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I cannot go, she's always there
To take my place without a care  
She's putting locks on what I've said
For once she crept inside my head
See I've become her source of prey
And I can't seem to get away
Her pace is quick and on she crawls
Around my feet, I trip and fall
But though I stumble all this time
I'll fight for what is truly mine
She may proclaim that she has won
But I will wait 'til time is gone
For then a seed will surely die
The one who's love has been a lie
stripped down to a nakedness she's not the hands to cover
plundered by a lover
a rogue who's undercover
tarnished and possessed
in slavery undressed
taken to the gallows with a noose around her neck
the hanging will be public
her snap to death cathartic
and she'll be made a mockery in front of people manic
their illness like a flood
a passion for the blood
they stand and sink their feet into coagulated mud
she was just their silver
some money they could pilfer
pay their dues in stolen goods that they could not deliver
tactfully selected
made to feel accepted
then callously rejected
in treason's name erected
I bet she'd not expected such a glorified demise.
detach, i think,
remove yourself.
(the heat of my body slowly melts
the snow beneath my back and legs)
be rational, think logically.
breathe deep the cold air,
and let the chill quiet you.
you’re just a mechanical system,
says the ice,
She’s just a machine.

yet the snow underneath continues to melt,
and I continue to love her.
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
Chloe S
The way you touch me I cannot describe
your moves alone arouse me- too big of size
the way you look at me with that stare
makes me want you more, I cannot bare
laying bed, drenched in our sweat
is the best feeling I've had, ever since we've met
moving your finger from my face to down low
always brings me up from feeling dull and slow
locking your eyes into mine
in the moment, our bodies intertwine
this feeling is the peak of the day...
just until you have to go-"goodbye" is all you say.
leering lurking

before me

crazy jet black coal eyes

peer

red crimson droplets

forming on foaming saliva

teeth as sharp

as a bear trap

baited and ready to pounce



copyright gothic mistress 2012
These days I long for
the times we drank for hours
getting dolled to the nines
in between shots and dance
moves. Weaving our way
in and around bodies
dark and in shadows,
prowling. We were the big
cats, the ones they keep
in cages for tourists to gawk at.
The ones they fling whole
carcasses towards, to be devoured.
Soul searching eyes and manes
longer than the Nile. Stopping
grown men in their paths with
a single glance. I dream of
the nights we could have talked
our way out of cop cars and into
furry handcuffs with a twist
of the tongue. We would twirl
boys around like tops, wrapped
in dorm room sheets. Winking
and taking them out in the morning
like black bags of trash, one after
the other. Blowing smoke out
our windows and giggling, our
own secret language. Setting fire
to our own bridges and dousing
the flames in tears and liqour.
We were the biggest game,
hunters being hunted, dying
to be laid out like skinned rugs
and ravaged like last meals.
In the end, like lazy zoo lions
we were left with nothing but
the shadows of the Queens
of the Jungle we used to be.
Licking our wounds
and cleaning our paws
in the sunlight as the world
goes on without us.
I dreamt of an orchard where the autumn leaves fall,
And the breeze that carries them away.
Where out ghosts run wild, fed to be free,
Hand in hand in the ocean’s spray.

Dreaming of the day we vanish with no trace;
The sun swells the desiccated grass,
And the smell of that fresh ocean’s air
Exhalts towards freedom at last.

Fearing the notion of inevitability;
The knowledge of having to wake up.
Promise me that: if we do what we choose,
Then we will choose to never give up,

On our disregard, as we prance through the yard.
Through the abruption my words become clear,
That our subservient minds become fundamental,
And that Utopia is all up in here.
She watched the clock and traced the bruises that peppered her pale skin
She counted the days till the end and kept track of her every sin
When the sun was up, she was a lamb: lovely, kind, polite
At night she was a lioness, with a quick and vengeful bite
She drowned in wine and whiskey, and a cigarette here or there
She wasted her time with silly boys, but to love, she wouldn’t dare
Her life was short and meaningless, but she refused to give up control
Until that tragic midnight hour when the sadness took its toll
So that night she finished her drink, and with God, she made a truce
And without looking back, she gave herself to the loving embrace of a noose
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
Jon Tobias
I’ve got plenty of ghosts I promised her. I leave them wherever I go.

At the house on 711 Ellen St there is the ghost of a dog named Hessa and a dog named Mac. They don’t play together, but they pant heavy, waiting my return.

There is the ghost of a cat named Charles. He chases a raccoon out of a busted window that my mother fell through.

There is the ghost of my mother pacing the living room, contemplating suicide.

When ghosts die, they become useful fire, burning as long as necessary, and then blowing out forever.

There is the Ghost of Louie, helping me fix my car. There are the ghosts of our tall cans crushed to the curb. There is the ghost of their fullness. Little drops that are left sit in the rim of the mouth.

Every moment makes a ghost. Every time you move something from stillness, there is a ghost for it.

When I come to see you, I will leave behind the ghost of laughter, the ghost of my warmth growing colder. Miss it if you want to.

There is the ghost or your taste in my mouth. Certain foods bring it back to life. I let the Bud Light sit on my tongue. I almost tasted it. Something is missing.

There is the ghost of your smell. It tricks me into craning my neck, eyes searching for you. There is the ghost of your smile which haunts me when the ghost of your smell tricks me into thinking you’re there.

There is the ghost of my cool breath dying on your neck, then dying again. The fire it becomes extinguishes quickly.

Behind your couch there is the ghost of a cricket. He has stolen a harmonica and plays only the high notes. Tell his family that he misses them.

There are the ghosts of apples that I skinned when I learned to make pies in high-school. I have made many apple pie ghosts since then. I will bring one to you. It will be a slow ghost. The steam rising from the middle is its spirit returning home.

Home is your chest. Breathe the ghost of my pie, the ghost of my cologne, the ghost of my eyes wet with poetry I have just read.

There is the ghost of poetry as it mixes with my breath and exits my chest. Let it die and die again. Let it haunt your heart, your belly, the back of your neck like a gentle hand.

I make graveyards. I make ghosts. I leave them behind wherever I go. I miss some of them. There is the ghost of my irregular heartbeat, when I feel the ghosts that I miss pass by. I breath slowly trying to feel them, but too soon they are gone.

Ghosts don’t stay long. I can stay long. Make ghosts in the meantime.

When I come to see you, I will leave you with ghosts.
A paradox in itself
But then I saw her there across
the room
through flocks and flocks of 'beautiful'
silly seagulls --
              frivolously flocking,
                                            pecking at
the shiniest trash that flutters by
Only to swallow
pass
flock, peck again
-----------------------------------------------------------­---
She intrigued my mind
   through
the eye I saw her beak was flat                                y
no craning,
                  crooning neck                                   l
                                           and could not f
for she had no wings
... maybe we do not care to fly!
------------------------------------------------------------­--
Like the Red Sea
She-Moses split through the flock
to me,
beakless
surrounded by chronically cocking faces
all but one,
                                                            ­          all alone
She had been                                                     too
-------------------------------------------------------------­
Now next to me
                                                              ­                                        No wandering eye could care
in soundless conversation
proclaimed we
                       are together
as one we surely gleamed as gold
too bright for gulls to see
              ...Mastur-consolation?
------------------------­-------------------------------------
And so it's true
we were                   alone
                               together
perfect paradoxical bliss
I never do free-form... Another quick write. Hope you enjoy.
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