Unseen by a careless eye,
The tiny holes
That pierce right through the paper’s skin
Cannot be played with.

These rough and edgy slits
That bind the page
With shiny, silver, spiral shackles
Refuse to give up their grasp.

These tiny holes that dot the page
Are never healed and never felt,
But they remind the paper that
The notebook has a grip on it.

But when the time has come, a child
Slowly rips apart the page:
The perforation pops in pain
And grabs a hold of what it can.
The paper, screaming in agony,
Frees itself at last—
It wanders off to be crumpled,
And hurt, and torn, and trashed,
Only at long last to find
That part of it was left behind.

It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.

She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.

At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.

What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.

"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.

I sit here like it was nothing
Watching you leave, leaves me breaking.
Though all this was a fake feeling,
Like my heart is now perforating.

The feeling of silence like I can't get over,
A hole in my heart I do need a cover.
Standing here watching you, I can catch cold
I can't stop thinking, these memories poke.

But the more that I look, it's harder to find
Many people who tried to heal this wound was too kind.
Others tried to a make solution,
But no one can stop this kind of perforation.

Please someone, I am already bleeding This is no joke nor I am kidding
It hurts so bad,
This feeling I can't stand.

Thinking of you it makes me ache
This affection I am feeling, it might be fake.
I can tell that these insecurities poke Waiting here, I can catch a cold.

This broken friendship is tragic,
All those memories poofed like magic.
I still cherish you, you are a trusted friend I didn't know that this is how it will end.

I have no more words to stay I will lie here and be a stray
This perforated heart will decay,
Where this worthless life I must pay.

"Don't come any closer" she said
pulling a sliver from her heart,
the one she kept on her filament wrist

hand upraised, shaking but sure
a pinprick of light glinting in her fist
matching the spark shining through the hole
once filled with an object sharper than her pain

pull them out so you can forget
so you can remember
what it's like to breathe
what it's like to cast yourself
like the night sky

she lunged, a streak in the dark

everything roiled in a chaotic ink
except a twinkle one could balance
on the tip of a needle

I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,

the needle
is dipped in blood
not mine
but yours;
the blood of your broken heart

the blood
leaves trails of lines
like tally marks
showing how many hearts
you've broken

these tally marks will never be
erased;
they shall burden your soul with regret

the needle perforates
your most intimate parts of your mind
the ones hidden deep in your heart

the needle will never cease
your blood is
on your forehead
in clear crisp words
is written

A F R A I D

(b.d.s.)

if words are rounds, then I̲'m gonna send
a bullet storm on sordid dictators
being, along with ro[ɑ]tten regimes
of theirs, a bunch of derm inflammations
on the body of the world; disgruntled & mean
I'm your personal Gray Hunt
[Grayson "Gray" Hunt who's a playable protagonist of the "Bulletstorm" game]
I'ma, like someO̲ne who was in—
—volved in spetsnaz & forcibly breaks ones
imprisoned for co[ɑ]nscience from clinks
one-two-three, then the bloodshed begins
[prisoners of conscience; "one to free"]
having heard "no smoking", harsh P—ayne
turned & smack—t Wayne with a "hopeless" ash-tray
["smoking" in the sense of "killing"; Max Payne & Bruce Wayne]
[Batman's "no killing" rule, which is hopeless, as well as Max's existence]
["ane" (one), "twain" (two), "trey" (three)]
————————————————————————————————
it would be nothing short of mendacious
to say I don't wish y'all misfortunate states of
affairs, like divorces & break-ups (crack!)
yeah, all the worst to dictators
hopefully, y'all ****** jerks will be faced with
infernal damnation
for every singular person paraded
civilly through streets in support of good changes
and been delivered brute force in repayment
people in jails & clinks mauled
and denied of med help, disinfo
unjustified wars, liquidations
of those subverting a heinous sociopol. course undertaken
of course, fabrications when it's time fO̲r legal cases
(and elections, of course)
and nowadays, you've got Y̲O̲U̲r pesky agents
working on breaking
the web like Bourne which is Jason (Webb, David)
here come my warm salutations
to that stupid web regulator
that serves the dang Craymlin (got it?)
like your walking shyotka tualetnaya, take a
["toilet brush" in Russian]
[another sobriquet fitting the rhyme scheme: "toilet predator"]
hike; Y̲O̲U̲r limitations
hitting media insubmissive ta
the sick regI̲me which y'all sustain by dint of digital
censorship, to individuals with a set of principles
and views akin/sim. to mine, are like pork to unwave[—]ring
[the word's supposed to be read/pronounced as "unwayvring"]
Muslims; in other words, we evade 'em
(what are you gonna do about it?)
as you were told, better block Y̲O̲U̲r **** BHs
you subservient A-licks
["buttholes"; "a##-lickers"]
————————————————————————————————
now, let's revert to the arch black hats
when you get a just backlash
or, like drinks allowed for thO̲se under eighteen
minor shots, y'all schmucks get sore, 'kin to nates
["shots for minors"]
of someone earned a good lacing
fO̲r misbehaving (just like y'all)
get yourself some butthurt-mitigative
stuff, you scO̲rn-ridden vain ******
you're worthless like an ****** absorbed medication
to you procured a gunshot gorge perforation
but first you'd get your arms
and legs shot in its hinge joint parts
[that is, elbows & knees]
that's some mean **** marks—
—manship; as you may've gathered
like a workforce undertaken
reaping, you depraved dastards
with your regimes are something I'm sU̲re not okay with
minus them paid guarders
with shoulder marks worn & you're Swayze
for when your brainwa[ɑ]shers
and other order-maintaining
tools no longer make masses
conform to the mainstream
acts of force are your last resort
like a semi-island-based palace
[sounds familiar]
housing some gorgeous gals craving
to have some unchaste practice
["lust resort"]
some of those going po[ɑ]liticians or power-wielders
are by then already sordid? like forgery traders
not the type to think so
that's humankind's horrible nature
evolved to a high degree, though
still animals, thus Earth's, in a way, a
jumbo jungle; got a shade sidetracked
like a train, my bad; I'ma explain, like that
Malaysian Boeing Ukraine skies'd had (ex-plane)
[had had]
before it got razed 'kin/sim.
to the outrage of folks storming a place which
a c#cks#cking usurper is based in
["raised"]
the earlier stated
"BFWID"; once you are no more animated
like a cartoon paused, the verdict is plain 'kin/sim.
to a suit that is mourning-related
a torrid vacation, metaphorically saying
yet no point in packing Y̲O̲U̲r freaking raiment
since Y̲O̲U̲r destination's nothing short of pure Hades (if there is)
["sins"]
in fact, unlike some of you, I'm irreligious, but
it doesn't mean I'm cold to medieval stuff
like a hedonistic brush with a chick replete with lust
in this realm, there may be a wicked **[ɑ]t
time for you; akin/sim. to witches stuck
to those stakes, you may end up lit as f#ck
like after a cig. with **** you are
in the garden of the post-en—lightenment time going
["thyme"]
which, in fact, is the reason I
["reason I" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "reasoner"]
and others with opinions similar
to mine think Earth's in need of getting rid of ya
————————————————————————————————
chief authoritarian crooks worldwide
and all those contributing to their rule of vice
you know what have just come tO̲ my mind?
look, douchewads, why
don't y'all take a tiled-rooftop hike?

