POETRY BY JOSH YOUNG

Josh Young is a poet and writer from Richmond Virginia. He is fairly new to writing poetry and has only had a few poems published in small magazines. Many of his poems focus on existential dread, city living, and are sometimes just humorous. In addition to writing poetry, Josh Young also does open mics and slam poetry. 

THE BASEMENT

earthly smell mixed with mildew
small cracks of light from a filthy window
colonies of cockroaches
in a turf war with mice

the air is cold and humid at the same time
like a specter’s shallow breath
the confusion irritates the skin

a single light bulb hangs from the ceiling
if you can find it
you walk with your hands out
heart rate accelerating each step
a plane with a broken throttle
mayday call goes out
answered with silence

the stairs are miles away
you count your steps
hoping you made a mistake
hoping your eyes are playing tricks
hoping it was just a mouse

your pace quickens
turning into a run
but fast as you run
nothing can outrun

the darkness

TWO WORLDS

We live in two worlds next to each other.
One is governed by reason, logic, time, and cycle patterns we can predict. Everything can be simplified to numbers and formulas, gravity which only moves in direction, time which can be reduced to minutes and hours. We feel safe here, protected by the cold steel suit of our knowledge. But there is

another world. One of chaos, time has no meaning, gremlins in a circle sit smashing alarm clocks and laughing at the uselessness of them. Meanwhile, a calendar just says “out of order” and gravity only works on Thursdays. We were ourselves in the world of order. Now this world is in ourselves. Logic is as useful as money after the apocalypse. Two worlds,

side by side. Twin sisters separated by the mirror. They take turns being in the spotlight, judged only by your mind’s perception.

ARTIST CORPSE

A corpse is an artist’s last work. Years of perfecting their craft, decades of changing the appearance of their final masterpiece only to be placed on display without themselves to be able to attend the final reception. People will come, praise their work, give affirmations never given when the artist was alive, tears will be collected in the tip jar. Finally, the work will either be burned, everyone can take a pinch as a souvenir to wear around their necks, or buried so when the bombs fall, the corpse will be allowed to rot in piece.

MORGUE MAYHEM

They’re usually so well behaved
Not saying a word
Even if their face is concaved
Little cold maybe

Rubber on green linoleum
When we bring them in
Get them ready for the mausoleum
Once we empty them out

But one day, there was a change
They refused to lie down
Jumping and running at every chance
We yelled at them be quite

Do what you told
Don’t make me call the cops
The bell has wrung its last toll
Naughty residents of Coldville

Day and night they did this
Refusing to go back to bed
Laughing at our only wish
Refusing to just chill out

We knew we were beat
We knew we were outnumbered
We knew we awakened the beast
But then just at last

We discovered how to chill them again
Bring something from the past
The ice began again after so long ago
They froze where they stood

And once again, the morgue was quite again