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Dissected lip served in grained and pictured fixtures cracked

Spider webbed and spider trapped

Talking in forgots named of slayed littler things, as strewn about in the worms in hand

Slight of seethe in bulls horned speak

In Blackened eyes and turns of cheeks

In seek if speak of need

Weaker keyed of broken nobs in a doorless windows dream

Sing in singing

Sang to other trees

Trees of broken branches

Rootless mud of rockied roads, detoured to a cliff slide view

Face the rain with open eyes and not blink
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
N23
Sunday
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
N23
Jesus is not here
to appreciate the way
my legs look in this skirt.

And so

I will settle for you.

And the look on your face
when you realized
that I knew
what you were so
intensely
focused on
was not

The
Word of God.
Fractured light cascades in.
                     Flowing, ever wider, ever wilder
          with each passing moment, leaving
great pools of heaving color on the desk by
the notebooks I refuse to keep.

I.

There stands a building, overrun
by the very nature it once fought
so proudly to keep out.
It's walls hardly more than crumbled
stone, it's staircase, hard white concrete
interspersed with moss.
You keep a cozy home here.
Your beagles run about, guiding
lost or lonely travelers to your
warm and inviting den.

II.

The hallway was long, dark and
under water. The people floated about
still trapped frozen in the moments
that must surly have been their last.
At it's greatest spots the roof is so
high, the tile so dense that it
seems like a subway, a train station.
The blue lips of the people around me
seem to whisper pleasant lies.
Seem to call me, as though a touch
could wake them from forever sleep.

The sun's rays do not touch these places.
                     They do not know my works.
         How could they? Why would they? They don't belong.
The light breaking in are from the passing ambulances, cabs
and cars. Sounds I have learned to ignore.

III.

We are never more pathetic than when we
are swinging. Each time we hang back, we let
our heads dangle. It feels like that moment
when we lean our chairs back in class.
Proudly stride on two legs, and know
absolutely know that we are very near
to death. We reach through the world around
us, bending the color and light, forcing the
air from our skin and our bones and we hold
on to each other. We are so very near death.
We are so young, so close.
We swing on, and we open the same door,
again and again, only to find it still
closed.

IV.

My teeth are falling from my head.
They are healthy, they are wonderful
bright and shiny white, like they never
are, and they are falling from gums.
New ones grow in, without the irritating
itch that I remember from my youth,
but with bursting skin and a lack of blood.
They come in immediately. When I look up there is
food. So much food, the smell is so good.
But my teeth, my new teeth They are
too dull to chew. Soon they are falling out
as well. I shove them back in, pushing
them hard through the broken gums
but they won't stay. I don't know why
they won't stay.

When I open my eyes to the dull buzz of the alarm
                     My head swims, my brain reaches for the
         last few remaining images. It tries to put them in order,
tries to make sense of them. But nothing seems to fit.
There is only me, the light, and the desk. My works are in order.
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
Alan McClure
A countless headed monster
rampaged through the village yesterday
smashing everything in its wake
befouling the water
and devouring my whole family
in its slathering jaws.

It really was no consolation
that it brushed its teeth afterwards.
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
dk
I can't imagine how hard it would be,
To hold the heart of a poet.
I can only imagine the words that I'd read
Would start with a passion un-stoic.

Dreaming delights and sweet spring days,
Starry summer nights and skies without grey,
Words that whisper warmth and want,
That'd speak of love so nonchalant.

Then slowly or suddenly things would stop.
Maybe then a poem.  A rain drop.
Then another, and another, and another.
A secret tempest witthin my lover.
The lightning, the thunder, I'd feel it but never see
The full extent of the storm she was writing.

Then, at last, through the dark depths of night
She might spot herself a little candle light,
And dream that it was a sweet spring day.
And that's all it'd take to whisk her away...

I can only imagine the words that she'd write
As she pull away and head toward the light.
I can't imagine how hard it would be,
To watch as my poet walked away from me.
I lift my hand to fade
To that other place
I close my eyes to wake
In another day
I pay the toll and fake
A happy face
I play to keep my kills
In another way
I'm here to stay
Awake
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
Gnirednaw
Lucy
 Jan 2013 Erica Boyd
Gnirednaw
it's been three sour months of sobriety
and unfulfilled
sensuality

But I see Lucy still remembers where
all of my
favorite places to be touched are

She sends me soaring
Fumbling.
Tumbling wildly toward
her body. a sacrificial offering
A new flavor on my lips
A feather soft breath across
my hips

****.
I'm afraid if i whispered too loudly
I'd disturb the rhythm
of her technicolor love

And Lucy loves me so
lusciously
Uhm... the only thing I can think of to explain this without giving too much detail: first time with a girl... on LSD. Critique is welcome, but homophobic comments aren't so much. I think hellopoetry will be serving as a diary for me, unfortunately for those of you who read it. Lol,  thankee sai! :)

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