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Sad eyed lady of the harbor, standing on the shores of time, with the rhythms flowing through your hair like the washed up colors of a thousand songs in syncopated rhyme.  
     I’ll build myself a castle with the borders of the sky, to stand with you forever till the reason is swept aside, and we all live together like integrated minds.
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
 Aug 2019
Astrid Ember
How did I get here?
What year did I get
hooked? I can say
it began in 7th/8th grade,
but this has been going on
much longer.
   I was born addicted
to breathing too hard, kicking,
screaming, fighting everything
going on around me.

   I was born addicted to
burning. I have always reveled
in my own shadow. Been addicted
to addictions. Been hooked on
the Boogey man and the monsters
in my closet.
I remember,
I was 5,
tried to play with
my nightmares, but
they were playing with
my dreams and psyche.

I'm in a downwards
roller coaster. I swear it was
going up,
   Then again after all
the drugs I'm surprised
my inner ear has any sense
of direction.
I've been lost in a hurricane
filled with marijuana,
amphetamines, all the alcohol
you could wish for.
  ******, *******, Percocet, acid,
  shrooms, Ecstacy, Xanax, I've
  popped pills with no clue of the
  name.
  Snorted so many different chemicals
  I got a nose bleed for 2 hours.
  and took another bump
  when the road looked safe.

My path of addiction is
embedded in my DNA.
I swear I was born
on fire.
    I burn through each day,
    I burn through each moment,
    I burned through my own brain.
Burn out... That's what you call it.
I'm kind of just uploading everything I've written since I've last been on.
 Aug 2019
Pearson Bolt
the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.
 Jul 2019
Bogdan Dragos
He ate flowers.

this mentally challenged boy
from the countryside
I used to watch him
in the fields
when I visited my grandparents
as a kid
He was like an exotic thing
a wild beast chasing
static pray
They had no chance,
the flowers
he would assault them
with a killer's smile, frothing,
and would grab
and tear and rip them from
the stem and
would eat them

Nobody knew why
and the only explanation given
was that he was insane

then the men and women
who saw him would
scream at him
to stop and he would raise
his head and watch them
like a deer surprised by
headlights
Then he would spit the colorful
froth from his big mouth
and would run home
hopping and leaping like a horse
through the tall grass

He was mostly inoffensive,
this flower eating boy
but they all told me to stay away
from him and would
always chase him away when
he got too close

Time passed and I moved to the
city and went to school there
and stopped visiting the
countryside and its wonders
I got busy
and my busy life drove away the
magic and mystery of childhood

The flower eating boy is now but
a memory
neither good
nor bad
just strange, interesting

He doesn't eat flowers anymore
because he doesn't live in the
countryside anymore
No, from what I've heard
he's in some mental facility and it was
his last flowery meal that sent him there

I don't know,
maybe if they hanged signs with
"Don't wear flowers in your hair!"
around the village and the fields
that little girl would've been saved
and the village would still have its
magic beast.
 Jul 2019
Francie Lynch
Two lads, I'd say, of thirteen, just passed;
One in barefoot with a backpack;
One in shorts, shoes and black socks,
Pulled up over bloated calves.
One athletic, lean and gearing;
One more leaning towards academia.
Both waiting to enter high school.

They met in JK.
They slept on their towels, in their tents,
At each other's house on weekends.
They served together, lived as one;
Their mothers loved them as sons.
That's how close they'd become.
Their worlds will change,
Once this season's done.

One will be the talk of his circle,
The other, the talk of his;
But there's a Venn where the rings entwined
Before they turned thirteen.
Their hybrid youth,
Their cloned friendship,
Memories already determined.

Around fires and bells,
Or a covered porch on a rain - washed day;
They'll dig up some old moments
Of the other when they were young.
Buried treasures for days of leisure,
Apart, yet part of their sum.
JK: Junior Kindergarten
 Jul 2019
Hawa
When I say the word " Birthday"
What comes to your mind?
Party, cake, friends, gifts, fun.