Words are uncatchable, fleeting
Soft and sharp
To heal your wounds and break your heart
They can be smoothed and polished to perfection
Or sharpened to create a deadly perforation
Make them shimmer and glitter like sparks of light
Or cast a gloom of perpetual night
Weave them, hold them, string them up
Taint them, paint them, but never use them up
They can be cold and cruel and hard and dark
And kind and warm and bind our hearts
They're twistable, kissable, catchings of glee
Embrodiery in the mighty world tree
Enhancements which dull the melancholy humm
Of work and stress and all things dumb
I'll use them, abuse them, fill them with me
Pay people with words and words with seas
Of amazing knowledge and words of grandeur
They'll always be rich and never be poor
Words are my forte, my intricate strength
But for you, I have no words left.

Some years ago, some friends & I took a
memorable trip            to Marilyn Monroe's crypt;
one of     many apparently; I don't how that works
but to this day,                 I still tell my friend who
was w/ me,              she must've been right outside
taking pictures of headstones   when I approached
Miss Marilyn Monroe's           sarcophagus hidden
behind a wall of thinly pressed marbles tiles;
& putting my hand to the name on the raised
bronze plague         Marilyn Monroe
                  born Norma Jeane Mortenson;
                  June 1, 1926 – August 5, 1962
             I bowed my head in imitation of Dylan's
St. Augustine & just then I got a whiff of corpse,
long dead & acrid,   but it was the distinct stench
of rotting flesh or whatever else remained,    hair blacked
@ the roots,  fingernails, breast implants; farts, O
for the stink of dead Marilyn's final expulsion; the
evacuation of the dead never seeming so dreamy;
creamy on top & crusted on the bottom where it
lay resting crushed below the dead weight of the most,
most perfect buttocks ever to get skinny so fast
                                                       & melt away
                                   into withered fat & flesh;    
                               muscle & bone dehydrating
in cold storage;              |       it must have stank
like sweet **** but for the sweeter perfume
wafting from the vents w/ a subtle hint of frankincense;    
I'd gladly climb in beside her to this   day;                
             the crypt the size of a good-size condominium;                
Sylvia P.'s           hips so finely drawn & thin,
still my tongue would have run rings around
the Poetess' minute perforation of a surely
constipated **** & when she went to the loo
I'm sure it stank to hell
                  too; but shallow is the hole where
                  |    the nose probes below, sniffing
like a bloodhound to catch the scent of the death
of a Beautiful Woman;            it was Edgar Allen Poe,  
who said
            this was the most Beautiful Subject in a poem;
& suddenly I knew just what he meant,         
       what Novalis meant
        by jerking off over his young wife's grave;
like anyone willing to **** a randy old woman,
some of whom are professional ****** from the Old Country;  
I imagine there aren't many left,                                              
             ­                  maybe a few,  
like those starving Holocaust survivors I saw once on bad            
late-night TV &
 nowhere else,     dying off & leaving a Frigid Generation
                         of Women traumatized by centuries            
of acculturated horseplay & falderol;    
boys being boys & girls being whatever,
sweetly smelling         of hidden things like the dark
echoing chambers of the unknown beneath her seat;            
where she sits & ***** & pees & we all stand around
to see the holes open & spew their effluvia
like hot custard cream
& we lap it up like mangy dogs who will eat
of the Mistress' **** beneath the table cloth &  
        | in our      wake &      |      theirs is  
the legacy of feminism   otherwise suffocated
by psychic pantyhose;    she refuses to remove them: |
she just can't get it off her head;            
                  no matter how many
jeweled tiara's              we put on it; u're the ******* Queen,             
okay, rule, jeez;
men are stupid, ladies;          give us ***** & liquor
                                             & u've pretty much got
                                                              ou­r attention