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Words are ****.
They make me want to rip a pillow with my teeth
Or marinate in a sensuous heat.
Where you'll be, sitting there.
Waiting to kiss my spine and touch my hair.
Tell me regaling tales of what you think.
Of what is rational or obsolete.
Worlds like Suggestive, Sarcastic.
Forlorn
and Bombastic.
Makes my skin melt and heart palpitate.
I will no longer settle for those who are adequate.
I need substance. I need someone (you) to say.
That you're enamored and beg me to stay.
I want that learned passion that only we
could portray.
Vocabulary lists are almost as good as ****.

...almost.
Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking
Towards the horrible world:
Let us say 0 poor people
How can they help being so absurd,
Misguided, abused, misled?

With unsifted saving graces jostling about
On a mucky medley of needs,
Like love-lit ****,
Year after cyclic year
The unidentifiable flying god is missed.

Emotions sit in their heads disguised as judges,
Or are twisted to look like mathematical formulae,
And only a scarce god-given scientist notices
His trembling lip melting the heart of the rat.

Whoever gave us the idea somebody loved us?
Far in our wounded depths faint memories cry,
A vision flickers below subliminally
But immanence looms unbearably: TURN IT OFF! they hiss.
I am No where
I am No thing
.
Devoid of the promise
To let my heart sing
But the storm
She gathers so patient within
Cast into the sea
. . .
And so I see
Waves of illusion , a fleet of sin
All that remains of a God I miss
I know the welcoming darkness
At the edge of the abyss
Go run away

to your dreams my love,

I'll be the nightmare waiting for you

when you wake up..
 Dec 2013 Forrest Jorgensen
Molly
I harbor a gentle whiskered beast
made of quiet sighs, all knees and elbows
jabbing my ribs while I sleep,
a weight shifting among the sheets
in the long shadows of earliness.

Suddenly, unprovoked, he is startled
as if threatened by an electric presence.
He listens intently to the silence and bristles
as though a ghost in the corner has spoken
in a tongue meant for beings higher than myself.

When the spirits have gone he sighs again,
his paws turn circles and he lays himself down
curled neatly behind my knees,
quietly pondering primal truths
that I was never meant to understand.

Outside he chases skittering leaves
and imagines he is wild
in the great wooded taiga,
flushing fowl from the brush,
scattering them like gasps of color,
with fluttering hearts beating warm in their *******
among pines capped white with snow.
IF THIS *****, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. MAKE ME A BETTER POET - FOR EVERYONE'S BENEFIT.
 Dec 2013 Forrest Jorgensen
Molly
A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.

Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******),
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.

Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.

They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.
I'll soon be gone,
Away from the fire that heated my heart,
And the one I loved from the start,
It's hard,
To put you in the back of my mind,
I'm sure I'll routinely hit rewind,
And Reminisce on those times,
That I would look in your eyes,
Or when I held your cold hands, and kissed your old lies,
It was childish to think that I could have such an angel,
A goddess of beauty, a demon of intelligence,
Sometimes I just want to strangle,
Throw you on the floor, and love you some more,
But I'm a creep,
The more I love you, the more your love sleeps,
I've been at a distance my whole life,
So what's five hundred more miles, right?
I am swimming in my coffin,
A plush cage of silk and satin.
Hollow housing what's gone rotten
Cold vacuum of the forgotten.

Backfired plan, ran from a quagmire.
"Departure" from unquenched desire.
A notionless naivetty,
Breeds ambitionless apathy.

I'm placid, pallid, on the floor,
In yearning dreams from days of yore.
An idyllic end depicted,
To deep rooted pain inflicted.

Yet...

Curtains' fall is ill-begotten,
By memory I am sought in,
A cacophony, my casket.
No sanity can outlast it.
 May 2013 Forrest Jorgensen
Molly
It's been said that happiness is just a chemical equation,
so if Socrates says it's it golden, are you calling his assertions fallacious?
Our youth has let adulthood clip our wings and force us into burning light
from the sheltered, softened world where our innocence used to hide.
Age brings darkness. It sneaks in slowly, stealing bliss, sinister serpent,
we let him replace our carelessness with solemn seriousness and self-observance.
Sunshine became an energy source, a burning star, and nothing more.
The tides, the mountains, the freckles on your chest hold no mysteries anymore,
because we know what they are. We're smart - we finally know better.
We have broken beauty and enchantment into particles of matter.

We're much too old and smart now to fall for nature's silly tricks.
For each secret hidden deep in the world, we build a tool to **** it with.

We've explained away the smiles and laughter
and we've beaten meaning out of every chapter
of every book that ever made us wonder.
We murdered innocence, a sordid blunder.
Because we have to know. We crave a meaning, a purpose, something solid,
and so for centuries we've dug our way down, and soon we'll reach the bottom.
I mean, do you really want to hear that everything is nothing?
What will you gain when you demand that nature stops her bluffing
and see the clearest truth about existence as we know it?
When you've solved the final mystery, what will you have to show for it?
We, the clumsy people, are emptying the world of all its luster.
We have polished and picked at our precious, gleaming life until it rusted.
We, in our greed and hunger,
have spoiled the secrets of the wonder
we were trusted with, whether by divinity or blind ******* luck.
We behold beauty, bursting forth with bold abandon, but only question it's chemical makeup.
 May 2013 Forrest Jorgensen
Molly
Fight twice,
it's even harder the second time.
And you win nothing
either time.
It just hurts.
Both times.
Fight twice,
just so you can finally know
what it feels like to lose
everything.

— The End —