BUT,

Not all birthdays are happy.
Some are covered with tears.
With pain given by your own people.
The ignorance from your loved ones,
Going through your heart like a sword.

Some birthdays have efforts in vain,
Some cakes are cut, not with a knife but with tears and Moans.
Some cakes don't have candles lit up, but the dreams and hopes on fire.

Some rooms are not decorated with balloons and excitement
Instead, depression and grief.
Not all ribbons are colorful -  green, orange and blue,
Some are drenched, red in blood and some are black, resembling the soul.

Not all gifts are covered in cute pink and red wrapping paper,
Some are only there to make you, have your walk on the ignited coals,
again,
to remind everything, you always wanted to forget.
Some gifts are like time bombs,
Ticking Only to explode,
To **** you. (but aren't those the best?)

Not all birthday songs are cheerful and melodious,
Some are a high pitched cry for help and others are full of tears streaming down,
Somehow trying hard to keep singing the war cry.

Not all the claps are loud and wishful,
Some are only to cover the loud cries.

Not all the wishes are positive and thoughtful,
Some venomous and others are empty.

Not All parties are full of friends and people,
Sometimes you only have YOU, your depression, surrounded by the dead bodies {your expectations, hope and willingness to live}

Not all drinks are wine and cola,
Sometimes you have to drink the blood and still have to keep smiling (just like you do every day)

Your birthday party ends up with happy people going home?
Not all,
Sometimes it ends up the birthday boy/girl crying to sleep all alone.
 Jun 2019
freeing the mind
The mind, it is a funny thing you see,
The o rgan with possibly the most ability,
Tricks us into believing the false to be true,
Often it points out the worst about you,
Increases your self doubt , your panic, your stress,
Even on days when you've been feeling your best,
Brings up some issues which are hard to push through,
Where do the thoughts come from? I haven't a clue!,
The anxiety arises out of nowhere,
With nobody else these thoughts you really want to share,
Will they think you are crazy, a bit mad or a mess?
Even this will bring about more stress,
"Take a deep breath and practice grounding" ,
The words you hear no matter what surrounding,
Can we explain our feelings ,  what's going on inside,
When we ourselves have no understanding  of these lies?
Never shutting off , laying awake late at night replaying every detail until morning light,
With anxiety comes insomnia ,  more issues which occur,
The mind, the greatest o rgan.. are we really sure?
 Apr 2019
Bella
A friend and I had a heart-to-heart over our connections with our parents. We both grew up in a broken home. With difficult experiences with our parents.

He at one point asked me, “Have you ever wished you could do it over and make it different”

When he raised that thought upon me, I hesitated. I had to think, would I even be able to change what happened? Did it really hurt me that much? Could my long lost father be here in my life? Do I like who I am? And then I answered them all one by one. No, I wouldn’t I couldn’t make mom and dad love each other. Yes it hurt me but, I am a strong because of it. Possibly, but quite frankly I wouldn’t want him here. And finally no, I love myself. I am who, I am for a reason. I am perfect in my own unique way.

I then responded, “ No, I’m grateful for the bad and the good I’ve been dealt in life. It’s made me a good person. A person who still smiles on my worst days because I find the good even if it’s the smallest bit. It makes the world a different place.”

“I have never thought about it that way. I think I should try that!?” He replied instantly.

”It’s not always easy” I advise, “but even when it’s hard you mustn’t quit trying! If you ever have a day that you feel like quitting, or when you're just too tired to try; maybe even a day you just need a friend. I am here.”

“Ok, thank you.” He responded dearly.

                                • • •
I never realized that something that I do to control my roller coaster of a mind could change a persons perspective. I also never thought I would come upon that conversation. That was positive in my treacherous day. His hurt that I then turned to hope made my heart scintillate. Always love the worst part of your days. You grasp something new each time you just have to look for what it’s teaching. May it be a new face, feeling or a new thought. Whatever it is. It is important.
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