I'm sorry that
in the depths of your ever-changing tide
I got swept away by you.

I'm sorry that
your expectations were not satisfied
when I was in your arms.

I'm sorry that
I wasn't who you wanted
even when you wanted me.

I'm sorry that
I could never amount to anything
more than perfect.

but most of all
I'm sorry that
I'm not sorry
not even a little bit
not even at all.

Katie loved to dance
even as a small child
she loved rock music
boy even then she was wild

She would dance on tables
she would dance on all the chairs
and when her mother told her to get down
**** a whipping, as she did not care

As she past into her adolescent years
never would she be indoors
somehow she always would disappear
dancing down the mall, showing all her draws

Then as she entered her early twenties
she went a bit more *******
she danced in a *******
next to the liquor store

That's where she met Frank
a big shot hard man, a robber of banks
he asked her for a private dance
that was the beginning of their dark romance

By twenty nine she was feeling fine
Frank gave her everything that she was needing
but the cost and price for this luxurious life
was she had to dance till her feet were bleeding

She married him at thirty one
even though he was turning into a low life ***
still she danced with tears in her eyes
starting to loath him, starting to despise

He forced her onto to the stage
made sure he got most and she was poorly paid
that was when she came to the conclusion
she would have to be rid of him

So one night when they had one hell of a fight
she got a knife and stabbed him
she did not stop for she had taken a lot
Screaming " no more dancing" as he fell to the floor

Yet after the the court case
guilty she was found
and her last act on earth
was the sit down dance with fizzing sounds

By Chrisrtos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

And sometimes I look down
At the floor while you talk.
They scare me sometimes
The words that come out of you
Slow and slick,
Filled with a generic substance,
They’re not even coherent.
Forming erratic sentences,
Like the paths that you follow.
Like the friendships you break.
The girls you meet, the family you love.
And the movies that you watch.
I worry about you. Honestly.
Like the words I type on this keyboard.

a cult novilist in Blackpool
watches Martina Navratilova
throw sugar lumps
at passers by
as captured teardrops
in a teaspoon
call, plead, for understanding
perhaps release
for they’re not the
obsessive prize
once hailed as trophy
but simply words in the air
that execute that which never comes
causing a retreat from an ordinance
of nothing
where time defiles itself
a red speckled jersey
whose arms, once occupied
are too small, limited
like abandoned prosthetics
leaving rotting flesh
to slowly scald the earth
with a vaporous experience
of emotional contrasts
like that of mesmerising serpents
whose visional embrace
stares deeply with such a charge
of ****** energy
that causes the air to weep
and poses the question
who shall give me leave