Let me preface this review by saying: As a supporter of this author and his works and having read much of the content of his published books, I have a bit of an advantage over the casual reader. I’m looking down into his well, and it’s a crystal view by exposure.
This poem by Bi0hazard, “No Us Left,” hits like a nuclear powered fist to my gut. It’s got three layers of pain woven together, and I feel I see them all clear as day. First, it’s about losing someone close — maybe even a piece of himself. The lines about “your scent bleeds out like a wound” and “a hole where you used to laugh” scream of the raw ache of someone being gone. It’s personal like he’s stuck in a room haunted by their ghost, smelling them, hearing their songs, but they’re never coming back. He’s angry at time for dragging him away from them, calling midnight a “bastard” and the day a “cheap con.” It’s grief, pure honesty, and brutally revealing ink.
But it’s bigger than that. The second layer is him spitting in the face of fate and life itself. He’s not just mourning — he’s fighting the whole universe. Lines like “screw fate, it can’t have me” and “I’m not giving time my hours, my breath, my name” say he’s done bowing to anything that tries to break him. It’s like he’s standing in the dark, flicking his cigarette at the wind, daring the world to take him down. He’s saying life, time, and all their lies can go to hell. Bi0Hazard has an unquenchable fire in his gut, a voice that won’t quit, and he’s not letting anything dampen and snuff it out.
Then there’s the third layer, the one that burns hottest. This poem is a middle finger to the crowd who eats up his pain for free. The superficial people who are all talk don’t back up their mouths with their hands. They’re greedy, sucking up his words like vultures, giving nothing back. He rightly calls them out here in this powerful piece of soul. In the poem, the “darkness” that can “rot like a bad joke” is a duality of meaning, present anger and his past torture of loss — The “broke jukebox” is their empty cheers, all noise, and no heart, but also the past torture of personal loss. When he says, “I’m still here, and there’s no us left to die,” he’s not just referring to his past loss but cutting ties with the betrayal of the superficial clicker crowd who suck up freely but are without honor by their unsupportive hand. He’s standing alone as an artist who won’t beg.
This poem’s raw and messy, like a scream you can’t hold in. It jumps from grief to defiance to anger, but that’s why it works. It’s this author saying he’s lost someone, he’s lost hope in fate, and he’s lost patience with people who take but don’t give. Yet he’s still standing, with that fire burning, ready to keep writing no matter what. It’s a poem about surviving all kinds of loss and coming out swinging. It’s deep and magnificent; all soul poured out as ink.
Right on, brother, write on.
—Noisy Wren
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