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Cut
for Susan O'Neill Roe

What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.
 May 2016 Danielle Rayn
JR Potts
We were misfits
the neglected *******
of a backwards world
that rejected us
not because we were sick
demented or dangerous
but because we didn't prescribe
to a preconceived notion
of what a functioning citizen was.

Not rotten enough to spoil
behind the bars of a prison
just competent enough
to work menial jobs
and drown our sorrows
at the corner pub.

We swallowed this hard truth
the same way we drank our shots
with no chaser
and at times it burnt
maybe even made us tear up
but we never let it beat us
(too strong for that)

We were beautiful
resilient beasts
that could carry the weight
of the world upon our shoulders
and it was heavy
but we would tell ourselves
"doesn't every world need an atlas?"
so we went on holding up the sky
when no one asked it of us.
I want that easy, slow-dancing-in-the-kitchen kind of love—
something so free and so simply performed,
sunsets envy how naturally it settles in for the night.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2016
The daydream comes in waves,
exasperated kisses,
lips so soft and sweet,
the way you drag them down my neck,
I bite my lip and breathe in,
impatient now,
waiting for you to continue,
waiting for the next wave.
wow this is a ***** poem lol, was just inspired by a Tumblr pic tho....
silence's a token,
some words must remain unspoken
to maintain some hearts unbroken
 Apr 2016 Danielle Rayn
Pixievic
We danced to Cuban rhythms
Late into the night
I twirled my skirts in girlish glee
Giggling in delight
My heart it started pounding
As you held me tight
I waited for the kiss
That would bring me back to life
Then
Brutally it struck me
At the stroke of midnight
You were just an apparition
Your kiss turned into frostbite
A phantom on the dance floor
A cruel trick of the light
You melted into nothing
Just a shadow in the moonlight

(C) Pixievic
I was invited to be  a guest writer on a blog about Ghost Stories - this is what I came up with! You can find the rest here .....

http://ghoststoryiii.blogspot.co.uk/2016/04/part-v-i-and-v-ii-and-ghost-dancer-by.html
 Apr 2016 Danielle Rayn
ekelhaft
He knows your joys,
He knows your sadness.
He knows your vulnerabilities,
He knows your helplessness.
He comes in close, he comes in quickly.
He, the Whisperer.

His face is covered in darkness,
Nothing to be seen but a sinister smile;
Dressed in your clothing,
Dressed in who you are.
You cannot outrun him, nor can you **** him.
He, the Whisperer.

He is a reflection in a broken mirror,
Twisted upon everything you are.
He slowly creeps, upon your ears,
Reciting your worst fears.
You cannot escape his trances,
He, the Whisperer.

He feeds upon your worsts,
He grows in your chaos.
He chuckles when you cry,
His laughter, growing louder, and louder.
You cannot make him cease,
He, the Whisperer.

He appears when you least expect him,
He vanishes when you stir insane;
Insane with anger,
Insane with sorrow.
He manipulates you endlessly,
He, the Whisperer.

He'll never go away.
He'll never be astray.
He'll be wherever you are.
He'll be the man behind the strings.
He'll make you bend to his will.
He, the Whisperer.
I guess, this is depression...
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