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Isoindoline Apr 2013
Give me your glass
I'll give you mine—
Drink down that liquid fire
Watch it gleam in our eyes

Smiles conspire
We'll light up this town—
I'll start, drop my cigarette
alight on the ground

This bar is a beacon
A torch in the night—
Sparks singe our skin
Raw but it feels right

Give me your glass
I'll give you mine—
Drink down that liquid fire
Watch it gleam in our eyes

We tear through the streets
leave flames behind—
raze the city
with heat off our tires

They won't ever catch us
in our deadly machine
'cause we run on agent orange
instead of gasoline

Give me your glass
I'll give you mine—
Drink down that liquid fire
Watch it gleam in our eyes

I'll kiss you and accelerate
forget about the wheel—
taste heat on our tongues
our incendiary dream is real

Veer into the flames
our sins will detonate
a sensuous Little Death
for our immortality.
I know that the timing of this poem is in poor taste, but it has been percolating in my head for weeks.  *sigh* Just know that it has nothing to do with recent events.   Also, I'm not sure I like the title, but it's the only thing I can think of right now...
Isoindoline Apr 2013
I'm waving my arms like people do
when they've leaned too far out over the edge,
and a helpful branch is just out of reach.

You've stretched out calmly, soaking the sun,
looking at me with your head cocked
and wondering why I won't come sit down.
Isoindoline Mar 2013
I get the impression
that you like me the way you like dessert:

praising my appearance, presentation,
eyeing a swirl of cream,
licking your lips at the sparkle of glacé


When you cradle me gently
in the curve of your silver spoon:

your tongue samples my sweet delight,
fleeting flavors hold your senses enraptured
the lingering aftertaste beckons


Your silver spoon scrapes
the bottom of the glass bowl:

melted cream pools languidly,
my last sweet aftertaste slips from your tongue
while you do the dishes.
Isoindoline Feb 2013
You're beautiful, we want you with us,
they chorus, pale hands grasping,
their ghostly holograms of consciousness
project across a network of artificial minds

Desperate to materialize,
and turn their ephemeral bodies
into undulating flesh,

They graze their fingers across my vision
trailing electrons in their wake
that insistently whisper, Make us Real.
Don't think this is quite done yet...
Isoindoline Jan 2013
The ring you gave to me
bore a beautiful trillion stone,
and a band with artistic wave
polished to perfection shone.

The shine obscured the lie,
your dazzling artifice,
for in place of gold and gem,
salt and sulfur kissed.
Isoindoline Jan 2013
For a while, we put our problems in a box in the attic.
We'd visit, now and again, to deposit an annoyance or two.
But then we started adding bigger problems, and space became tight.
We bought a trunk.  It was cedar, designed to keep the moths (and our consciousness) out.

One day you went up there, and discovered I'd taken up nearly the whole trunk
with a gray sweater, full of holes, coming undone at the seams.
You wanted to know how it got there— you'd never seen it before.
I didn't exactly remember putting it there, at least not all at once.  
It would explain its tattered nature.
You told me to just get rid of it.  It's all worn out, you said.  What's the use keeping it?
I told you I was still working on finding all of the pieces.
You acquiesced.  You usually do.

For a while, the trunk was all we needed.
I left the house and came back with more pieces for that gray sweater.
It eventually became more of a blanket, but the trunk still kept it in, though the wool
would threaten to spill out in tufts whenever I opened the lid.

Eventually, it overflowed the trunk, creeping out onto the floor, down the attic steps.  Into the house.
You asked if I'd found all the pieces yet.
No, I haven't.  The bigger it gets, the more holes it sprouts.
I start to wonder if I've been making new holes to patch old ones, taking thread from the seams,
and leaving the edges ragged, fraying.
I'm fraying.
And neither one of us is good at sewing.
Isoindoline Jan 2013
slow steel sword
room of death
stand and die and wait
blissful truth
sees sunlight
quite elegant pain
cut.  ask.  remember.
These words appeared (almost) in this exact order in my "words" section on here (I moved 'quite' back two words), one right after the other (without my inserted 'of' and 'and,' of course).  They made me pause for a moment, so I thought I would share.
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