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ethyreal Feb 2014
shattering glass in the midnight bonfires
flaring purple with the fumes of tin cans and bottle caps.
and with barefeet we were called to run
naked underneath the moon
and howl at the trees;
to walk in packs of hallucinating lunatics
and to reach peaks of mountains where my brothers and sisters
claimed to have found God.

we're the ones that swagger on the sidepath,
sleep in gutters with notebooks and easels
and charcoal. water colours. badly tuned guitars,
rusted tambourines and guttural voices charred by
a thousand cigarette butts,
loosely rolled joints
and handfuls of various powders;
some luxurious and some downright filthy.  

we sleep in forests or on drug dealers floors,
we love like feral animals,
and we dream like cats,
drink like fish,
fly like moths
and drown, drown, drown like sand.

but we refuse to wear a life-vest.
ethyreal Feb 2014
There's a certain uncertainty
About the abyssal night;
Wrapped in sheets of cold sweat,
Head propped up by ghosts.

When the whites of your eyes set
Like a full moon in the ebon sky,
And streetlights take you by the hands
Rushing you through ****-stained alleys,
You won't remember a thing.
You won't remember a thing.

For what it is
The night strips you,
Public and unashamed.
Takes your inhibitions and
Puts them in a safe place.
"You won't be needing these tonight."

That's why I wait for the
Uncertainty of the abyssal night.
To get my kicks with no baggage
And no certain memory of what
I'd left behind.
ethyreal Feb 2014
I was outrun by shooting stars
And sideways shuffles into russian bars,
And liquefying in the back seats of cars,
Plotting maps from mercury to mars.

But I'm still tryin' to make the words fit;
*It all sounds like ****
It all sounds like ****.
ethyreal Jan 2014
Where's my daughter?
She's by the lake
Smoking cigarettes and
Reading poetry.
She's watching a little
black and blue bird
with a tongue-depressor tail
hop and squeak
through the dry
southern grass.
She's listening to
the salt-shaker wind
and sexed-up cicadas
looking for an insectual mate,
or a quick bug ****.

Where's my daughter?
She's looking at the night sky
breaking it into
sectors of
astrological wonders
and making amazement for
with zodiacal confirmation.
and kissing like a serpent,
talking about
theories of relativity
and mass
and the speed of the light
and making love on
the boot of a car.

Where's my daughter?
She's lying naked
dreaming about whiskey
she can't have
and writing poetry
on the internet.
she's listening to
foreign music
and wishing other
people would do
that too,
with her.
she's wishing boys
wanted to hear her
crude poetry
or talk about
writers with crippling alcoholism
or ****** addictions,
and appreciate art
in a way that isn't
just to get in her pants

Where's my daughter?*
The clouds.
The ******* sky.
That's where she is.
But she's not on a plane.
ethyreal Dec 2013
I can see my own demise,
Like a mystic's mind's eye through a crystal ball.
Ever blackening,
As the ashy winds of dread
Rock our bones like withered trees.
A soul like dry thistles
By obliviously bare feet
And it was crushed to dust
Like the very soil it came from.

Hope? Hope is for the weak,
Hope is for the blind.
Those with clear eyes
Can see this fog will not lift.
We will all have our eyesight fail,
There will be no end to the ashen mists.
Hope is child's play.
We live, we die.
But in the meantime we suffer,
We lose our spirit and we lose our breath,
And when, inevitably, the time comes,
We will lose the will for our hearts to pump.
We will wish that each breath is our last.
And we will wish we'd
Never hoped for anything better.
ethyreal Dec 2013
the mirror is a ghost
that reflects black eyes
brought by your own hands.
tiny pupils in an iris of badly mixed paint.
you are a ghost
without the desire to haunt.
no desire to *****.
or creep up to the boy in the dark hallway
and yell 'boo!'.

every breath, he takes as your own.
his every move could be your demise.
he gives you your flesh back when
he holds you and kisses you,
even when you know he doesn't like to kiss.
he is your pale skin,
your fat thighs and freckles.
he is everything about you,
from your strange secret habits,
to your most embarrassing
**** beach runs, that can
only be remembered
through the tales of others.
he is all of you now
and you know it's a terrible
                                                              ­  terrible thing.

but the mirror never lies and now you are dust.
ashes to ashes.
your tongue covered in residue from the 70mg
of ****** taken.

but through the calm you wish you had his hand
to brighten your eyes and flesh once more
with just that crooked smile and deep blue eyes
that will never, never, never cease to intoxicate you.

but every night as his soul leaves,
to adventure planes in dreams you could never imagine,
that even by his side, without him there,
forever will you remain but the dust form of an empty human.
ethyreal Dec 2013
I held you so close
The stitches of our clothes hissed with envy;
Turning white fibres a subtle *****-green.
Like we poisoned them with our
Whispers, desperate toes curling,
Fingers gripping bed posts
With the earthy sound of sleepy wood chipping.
And teeth on skin,
Back bones bucking upwards to eachother
From neck-nibbles that spread like wildfire.

But that's just it,
You are wildfire.
You spread from limb to limb,
With all but a flicker and a heavy sigh,
And I'm helpless when you set me alight.
Nought but the deepest pain could bring me
To part with your smoky husk
And fiery hips,
And all the ways you find your way inside me.
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