Loverra Di Giustino

The Inhabitants of Indifference

Ghosts drift, castaways on shattered streets,
rotting in the gutters of our existence,
cardboard epitaphs clutched in skeletal hands.
Their grins are relics,
clothes embalmed in filth,
eyes hollow, begging for anything-
even scorn.

Faces cratered, stubble like jagged scars,
despair carved into every shadowed glance.
Rusting carts and decrepit strollers
bear the remnants of lives already lost.
We scuttle past, blinders fixed,
chasing the false warmth of digital suns.

Once-men, now crumpled
in urine-soaked tombs of concrete.
Camouflage pants drenched in the stench of surrender,
the young are withered, the old drained of life,
their bodies dissolve into the unforgiving gray stone.
The afflicted murmur to the echoes in their heads,
swatting phantoms, lost in the drag of time.

We navigate these streets, hearts clenched,
windows sealed, air like ice.
Women, faces painted in rot,
clad in rags, breasts hanging like dead weight,
plead with eyes already buried.
The withered sift through waste,
the faded youth beg with hollow voices,
for spare change,
cigarettes a bitter solace,
booze and drugs, their descent into darkness.
Needles—the final, venomous kiss.

Here, time is meaningless;
they wait in procession, hands outstretched,
for a lifeline that never comes.
Stray souls condemned to linger,
as sustenance is tossed aside,
barriers built against the starving.
Too many bodies, too little hope,
funds swallowed by shadows unseen.

Rain-slicked,
misery drips from blackened skies,
hope drowned in the sludge.
Tomorrow, the cycle grinds on,
you and I, gifted another chance
to turn our backs.

Majesty of Caribana

Brown skin in every shade,
strong thighs on gleaming legs, moving with the force of a train,
rhythmic steps, feathers fluttering,
sequins sparkling under the sun,
the festival’s energy gaining momentum.

Heat rising from joyful bodies,
a rainbow of colors parading through the streets,
a surge of life, relentless in its rhythm.
Drums beat like the steady chug of an engine—
vibrating, quivering,
my toes tap in sync with the pulsing crowd,
as we move together, one joyful tribe,
advancing on this unyielding journey.

I squeeze my father’s hand tighter,
afraid to be swept away,
like a passenger clinging to the last car on a speeding train.
The scent of spices mingles with the sun’s heat,
weaving together beneath an endless aqua sky,
the excitement igniting like coal in a furnace.

I long to join them,
to dance through the streets of freedom,
belly buttons peeking out,
beauty blossoming with every step,
as the Caribana procession surges down the path of tradition.

Steel drums fill the air, lively and persistent,
their sound the whistle of our cultural journey,
my eyes drink in the colors,
hips swaying to the beat,
feeling the rhythm beneath me.
I look up at my father,
a small smile on his full lips,
my hand safe in his grasp, like a child on their first train ride.

Joyful, pure Caribana love,
carried by the momentum of our ancestors.
The women—proud, their majesty shining,
their curves celebrated in costumes rich with tradition,
colorful dreams brought to life,
as the wave of celebration charges forward.

Chili pepper red,
flamingo pink,
neon green,
shimmering gold—
faces painted in bright hues,
jewels glinting under the sun’s warm gaze.
Men and women move in harmony,
like cars of a cultural engine, linked in unison,
beautiful, glowing skin,
a full display of life’s joy in the streets.

Caribana—
a festival of unity,
a dance of freedom,
an unstoppable force of culture, forging into the future.

Erstwhile

High up, boxed in by these four walls,
my mind spins out, fraying like the city’s edges.
Constantly racing, dragging me along,
flickering through channels that never satisfy,
searching for anything to fill the void.
But what does it mean when the screen goes black,
and the voices keep buzzing in my head?

The legends I once worshiped—
how they struggled, how they fell,
their lives cut short by their own hands.
I stole their pain, wore it like a second skin,
but it only deepened the emptiness inside.

I dream of dive bars, neon lights, and a grizzled old man—
he’d buy me a drink, and I’d laugh it off,
but the weight of his stare would break me,
his worn-out face reflecting my despair.
Cheap thrills eat me alive from the inside,
we worship our boilermakers in dimly lit corners,
letting regret burn holy as it runs down our throats.

A waif with bones too sharp,
the poetess who breathed in despair,
her sadness a blade, sharp enough to cut through the noise.
Her last breath choked on sentiment—
I can feel her pull,
but where can I go?
I’ll board a plane and make my exit,
melt into Pahoa,
where the screens assured me I wasn’t weird,
just a misfit, never meant to belong.

Wrapped up, bitten, strapped into this concrete jungle,
marked by the color of my skin—
it’s all too much,
so I spin myself into a dizzy haze,
craving the numbness of drugs I haven’t even tried.
I’ve read about feeling,
but it’s just another story.

Freeform locs,
there’s no alternative—
sin is all I know, all I’m destined for.
I’ve learned it all from the broken idols I worship,
their pain my inheritance.
This manic mood, these four barren walls—
they crush me, day after endless day.

The old man of the streets,
ready to drift through concrete waves,
even the city would drown me.
Fish and whiskey from corner stores,
lounging bare under flickering streetlights,
the night is cold, unforgiving.

Fear and loathing—
a prophet of chaos spoke of freedom,
but all I find are bursting veins,
psychedelic trips that leave me more broken,
my body too weak to contain the storm inside.

I fly my rocket ship,
grinding my teeth, straight, direct—
on fire, crashing into that forbidden, exploding other place.
I will myself to let go, to drift down,
but all that’s left is the finality of it all,
watching the kids play from the other side.
I was—
now am—
just dead weight on the road
finally free from these four walls,
silent, and beyond all feeling.

Loverra Di Giustino is a creative writer and mixed media artist with a diverse educational and professional background. Having attended the Fashion Institute of Technology, she combines a keen eye for design with a rich storytelling ability. Loverra holds a degree in English from the University of Hawaii West Oahu, where she honed her literary skills and developed a unique voice. She has also worked as a pipefitter at the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard, an experience that adds a distinctive perspective to her work. In addition to her artistic pursuits, she openly struggles with mental illness, which deeply influences her creative process and themes. Passionate about exploring the intersections of art and narrative, Loverra brings a vibrant and imaginative perspective to her work.

Photo by staff