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Mary Alexander Jul 2016
My generation is swarming
With new kinds of witches.
Some will be obvious,
Lurking and spitting, throwing
Daggers from the corners of every room.
But on occasion, one will be covert,
With sweet dresses and
Beautiful hair cascading down her shoulders.
Greeting those around her
With a charming smile and wide, bright eyes.
But she weaves a web of deciet and triffling words,
And as she speaks, she clouds your mind, speaking
In foreign tongues which are not
Of this true world, until you
Are caught unaware, for her spell has been cast.
You blink, confused, and look down at your hands,
Trying to ignore the impending sensation of insects
Creeping up your arms
Until you realize.
You realize that her spells are not those of darkness and horror,
They do not come in forms such as toads, dark clouds, or anguish.
Her power, her only power
Is that of one way time travel.
And when she casts her spell, her words take you back
To when you were simple, childish,
12 years of age.
Her words come out in flames,
Painful, cruel flames that scortch your heart,
You fight back, begging her to stop
And realize the pain she is inflicting,
Until you suddenly notice that the words are meaningless.
Words, painful words,
But from a child's mouth.
And you stare at her in horror when your past self
Flees your being while her's remains.
Her words, still shooting from her mouth, now
Small, plastic bullets from
A child's gun.
They sting your skin, but no longer scortch your heart.
She then flies away, charming smile back in place,
Leaving you swaying in utter shock, praying
That her next victim will posess your same
Awareness, and sense the truth behind the flames.
It's terrifying.
Catrina Sparrow Nov 2012
an aerosol angel with college-ruled wings
and paint stained fingertips
stranded in a sea of pigmentation
lately, she's been feeling out of place
not all compasses point due north

a parrot in a sea of sharks
who's never learned to sail

they're selling tickets to the ****-show on the shore line
catch the half priced sunday matanee
save the date

a trapeze ******* with a choke hold on the universe's coat tails
tap dancing through star charts and love poems at the pace of lightning's strike
some failures just have to be public
if lessons are to be learned
the prettiest ballerinas aren't afraid to fall

she's learned the hard way to find beauty in skinned knees
strength in stubbed toes
and faith in a broken heart

no point in dressing up, honey
prince charming doesn't frequent freak shows

he's an arrogant flake, anyway
her best bet is a strong man
or a fire breather
when looking for a boy to bring home

one man to bare her burdens
and another to scortch the wreckage of what's left
careful what you wish for

butterflies the size of funnel cakes shake her rib cage to pieces
silver confetti on pitted pavement

he looked so handsome beneath the neon lights
horrified and ecstatic all at once
like a lost boy in neverland

scanning the crowd of strangers for any possible princess tiger lillie's

someone to ride alongside on the ferris wheel all night
untill the sheriff shines his flashlight down the path that points them home
alone

but handsome boys know little about matters other than themselves
so she's gotten good at feeling bad

it's time to find a man
someone who can build things instead of just break them
Catrina Sparrow Apr 2014
i tried to write a poem that wasn't about you
but nothing came to mind
so i climbed up on top of my mom's roof
and puffed smoke signals towards the moon
in hopes that they'd take my thoughts with them

before i knew it
i was counting sattelites
the same way that i'd count your breaths at night
     apparently everything marches to the same measure as your sunken sternum

"sunrise, sunset."

somewhere in orion's belt
hides the same gleam as your moonlit grin
and i'm back at it again
     twisting up sweet leaf in the appologies you'd sling
     and hoping you'll think of me
when you wake from coughing in your sleep
as i scortch my fingertips

maybe you'll be reminded
of that first campfire kiss
we shared in the sticks
     was it five years ago
          or was it six?

****
     i just can't think of anything but our tangled hips

          the way they read just like a star chart's dots and trailing dashes
     and the astrological improbability of celestial bodies managing to gracefully merge
******, catrina.
Raven M Coulter Aug 2013
You never realize how fast something can change,
And in a split second
Your whole world goes up in flames
It burns every bridge you built on your own
Then all you have is third degree scortch marks
When it's all said and done you just set everything you worked for
Ablaze,

You caused your own down fall
All due to some arbitrary mistake
As hard as you try to smother the fire
Soon enough it engulfs you
You're traped with no where to go,
No emergency escape,
So how do you survive?
How do you breathe through the smoke?
You don't,
You adapt and deal, accepting your fate,
Accepting that you might die,
That you'll be reduced to ashes.

