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"Hard liquor, ketamine and fifteen tabs of lucy's tears. Alternating twisted nerves from colour swapping friends.

He was always hiding from shadows in coagulated scales. Lesions decorating wretched pinions.

Yet, those feathers were swords of ice and cartilage. Never to melt, never to fly.

He embalmed me in the enchanting stench of wet cigarettes and spilt whiskey.

His was psychotic love that brandished no enthusiam for idle pupils tracing back to faceless windows..."

breeeeathe
Showtime!!

marring camaflouge with filthy feathers in my flesh / alluring plumage sets the record to a captivating
skip

impressing mortal pestilence / we're lauded for our efforts / to console the wilted petals on this faceless windowsill

Faceless

the ink falls from my quill / in roiling markings / scrolled in blood / deciding whom to ****

the portrait gleams in silver / cloaking dead locks under glass / until reflections split in tiny, jagged peices everywhere

paint my lips in black,
so intimately deft.
gimme, gimme never gets


she squealed as daggers found her spine / connecting haunting ciphers that would graze our swollen -

Fingertips in tangled, purple shade

take away the pain / they prayed as lust encroached their open sores / shedding off the membrane that embroidered every word

longing for his nails to drill / deep into my tattered scalp / the heat of burning tissue is no downside to my lungs

inhale

you need to catch your breath / it's a state of humid frostbite / hoping we can catch our death

orchestrate this bludgeoning / in violent harmony / this is your symphony / your symphony demanding one more -

caveat for breeding ignorance

Cap'n sugar huffin' paint / he sings about his dog / it's some relapsed cultist ***** dirge / collector seeks his blood

maybe he's a playwright washing monsters by the tide / the silent scream unbearable / another faceless window

*to contest we've broken through
I confess we're broken too
i love you.
down,
          down,
                    down,
                    the rabbit hole you go...

He held me like ****** gloves
Or amphetamine sheets
With hollow point tips
Δ
Our apothecary mourns
For the taste of something new
As they gather up my things
And pierce into my flesh
Δ
When did the winter get so bright?
Sunburns graze my face
He took me to the fair
To drown me in the light
Δ
These mirrors belay my point
Succumb, my twisted love
Meet me in the dark
Married to my veins
He drew geometrical atrocities in my skin with sharp, clean testaments to love
Maybe I have wings
And maybe he has claws
sigh
stupidstupidstupid
Idiot.
So ******* ******* moronic -
Listen to yourself.

There was once a time I enjoyed the craft.
But inevitable & insufferable, comes
the voice. Cuts through / trite  analogy /
my thoughts...                 /.p.o.i.n.t.l.e.s.s./
betray me
every time

Asunder the psyche is devoured by a cannibalistic anxiety.
My   one   armed -

shutupshutupshutup*
Okay
The tale begins at the end,
With apologies to the defunct writer.
A quitter, a coward, a spastic monotony.
Her pride was useless/non-existent.

So... broken and pointless she leaves me alone, with the raging thoughts* in my skull. As they ricochet in a segmented pattern of random redundancy... I'm pointless.

Pointless, pointless, pointless. Not unlike a rounded triangle. Ovals are round, but not circular. Triangles form a rectangular amalgamation at the right angle.

People tend to look better smiling (or with rusted pins in their dimples). Sidenote: I've been sidetracked, back to my den by a family of lions.

*icepicks
I sat upon the cold, wet ground
tears kissed my cheeks
a ballad to serenade
seasons arrest

he loves me, she loves me not

paraffin wax enshrouds
like candles to the storm
my flurry of plastic bulbs
born in the raindrop's gut

she loves me, he loves me not

ablaze with lucid thought
I sung a tuneless song
harken to this dream
my floral skeleton

we love you, they love us not

disjointed petals flutter
away from dreary stems
and I awake quivering
in a pool
of chartreuse leaves
and musky enamel
It's feels like it's been the better part of a decade since you've been gone, 'though, it's the worst part of mine. It's true I found another decrepit hovel to call my home, but, that's a misuse of the term - a bastardized string of wrong sounding syllables.

Today on the bus, tears stuck my heart as an association with those ear piercing lyrics resonated deep within the cavity that once held yours next to mine. I resisted the urge to crawl along the floor and avoid the suffocating tributes of the past.

So, maybe I forgot about the choking winds of a sunless sky. Or how much of an egregious affront it is to shatter someone's illusion of comfort and safety. I never determined whether you favoured the former or the latter...

(Both, and/or diamond rings)

These days, all action is a solitary reaction or an involuntary play. A game with no winner and only one competitor who won't stop cheating when shuffling a deck with too many cards. I don't have the hands to hold on to this mess, and yours became bloodied and scarred.

I'm sorry I didn't protect you from yourself. Or the mistakes I watched you endure. Another cold splash of water to the face might have woken us up, but, we were weary, broken wallflowers. Always assuming the other had a plan.
Desperate, wistful conversation
Modifying open wounds
Candy coloured psychogenic
Apple flavoured psychopath

Fleeting jackels, sputtered cries
"Dare to dream," he wouldn't croon
Spotted moons and sickly skies
Baby needs some reddened palms

I caught him glimpsing; in my window,
someone left me ghasty notes
nasty, nasty state of ruin
Twisted wrists with carpet cleaner

Costly, sullied predilection
Eyes unopened, wrapped up in -
Velvet, velvet binding blinders
Fluttering above the bone

Immortalized by cataracts
Shirt is ripped in daunting patterns
Breath engrossed by aerosol
I squeal as insects gnaw my flesh

That's the kind of **** I loathe
Ungainly hands pressed to the dirt
I swear to death I caught this angel,
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah


Deadinside//headunderwater...
I know what you want for Christmas:
'Big box, cards, no wrapping paper,
corporate schmucks with shiny knives.
Plastic stares and broken condoms,
Wednesday, thursday, calenders,
a makeup kit on advent blood.
DVD's propped in your casket'.

Ghosts don't have the right idea
Screaming into microphones
Better off to try your luck at -
Why don't we just take a minute?

Brief hold for the schizophrenic
"Cut my hair down to the scalp".
Don't stop 'til it makes you sick
I need this, need this, NEED THIS, *this
sleeves, glass and gingerale
Rhyming is so gauche.

It's the blasé, passé, maladroit way to write. A trifecta of poorly chosen french adjectives that rely on the mispronunciation of the reader to convey a sense of misappropriated irony.

Call me bilious or contumacious, but drowning in flamboyant synonymy doesn't make the piece at all efficacious.

If anything, it fails by embellishing the excerpt with ostentatious verbiage, relaying a sense of drab and pervasive laxity.

Transparently lackluster and drearily mediocre, this message is insipidly vexing. Albeit, a hackneyed trinity of suffixes won't salvage the aforementioned fiasco.
"She's terse, I can be terse. Once, in flightschool, I was laconic".
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