top of page

Two poems by Anon Baisch

] Lifing Journal [] 44860 [ The deathing of a mother the deepening the meanness Six bodies around a small pit asking for guidance on the proper usage of silence The aftering of a peak is weak practice Our voices in the middle of dialogues was breaking into sharp volumes The qualities of a voice are the same used in the definition of sorrow I was already up the gravel road A shovel and a modeled script and the noise of dirt against plastic was not what I wanted weakening the resonance of my voice I’m sure they waited longer than they needed to I was already verifying the validity of her hallucinations against the rot of an old structure the old doll clothes hanging in the air above her as she died


] Lifing Journal [] 44861 [ Frayed sounds of frayed leaves scratching the frayed aluminum siding Music transposes over bodies lined up as shadows looming over shadows Patterns of nuisance break the failing meditative into and out of Insects seeking the heat and the light and the cool rotting scented darkness are the evidence of Want of weak voiced whispers wasting last cycles to struggle to repeat a memory Want of lips falling apart between the reds of fracture Want of fractures that can matter that can worry that can heal To cope in the moment of severance the mind latches onto the undertones of existing To cope in the moment of severance the mind obliterates language obliterates music obliterates mind obliterates To cope in the moment of severance breathe



Anon Baisch is currently a data analyst working in the semiconductor industry and lives in Saitama, Japan. Anon’s poems have been published most recently in Mantis Poetry, Levitate, and Second Factory. Anon’s collection Postlude to the End of is forthcoming in 2024 from April Gloaming.

Recent Posts

See All

Two poems by Mckendy Fils-Aimé

sipèstisyon If people say your child is beautiful, your child will become ugly. ok, i confess. once, i said fuck you to danny perkins on the last day of kindergarten after a miserable year of being pu

"Dead Things" by Beth Boylan

I feel compelled to pick up the baby bird that has died just outside my doorstep this morning. Place her in my hand and rub her toothpick ribs with my thumb. Gently kiss the milky-blue bulbs of her ey

Two poems by Daniel Edward Moore

Hey, Future is that you / in the moment / a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate / or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours / kicking joy / to the curbs / of chaos / blessed by Hallmark’s / squa

Comments


bottom of page