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decompoetry Oct 2010
Curly hair sprawled
out on the bed,
eyes in a trance,
clothes we shred.

An embrace of passion,
desire’s too much;
no more talking,
we speak with our touch.

Glorify your neck,
lay upon it a long kiss,
our bare bodies together;
instinctual bliss.

Slowly move down,
I stop at your chest,
breathe in a ******,
mouth engulfs your breast.

Hand rubs the other,
gives it a little pinch,
soft whimpers fill the air
as I feel every inch.

Brush back up to your face,
I take in another taste,
and you lock your ankles
around my waste.

As we absorb our lust,
we begin to combust
with every moan,
scream, and ******.

Eyes roll back, a release
and a decrease in rapidity;
love and sweat glue us together
as we melt in this room of humidity.
decompoetry Oct 2010
In a dangerous spot where my worries rot,
but never go, no, they haunt me so.
In a deadly place, mind’s bound by old lace,
burning the wick and ingesting lovely arsenic.

Let the unknown take me home;
we’re all depressed, so just let me rest,
lay me to sleep where the innocent weep.

No more comfort zone, now that paranoia’s grown
into my very own silhouette, and yet I don’t regret
looking into your eyes, planting hatred for dreaded goodbyes;
glued as one, impossible to ever be undone.

Days tick by and I can’t help but wonder why
it’s getting harder to trust my shell, this anxiety cell,
trapped by jaded streams and fed by invaded dreams.

Waking sweating of aghast, an era soon surpassed
by knowledge fit to last, so let us take a blast
to a higher moon, where it plays our favorite tune;
together in perfect seclusion, diminishes all delusion.
decompoetry Oct 2010
A bang, a crash, get off your ***,
the Dead are here, for you, my dear,
they’ll steal your time and **** your mind,
tell you how to dress and transform you into the rest.

They are the Dead, but they’re very much ahead

with their gangs, their cults; it’s indeed your fault
that these songs are in my head, brought to you by the Dead.
Corpses lining up from all around, their Queen parading downtown;
appalled how mere strum of guitar free feeble minds to gain thus far.

They are the Dead—too late, you should have fled

into hiding, before it all came subsiding
into toxic debris, due to refusal to disagree,
like rats in the grinder, you can’t get much blinder
with your bigoted visions and hypocritical decisions.

They are the Dead, tyrants in need to shed

their preferences over you, reminding you whom to choose,
all this keeping quiet persuading my brain to riot,
difficult to resist anymore while you worship a *****;
turning the other way from the same old cliché.

They are the Dead, oh how I dread

what this world’s become, how we’ve succumbed
to shooting sprees, sugar music and reality TV;
we’re a lost cause, a wasteland glitch stuck on pause;
and tomorrow you can ensure they’ll start another war.

*They are the Dead, here to stay and to corrupt your head
decompoetry Oct 2010
Stumbling numbly through the dark
with the moonlight upon my face;
sick of this world, the one fed by grace.
I take another sip of my toxic *****;
please join me, I’ve got the graveyard blues.

Kick some rubble, stomp the dirt,
craving a human, some juicy dessert.
Its absence stings, makes me hurt;
am I the only one left to convert?

I won’t have it, I won’t give it,
gonna scratch, gonna burn your skin,
gonna stain the white flag red
and resurrect my beloved undead.

Let’s take a ride and darken the bruise,
only if we erase my graveyard blues.

Curse the soil, raise the zombie,
my little skinny flesh eater—
—ah, there ain’t nothin’ sweeter.

Laugh with my fanged beasts
as they howl at the moon,
reminding me of a familiar tune.

Bring out the blood drinkers
and decapitate the good thinkers;
brains for dinner, brains for lunch,
flesh n’ such the ghouls munch.

Release the creatures from their cell;
again, they roam the night—
—time to raise hell.

Sharpen the claws of my sinister muse,
lend it a blood-inked quill—
—no more graveyard blues.
decompoetry Oct 2010
A whimper at her window,
but no face to be shown;
closet cast reminds her
there’s nowhere to go,
releasing a flash of indigo.

A scratch from underneath,
the cry of the beast;
screams from a demon silhouette,
agony from a possessed statuette,
thinking of anything to forget
the burning of the cigarette.

Wishing for a life
of vampires and werewolves,
she conspires a world
lacking ripped attires;
no more human monsters
and beauty inquires.

She dreams of painless entrails,
creating cognitive fairy tales
where she keeps her wishes
in a cracked plastic jar,
while Mommy has fun at the bar
and Daddy does things of the bizarre,
she wipes away tears from a burnt cigar.
decompoetry Oct 2010
Climbing up from this prolonged descent,
two halves combined being what destiny meant;
losing my discontent, rare of malcontent,
forever yearning to breathe your scent.

An enchantment you present …

Hand-in-hand this world we shall explore;
these winds are impossible to ignore,
means more than some ******* metaphor;
pounding fists against the locked door.

Your mind I do adore …

Together we’ll overcome the conflicted,
negative thoughts vanished, all contradicted;
time’s ******* restricted, frustration’s inflicted;
the hourglass has been thoroughly afflicted.

I’ll survive ‘cause I’m addicted …

Like a match strike, the love’s automatic,
want to join your church, for I’m a fanatic;
your character cinematic, soul charismatic,
talking to you makes me ecstatic.

*I’m your addict.
decompoetry Oct 2010
Walkin, talkin,
blinking, thinking
robots, good thoughts,
futuristic loser characteristic,
hit me, bite me, be very frightening,
please lie, don't cry, **** you, just die,
stick the needle in your arm, lie down and crawl
into this funny room, the place you know to be your tomb,
empty bottles clash linoleum and ratter, sobriety no longer matters,
quickly running out of time, but no knowledge of those you left behind,
wife and kids think you’re not the same, makes you want to blow out your brain
when you see their sadness, so maybe you’ll finally hop aboard this twelve step madness.
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