From this being I conjure mysterious games
Like I can’t read your signs as I’m switching from lanes
I’m blinded, insulted, and completely confused
How could I ever let my good intentions feel used up and abused?
I’ve held out my hand, lent you my ears, even gave you a shoulder
My radiation was warm and open-hearted, but your heart kept getting colder
The closer I bring myself, the more often I am hurt
Expectations of a bond, has only brought my conscious to highly alert
Of your games you’ve been playing, and crushing my pride
For once just be selfless, just open up your eyes
they emerge from deep wooded neighborhood fringe into breadth
of lawn and limb.
teen dreamers with black magick lip gloss and minions, their
wayward boyfriends in the street pink cloud,
stoned on bitchcraft and hawking bile, they
wipe then smile then carry on
in the house,
is a child. gig. death with a younger grip.
the kid thrills on carnage,
on murder videogames and murder tv-shows and murder music.
he is a youthful demon conduit.
with televised bucket slime ceremonials.
this is the video age.
the modern dead dream-age of a holy we. these
daughters of delphi watching our kids.
tending to them.
popcorn smell, the palace of teeth.
the pretty girls with drugs,
and snacks and time and fun dead things.
the demon version is grave and cruel.
the angel version is adventure-door and vision.
at the cliff jumping. it was fun.
Eyes wide open, glancing around
Deserted, dark, pitch-black hallway.
Scar on her left eye
asymmetrical bangs, reminder of the past.
Petite hands reaching the glass knob.
pale white paint peeling off...
SHE. HAS. RETURN
We tried our best to make this horror inspired poem...
The prehensile snout of a Tapir
is posturally renowned,
but I am no caricaturist
unless I required Rhinoplasty
Neither am I an
Air Force Major or a Fireman,
never having shot or doused in anger
never clanged quid pro quo,
I am a wordsmith, without a necessarily dangerous course,
a wedgeless door stop this side of juxtaposition,
trying for a profile,
riding on a buzz,
to think so few images
could conjure so much verdure
By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I’ the flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none but me.
words containing the most addictive of seasonings,
eyes glistening with the thought of love,
lips speaking whispers of enchantment,
fingers grazing with the most tender of touches.
you threw away your seasonings,
you left your eyes to dull,
your whispers distorted into shouts,
and your touch diminished.