By Fadrian Bartley

No Skin is Too Thick

Let us hold men in our hands
to feel their rough edges between our fingers,
and massages their temper before we misunderstand.
let us have them sit on balconies and submit to our attention
and call that moment the vibes,
so their inner voice will speak through cigarettes and the smells
of intoxicated pores through thick skins.
let us speak to them in silence
since they already know the meaning of that word
but not in the shape and form of poetry,
let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands
or sweep away the river with their lashes.
let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see
and release the clogged tunnel in their veins,
let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking
but birds and butterflies will know.


A manager's office is built with spin chairs and sighs,
desktop with mountains built with prioritization.
storms build with skins to maintain professionalism
and platitude greets good morning with strong steps,
walking tall through dawns wear and tear
that lingers in nonverbal cues,
meeting pleasantry with formal attire
while the unspoken falls off their sleeves.
with heavy concerns under noisy spike heels
or a trouser's feet walking tall with facial grimaces,
left expose nerve on the peak of strangulated exertion
which need subordinate’s attention.

Looking for Schizophrenia

Look at my eyes and tell me what do you see?
can you identify manic alteration behind my lashes?
have you gotten the chills from my twisted stir?
what about hope?
can you identify any traces of it?
if there are dark clouds condenses through my pupils
how will you know?
as my smile is brighter than your mirror
you swear you have seen me clearly,
but my silence has triggers without a voice
be nice to my wound or watch it bleed,
your knowledge are more than conquerors
so lay it down in front of me 
and see how wisdom switch the mirrors.
watch your words as they may be salt in my tender sores,
be still and watch how the storm heals
if the wind passes between us do not allow the door to slam
as this broken place is delicate,
yell if you dare and watch this glass shatters to fine particles of salts.

Letter to a Murderer

From which potter shaped your clay?
what state of character was the womb that spitted out your reality?
can you taste the sorrows of gun powder?
you snore upon your bed chamber in nightmares weep
and there goes your red eye from brutal sleep.
the blood of tiny children screams inside your brain
and you hide madness in the room of your cerebellum,
leaving bloody footsteps upon your tongue
to become the bitter taste for your tomorrow,
how long you think it will take for a bracelet to find your wrist?
separating souls from their body is the unspeakable task,
if you were seeking medication for such derange you should have asked.


Nouveau aesthetic from the hall of mirrors
genderized attire with satin touch of vintage apparels
poised on Broadway floors.
high cheeks for Mary Kay blushes
with volumized extended lashes 
to now impose an appeal,
which is the vintage classic art of screen gem.
alluring tango beats while mistresses sit in their seats
with golden pen for x marks the spot on winning trendy males
posing with other female roles with flashy earrings and diamond fingernails.

classic of the top charts with strong male figure and a new age tone
rebirth from the old of urban street fashion of Karl-Kani and Fubu
to walk the disco beat in the vintage style we knew
behind great walls of the English city are sequins and cabaret beats
with heavy polish lips linger at Christopher Street,
and cigar puffs the air while sips mocha chocka 
marmalade-stained diamond glasses,
denim had a dream while Hilfiger took the clothes rock,
but guess what?

we all lament
when we forget about Yves Saint Laurent,
impose tall legs in see through silk stacking
flaunt with the past in the sweet nostalgia
that wears swings skirts and timber heels.
paving the way for those who want to strike a pose 
and embrace the way vogue’s feel.
expressing their faces like flint for public figures
and new printed edition on glossy finish of magazine covers.

Cat-O-Nine Tail

History is a weeping woman with drenched dehydrated skin
sun marred in watchful eyes with a woven whip,
shackled for days on open fields glazed with humidity
while slumber left the lashes of a task master 
who then had her shabby skirt torn 
in bitter hours of savagery behind cane fields.
dragged away into a wicked poem known as "Cat-o-nine tail",
left her fine calligraphy upon historical pages 

now falling from our trembled lips,
which was hidden from the surveillance of a large cigar
that gave her no time to write for us,
but her wounded fingers never kept words away from them,
still strong enough to prose us her raped paragraphs
which was buried at her skirt hem 
to be resurrected by our eyes upon dusty pages.

Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as Pif-Magazine., and Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.  

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