It wasn't the end
I closed my eyes and waited
But death never came

Peace on earth
Once the bombs fall
We can't be wrong
You could never be wrong
And as the world draws to close
On its last spin
The bombs are smiling
Knowing we can't be right
Carry in your arms
Such preconcieved notions
As the money of nations
Becomes the dust
Once the bombs fall
Peace on earth

We always wanted a utopia

There is a new fire
in my soul
           its curves  
                wrap themselves
               around me
                      sinuous
             like a hot
          slithery
sheath of flesh
snakes of pleasure
       twirling in my deepest
                         womanflow      
           pumping inside
    my veins of mesh
Those licks of flames
caress as they spew
  they **** in my spirit
        spit it out anew
                undulating hips
        matching my own
            a middle east song
                igniting my bones
        suffusing my blood
with the raw, the bare
filling me up
with sparkling lava,
                   so rare          
This combination
          makes for a recipe hot
               like a piquant ghost pepper
                  in my spiciest spot
Now let me weave words
Let me conjure your
                           liquids
let me drench colors
upon your eyelids,
my spirit's
proximity vivid
Let me drown you in
            madness
in frothiest frequencies
           of love
let this symphony play out
powers screeching above
and as this vivacity beckons
          the soul in your eyes
our stormiest spirals
       will spill out rainbow fire
           and rise
for as we grow and reach out
there is a death of limitation
              as freedom breaks out
                   in ocean-soaked
                 emancipation
Our mutual worlds
heal each other's hurts
as my tongue licks
your wounds
rejuvenation asserts
hot springs of
              lifeflow
filling up cells
sensations of textures
a ringing of bells
So
as I weave this spell
around you
            fear not that you
will disappear or
thine own self lose
for we have only to soar
as we
   coax out
        the muse

Detective Dalton is all confused about the ******.

Mr. Smith's head was bludgeoned with a heavy object
the impact reveals the vengeance of the killer
Bill the Butler had before closing for the night
heard the couple quarreling over something
Junior Smith was having a night out with his fiancée
and Daisy the daughter had retired to bed early
for she was to set out for an excursion early next day
Mary the maid had taken her leave by the evening
to attend to her husband ailing for some time.

Dalton has no clue about the ****** weapon
nor any lead to point to the possible suspect
but for a scribble on the page of an old diary
found neatly folded beside the victim's body
that reads as follows:

behind the humble mask is a ***** man
time and again he has ***** a beautiful soul
all just for the pleasure of his flesh
mauled her with his ugly tooth and claw
constantly used her to feed his lust
lost the right to live this man
and he deserves his place in hell
a mighty blow to his head
will for sure end this monster
will do that with my hand
and see his blood oozing out
to recompense for the sin
he forced on her.

The murderer has kept the name hidden in the letters,
Detective Dalton has only to find out.

We roam
The alleys in the night
And find the darkest place
A name without a face
An island

We lose
Because god is on our side
And stars are only remnants of the sun
That we wish on
An ocean........
              Is the

I am an island
But water only drowns
I am an island
Without an ocean

Sound is the bringer of life, but silence is a killer, and it's quicker than a b rated movie thriller, I'm looking for a filler, the tiller of my heart, grinding, grinding. Binding me from living, giving.

I crave what you hate, I laugh at your ignorance even in my forlorn state, in my head screaming "it's to late", but wait... who is that, my favorite consequence of my love, the best b rated movie thriller, my filler, and with this silence is no longer my killer.

Split,
          in two.
Shattered,
                   into a thousand p  i  e  c   e  s   .
Scarred,
               but healing.

Get the glue,
get the needle and thread,
Fill the cracks with gold,
and learn to mend.

We are all broken here,
but we are more beautiful for being so.
My scars tell a story,
its the tapestry of me.

See this white line,
I over came it,
I stepped passed the line,
and now I can no longer see it.

Play it on repeat,
Sulk on my defeat;
The scars increased without me knowing;
Knowing the fallacies that had been pouring;
******* up my mind,
Reason for some reason I can't find.
It broke.

stunted
short
visionary dwarf
****** level
too much too much
***** panorama
cut the crap
lay on your back
change of venue
blue blue
dark clouds too
****** of black cotton
100% ******
feminine products need not apply
c’mon
but wait
no more ****
but where’s our precious depths
lost our thoughts
consciousness raised
to new depths
then lost
as if ******* weren’t enough
but hey
look
just drop it
no asking for a hand now the clap is extinct
****** fungus a dinosaur
what we’ve all been working for, right
the liberated ****
without love
without guilt

sure, but meantime it’ll **** you
homicidal inundation
or better yet
you’ll go blind looking for it

Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the *******
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.

Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.

Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.

"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books.  Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528).  Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.

Die
Because the world
Why?
Because the world can't allow it
                           Now

I see color
In the darkest
And I know life and love
I see generations
Heard stories
Felt death

Live
And words
Live
And life
Live
And money
Live
And all conniving interest yell
Live

And fight

Tomorrow
In some forsaken sandlot
In some unforgiving parking lot
In some hell
I'll find heaven
In death

Live

Because tomorrow's brighter sun
Found a cloud
And only one way.around

Live

i finally get to feel your touch
the knife through my heart wasn't what i was expecting,
but it'll suffice

my blood turns to ribbons on ice, and
i'm crying

you've ruined me, and i love you so much

i am a wicked thing, filled to the brim with you, and
every time you're near i pour
out the emptiness

you're killing me, but i can't stop smiling

god won't **** me and you want me dying