros
Published in The Legendary
…and the Dragon
spins round and round,
balancing revolution.
War on Life as we know it
hurdles through the cosmos,
breaks through the
adolescent barrier, and
lands before our eyes and
willful fingertips.
We are what we are
motivated to slaughter and incinerate.
…and the Dragon
spins round and round,
balancing our allotted amount of air.
Craving of flesh as we picture it
eats away as an
internal parasite would.
Dilate the pupils and fight back.
The Greek world began in Chaos,
but ours will end in a
complete convulsion.
The lovers giveth and the lovers taketh away.
…and the Dragon
spins round and round,
balancing head and body counts.
Let the search unfurl!
Red flag,
white towel,
blue in the mouth,
yellow like the interior amphibian.
Sexual charades on a wooden floor
underneath Neil’s mirror ball, or
tribal dance around a
campfire of nativity?
They read the digital news today…oh, boy!
…and the Dragon
spins round and round,
balancing royals in heat.
When the wyvern bites the tail,
all is well in the electric current.
When the wyvern watches the skies,
aware of seven billion well beings,
all is glistening, just North of
mystical embodiments of life masks.
Sigh of disbelief…
You still have us for a thumb-sucking undertow.
…and the Dragon
spins round and round,
balancing a closet rebellion.
Laugh
Published in Sick Lit Magazine