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j-mcdevitt
Radiator creaks like the aching hull of an ancient ship. The sea pulled across and alongside its' mouth by drivers yearning sleep. The grey provides the sea, but shows no interest, has no tell. So the swell ebbs, flows, subsides - unsure until it goes. There is but one view, if you can make it out through the mist, of other towers, masts stiff, breaking through the surf. No one else seems to care to look, nor try to break the scene. And ships stay still like rocky cliffs until they're worn away.
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Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
Cityscape
I can't sleep again that neural itch. A tangled web of thought-streams running like passing bullet trains only to spring back on the knots they've made and sleep lays caught in the net like a fish; Still floundering til at last it gives. I wish I could smoke. Something about watching it curl... like an entity climbing upon itself as it grows. A fading vine accelerated into visible motion, its' only support itself. I wish I could hold onto some things that way. Nothing stains quite like years of smoke, nothing seeps in quite as well. But for support of hidden creatures at my feet I'd surely curl the same, but never stick since blown out the window again and again.
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Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
Untitled
Skipping over stars like they were stones, bones wrought under flesh like iron. One missed stepped would seem to be one less opportunity desired.
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Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Untitled
French love stolen from cobbled streets at night, ground up and stuck in grain. Below wine, above glass, and swallowed (mistakenly). It’s hard to forget such great simplicity; this wine holds my lips which has more to say than you and me. At night I dream of how the cork would have smelled, if only I’d had the strength to pry it free.
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Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
Bordeaux
One last smoke before the snowstorm Last fire before the rain One last drink before we put it out, before the others came. One last kiss before you leave me last night, dreaming still. One last sleep left hoping to remember you; I will.   One last drive down your lone road, last time seeing you on the stairs, One last time left my heart still beating about you standing there. And one last time staring at the stars wishing that I could see just how one last smoke before the snowstorm left you wanting me.
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Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
One last smoke before the snowstorm
There’s nothing like a G&T; at 12:43 in the morning. It seems strange to think that one thinks to see such a thing boring. And yet I’m sure there’s a lot, to be frank, but that ship’s already sailed and it too has sank. Vincent claimed the wagon too small so we stowed it away in the hull. Now *** bourbon, brandy… scotch, beer and all are sailing to Davey at young Siren’s call. But, prepared with these blocks of cinder and dust, crew heads down below dragged by full frontal lust. There’s nothing like a G&T; at 12:45 in the morning. It seems strange to think that one thinks to set off such a warning.
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Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Siren's Warf
Freight rumbles by While sweat drips down And the crackle of a speaker Still sounds; Echoing through the tunnel. A body turns, fidgets, moves And itches with the heat. The feet they tap And dance with boredom Wishing *** had a seat. A woman leaning upon a beam Aggravated by beads from pores Moves to take a walk, it seems, But soon she leans some more. Too hot to move, til a breeze is felt Coming down the rails A beam of light, first one than two And not freight, but silver and blue. The cool air flows like whiskey at a funeral Sour, but necessary, to make it through the ride; And you sleep through stops instead of wondering who the hell had died. Thumbnail clippings float down the car from conversations had: Comfy chairs, squatter’s nation, opiates, and ***** mags. Subtle "sorry"s linger in stale air from bumps that people make While ******* suits, stiff as cadavers, snoot and snivel of mindless drivel And look around in shame.
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Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
3 AM
The sandy floor lies a foot below where air and water meet. And salty mist, like an awkward first kiss, lies hesitant, inbetween. Slowly they touch, and mix on collision, to a drummer’s beat and it’s rhythmic rhythm. Faster, it goes, As both move in waves. And back in, to mix again, with the salty mist they crave. I am the sea; the endless, motionless, living vastness that surrounds and engulfs…
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Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Le Troisième Amant
Effulgent, she stands in the stands and demands for her rights that were ripped from her calloused red hands but calamity falls and hits down like a gavel and the thread from her dress gets pulled and unraveled. Her serpentine body, verdant til plucked from the branches she clings to and prays for good luck. The hyenas, voracious, yapping volubly at her ankles while she tries and tries to scream, but nothing comes out and she feels her bough become friable she knows that these fiends wont be held liable dropping contumacious only made her life worse hit in the face he cursed and then hurt her she burst in tears, ****** Hoping they’d stop, but they only went further and nobody heard her. No superman hiding til he’s plucky enough. No Samaritan testing to see if he’s got the guts. Now brittle she’s turned, but only physically; She’s still adamant inside, strong mentally. A couple months go by and one day she realizes she’s not alone alive. And forced to be together to survive, she decides to take both of their lives. I wish I could say all those men were put away, but they ran and ran for days. Gone, and without a sound they stayed. And now she’s 4. 5. 6 feet underground today.
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Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
Lady Liberty
With miles to go before I sleep and sounds around rise from the deep; If I heard them should I keep the memories from haunting? And as the grey rolls into black can you see white hiding in the back? The foundation that lets us hold fast and gives the hope to make it last. I see faces in the pages, jumbled, between line spaces. Hallucinations become engrained in my vision while I listen to the clack of chalk scribbled, spat from fingers, and thoughts dribbled.
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Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
Monotony