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 Jul 2014 Brielle O'Brien
Sjr1000
He was far too disorganised
driving too fast
here and there
with no particular place to go.

She was a neon light
flashing
in the black Mojave night
a celestial mansion
alive
with such sweet smells.

He now had a purpose
a story to tell of
a
thousand fantasies
hotter
than the hinges
on the gates of hell
sparklers of desire
flaming through neurons on fire.

He was lite up
like
neon
in the dark Mojave night
all he could see
was
delights
in
every window burning bright.

Her fingers beckoned him
her eyes pleaded
her breath said
yes yes yes
her
body
danced and swayed
perfect harmony with all he craved.

He moved closer
moment by moment
movement by movement
to
take her to places promised.

He reached to take her hand
there was one
exquisite flash
disintegrated
shred into ash
on the pointed arrow
of
her forever flames

Just like that.
The line "hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell" is from Todd Snider's Play a Train Song.
Thanks Todd.
One of mine and The Masked SleepyZ's favorite lines, had to get it in there.
 Jun 2014 Brielle O'Brien
Jay
I have an obsession with depression
When the sun makes summer days everlasting
and I'm left grasping at melancholy ideas
my mind slips back into it's natural state
self-hate will forever govern my fate
and I'm tired of living like it's all okay
and that I'm supposed to live a certain way
I'm over the monotony and hopeless love
that can't be found because constantly flirting and
never getting anywhere is doing nothing but hurting my
already shattered heart while the dreams that I once had
that people convinced me were bad have all been beaten down to more realistic goals based off of what I've always been told.
When I stop doing what is expected of me
that's when I can finally see
my true self gasping for air in the pit of my stomach where
I pushed it so long ago;

clawing to get out.
Spoken Word.

First try. Rated: Meh.
The taste of bile
Tears slipping down ashen cheeks

Please don't flinch away
Not when we've shared so much
May 31-June 1, 2014
 Jun 2014 Brielle O'Brien
calion
you used to be my light.
I wear sunglasses now.
 Jun 2014 Brielle O'Brien
SWB
after Gwendolyn Brooks*

Last night we got fried
While you stayed inside.
Can’t say we tried.
What’s your excuse?


Tonight we drive cars
Drunk to bars.
You’re stuck in the tars
Of that **** Spanish.

We’re good to go
You repeat “No.”
What a great show
bare-breasted ENCORE!

Have fun retiring
We’ll be expiring
Our children perspiring
At the thought of us leaving them nothing.
My whiskey habit is complimented then insulted by the ever temperamental voice of Jim Morrison,
I listen to Alabama Song by The Doors
I throw my pen and page
In an anger induced rage
As my mind recites the wrong words
To his poems and songs
His voice plays on repeat
All i can do is blame myself as the primitive synth dances it's oscillating tunes through one of my depleted senses.
My hearing
Mojo Rising's face crudely made into pop art painting by a fan, an idoliser's image
Suddenly the fender telecaster takes over the smokey airways
Hypnotising, mesmerising
as it fills the space between the barely conscious being and the walls that surround
The tempo of the snare, tom and high hat slows
I now have time to gather my ever harsh and bitter thoughts
Harsh like the whiskey, bitter like me
Errors are inevitable, go **** yourselves
all at once, things come crumbling
together. a step in every direction,
rightful empty dissolves to leave,
in stationary hollow, itself:
presented representation. no
point left unscathed. the exact
same moment the water started
leaking down and out the walls. a
series of equicardinal trackmarks in
the snow. over the bridge we shift
momenta. wheels turn. nerves
coupling. a flood laps at my
unfurling fingerprints. water
rises like swallows nesting in the
marsh of my throat. try as we might,
turn of position, matched glance, precession
after next, the swell silently engulfs the woodwork.

blood curls through these beds, as beautiful as the water running over;
waves distill through smaller wash.

a larger scheme spreads its lips. the teeth
play quotient to tree limbs. a schedule unwound.
caught the sun with smooth hooks.
everything changes from here, or stagnates at a
shifting viewpoint. but, from this glowing angle,
i could mistake you for ordinality or
plain daylight. i could
fall a little
further
down.

instead, all translates in bold motion,
binding fibers of dissolution,
morning hues
through the dark.
more nothing.
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