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  Jun 2014 Chloe
ray
I.
I should probably get some sleep
3am is not a time for pouring out sorrows onto paper
The morning is too young and the stars too bright

II.
I should be dreaming of
blue eyes and summer nights
Instead I am writing of old heartbreaks
and drowning in my fifth cup of coffee

III.
My mother reckons I should get some sleep
When she finds me in the morning
Lights on, slumbering into the warm keyboard
And grocery bags under my eyes
Big enough that I stumble trying to lift them

IV.
I should probably get some sleep
When my thoughts start to get obscene
And I am dialing numbers that I shouldn’t be
But sometimes I find it difficult
To lie down in a peaceful rest
When I don’t know if there’s anything worth waking up to
  Jun 2014 Chloe
MaryJane Doe
I'm fine
   A fine line
One you've crossed
The final time
  
This fine line of mine
   Has come to define
The space between
  What we say
     And what we mean

It's become so wide
  All that's left
    Is a chasm
A divide

You've crossed me again
  Were going down that line
Hanging in the void  
   Wearing thinner over time

Were goin down
   Were going down the line
Falling once again
  If only It wasn't so fine
When I offered you my hide
You stitched it together to keep the both of you warm
When I offered you my flesh
You stoked it on a fire which you kindled with my bones
When I offered you my fangs
You crafted them into a crown to adorn her head
When I offered you my heart
You laughed and ripped it out of my empty chest
When she stole your pelt, burnt your bones, and ate your heart
I simply had nothing left to give you
  Jun 2014 Chloe
Rob Rutledge
One more chalice of amber
Encrusted with hopes and dreams.
One more sip from the cup of life
To ground what we believe.

One more breath of neon vapor
That lifts us from our knees,
Frees the wrists of shackles
And clears the way to see.

Repeat,

Ad nauseam,

Until the truth is found.
In the depths of depravity
Satori abounds.
A glimpse of nirvana
And all that was lost is found.

For now,

But as the amber nectar turns bitter
The smoke is powdered on our lungs.
The vapor has all gone while
We hiss our words in tongues.
But in the morning when all is said and done
You awake to true satori,
The road to understanding has only just begun.
  Jun 2014 Chloe
Martin Illy
you could drown me in
a sea of hungry sharks
or feed me to the menacing
crocs in the parks

you could smoke me like
your last cigarette
or down me like
your last alcohol bet

you could grind my bones
and play with the  shards
then mould them up again,
into clean white cards

with those white cards
you shuffle me away and tell me
"shoo"

but my heart will still,
no  matter what,
run back to you.
wrote this high as hell im sorry
  Jun 2014 Chloe
William Crowe II
Tar
I was 15 years old
when I tried ******
for the first time.

I got it from an older girl
with a mane of obsidian
hair and a porcelain face
shaped like all
her teardrops.

She told me she'd let me
**** her
if I went to prom with her.

I didn't want to **** her;
she smelled like
the Boston Harbor.

I smoked the ******
that first time.

Gray smoke curled thickly
into the damp air of
a basement haunt--
in the Georgian heat
the rain had steamed away.

It tasted like the sands of Persia
or the ambrosia of Mount
Olympus.

It smelled awful;
burnt rubber after a highway
blowout.

I couldn't move;
I sat on my moth-eaten
sofa, dozing in and out
of life in a golden daze.

Everything was golden then
in that instant and I knew
the golden love of a mother's
glowing gaze for the first time.

Then I heaved and my stomach
purged itself.

Then I knew the black hate
of my own vicious glare
for the first time and awoke
an hour later.

Then I threw up my guts
again.

When I woke to the sounds of silence
once more I was confronted
with a golden warmth
and the feeling of the presence
of the Sacred Heart--

and I knew that I loved it.
  Jun 2014 Chloe
ottaross
The night now.
Always the night.
Seemingly unreachable through a thick, leaden afternoon
But finally edges fade and muddle in unison,
Into a place that erases all acuity.
It moves across the city
On a sticky pudding of humidity
Daring the streetlights into action.

Oh, the night
Of asphalt and chrome.
Of oily skin and enfrizzened hair.
Of shouts and whoops and horns.
When even distant sirens
Sing the lament:

The night.
Always the night.
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