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 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Chiara M
Embracing
I, tugging at his hair
(wishing I could tug at his belt)
him, paced and guided,
guiding his hand lower
I wish I could feel him tighten
I felt myself loosen
Almost collapsing into his arms
Almost gasping
Almost neglecting knowing of where I was
(where I wish we were,
under my sheets,
him between my sheaths
moving like the waves
to the rhythm of the moon
drift sideways, in and out
tensing, pausing, the sun almost breaking through,
sea foam contracts and disappears
the waves in his eyes
dilute, dilate.
whilst mine, with body
retire with the satiating taste of his lips
on my own)
– where was I again?
 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Chiara M
The things I wish to do
With him, to him,
I shall start:
****** him with my words, gaze,
My physique,
Bursting with desire, love,
Aching for his embrace –
Not unlike that of a hesitant boy,
Yet I sensed a dormant
Longing in him too –
awakened by the
electric caress of lips against
lips, cheek, neck…
pulling him down,
pressed as close as the growing hunger within me
we slowly begin.
 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Chiara M
This hysteria, raw desire;
Passion,
distinguished from love,
extinguishing a purity of my own.
Pull me down from the white heavens
away from the angel-headed cherubs,
long-lost devotions…
The tombs of forgotten, unfulfilled desires,
Lay dormant, as you
embraced me with your arms and heart;
showed me kindness, showed me magic…
Yet, the caliber of this soul – trapped,
Weeping at the romance of the streets –
belongs not to a time bygone,
but the shimmering soft peaks
of Today, Tomorrow,
and the glow of the heavy moon.
 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Chiara M
Stuck within grief's gripping claws
for a dead mother
and a dormant love.
I may as well curb this anxiety
for the impending carcinogenic
destruction of *******
with that of my lungs.
He avoided my gaze -
I saw his iced eyes
melt - and he
apologised, apologised.
Speechless, cigarette hindering words,
and stark sunlight blinding vision
I suddenly felt sleepy.
As though I could melt
into the earth,
return to my mother,
and forget this perpetual
malaise.
 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Chiara M
Those frames through which he views the world,
That hair through which he rejects the expectations of modern man –
He’s glorious. Incredible.
Not a clue of the allure of his quiet charisma.
I want to envelop him in my summer arms and whisper in his ear:
“Darling, the enormity of my adoration for you, I have no such words.
And you no such artwork.”
He will not respond
But instead, remove his frames,
Envelop my sighs in his cheek,
And take my body as his artwork.
Filling in my emptiness with his hues,
Making my body solid as the bold outlines of his sketches themselves.
And my words of him,
Buried in his chest,
Shall echo in his dreams
And fight the monsters of his
Imagination.
 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Z
remember that rhyme?
the one about time?
with the mouse, and the house,
and the tick-tock of the clock?
hickory, dickory dock,
i'm like a mouse,
stuck in a clock.
the time it ticks,
the time it tocks,
and you and i,
we stick,
and talk.
and you tell me about your life,
and how she's hurt you so,
and i sit here and wonder,
if you even know.
you hurt me the same,
in case it doesn't show.
i felt for you.
love.
and hope.
and i held on,
even at the end of my rope.
until my hands were burned,
and my arms were sore,
and i couldn't hold on,
to nothing anymore.
and even then i held, still,
fought against my body,
and my brains will,
because my heart,
would simply ****,
to feel your touch,
to know that thrill.
but eventually time,
it ripped you away,
i could not hold on,
i could not stay,
what could be done was done,
what i could, i did say.
and still you pulled that rope away.
i thought you were my life line,
that one day,
you might be mine.
but you aren't,
and you weren't,
and you never will,
because even though it hurts,
you love her still.
time heals all wounds,
or at least thats what i'm told,
and in the winter nights,
when your cold heart keeps you cold,
i hope you know that i could have been yours,
to have and to hold,
only if i would have told,
if only i could have been so bold.
hickory, dickory, dock.
the mouse ran up the clock,
the clock struck "done",
the mouse ran down,
hickory,
dickory,
dock.
I worked really ******* this. And I really like the flow of it when I read it out loud.
 Dec 2012 Owen Phillips
Z
i have this vision in my head,
it comes each night when i lay in bed.
i lay in the dark, as quiet as can be,
and listen to the wind as it whispers through the trees.
the wind it whispers, things you never said,
as i pull back my blankets, and sneak out of my bed.
i tiptoe down the stairs, across  the old wood floor,
then i pass right by the kitchen, and slip out my back porch door.
i walk out into the moonlight, as the wind blows back my hair,
and for a second i can hear your voice, it's almost like you're there.
for me it's so hard to admit, that the you i knew is gone,
sometimes i try to close my eyes, and pretend that nothing's wrong.
my feet come to the cold concrete,
to the place where the grass and sidewalk meet.
i stare into the cold dark night,
and the moon gives off a silver light.
from there i'm stuck in memories,
and the wind still whispers in the trees.
across my skin it sends a chill, i hear 'i love you kid, and always will'.
but i know the words come from the sky,
a sick illusion from my aching mind.
the match it strikes, the fire burns,
with each inhale, my stomach turns.
my insides twist, as i start to cry,
the tears fall slowly from my tired eyes.
you see,
this cigarette is like you now,
in so many different ways,
it knows the feeling of my lips,
*but the smoke, it never stays.
I stumble forward in a daze
with shackles on my wrists and feet.
The room is cold and very bright
As I approach my final sleep.
I see the gurney waiting there
It bears the aspect of a cross
For me to stretch my arms out wide
Embracing what my sins have cost.
Behind the one way mirrors stand
the next of kin to all my crimes.
They wait there to see justice done.
They count down to the end of time.
I feel the needles subtle pinch
as liquid poison finds a vein.
As Icy coldness creeps towards my heart
the savior to my darkness came
Those put to death by the State are classified as Homicides.
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