But it's the hope that the conflagration dies out first.
It's the natural desire to want to make yourself survive.
After all the hard work you put into building what you have,
It wasn't for nothing,
Just give yourself a fighting chance,
Become your own savior.
Create a phoenix inside you and rise from your demise.
Rebuild what you lost in the holocaust,
Make your mistake your new paradise.

Most importantly,
Don't ever forget that life doesn't give you anything,
You have to work for it and take what your given,
Remember that you aren't given anything that you weren't meant
to handle
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
added to the fact that guns 'n' roses cite the Texan twang that can't be New Orleans in their song civil war from the album use your illusion pt. 2 from this film.

i play tricks with my father, rather i insinuate a strategy,
he's a worker of manual tedium,
we watch movies together and play the game:
what year, what actor, what other film was he in.
it paid off today... i sat watching *gentlemen prefer
blondes
, oh god the American Renaissance
between the 50s and 60s and all that poetry...
where normal women would be considered fat
by today's standards of beauty-torture -
those thighs! those legs! then i started watching
cool hand luke... the man spotted Dennis Hopper!
playing Babalugats... the madman, sing-along...
a truly broken man, with such a defence membrane
that he escaped reality altogether, not the sort
of reality that cool Luke tried escaping from by
stealing one truck and taking the keys from the other
vehicles of the chain-gang in the deep south...
Babalugats did the real escape, he went mad, he said:
**** it, give me the extinguisher of ego, i'm
in a burning building, scortch my insides but
leave me immune to the fire of labour and iron bars
and that ******* routine of prison life!
he truly did escape, his threshold for enduring pain
increased to the point that he purred, clocked a chicken
strut and fellow prisoners took a pity on him to
the point of protecting him... the thing is...
i didn't spot Dennis Hopper... my father did... finally
the game i was invoking when watching movies:
the odd reference here and there paid off, i turned
my father into looking for cinematic patterns,
face recognitions, because of his manual profession
and his abhorrence of reading anything but the newspaper:
visual tactic... i'm seriously about to cry, and to not
vocalise it i pinch my nose as if snorkelling and then
no sound is made but the tears flow...
the game paid off, he became better than me at the game
of face-to-face association... i'm guessing this was
Dennis Hopper's debut... well after Blue Velvet he made
a name for himself... but like my grandfather said:
it takes great skill to play a Dostoyevsky idiot...
imagine Rowan Atkinson playing Mr. Bean or
the Antichrist playing Jesus of Nazareth - antimatter
and quantum physics and all to boot as
the rational cinematography allowance for people to
stomach such an eventuality.
Kassel D  Mar 2014
amore
Kassel D Mar 2014
let fly the words
that burn like embers
hot upon your breath
for i too feel the scortch
bandaged lips
and scabbed throat
tongue, thick and swollen
each word infused

amor, amor, amor
my pain is my love
an open eye
to the everlasting mark
you've placed
that i cannot scrub free

why do i love you so
when the rage is taking me?
Sunny Snow  Dec 2014
Like Me I Am
Sunny Snow Dec 2014
Like a freak on a leash,
Like a box that won't fit,
Like a gift you don't want,
Like a curse seeping through...
(I am.)
Like a sun that can scortch or warm,
Like a moon that howls or cries,
Like a tree that can grow or die,
Like a bird learning to fly...
(I am.)
Like a barely living frontal lobe,
Like a drug you can't kick,
Like a love that will stick,
Like a place you will never forget...
(I am.)


Time will tell you my history *****,
Then again in the end,
We're all ******.
Either way I am what I am,
No matter what I do,
I hate who I've been,
But you will love the new.


Like a warm fire, burning
Like a pretty record, turning
Like a loving phone call, lasting
Like a soft touch, moving...
(I am.)
Like places of unseen beauty
Like burried treasure found
Like waves crashing down
Like loves sweet sweet sounds...
(I am.)
Like beauty in words, unheard
Like songs played softly
Like hands intertwined
Like a place in your mind...
(I am.)


Time will tell you my history *****,
Then again in the end,
We're all ******.
Either way I am what I am,
No matter what I do,
I hate who I've been,
But you will love the new.


Just tell me you want me to stay,
Weather for friend or for love,
We'll see.
Just please, tell me...

Its not so bad
I'm not what I was.
Just give me a chance
And I can give you a love.


Because...
Time will tell you our history *****,
Then again in the end,
We're all kinda ******.
Either way we are what we are,
No matter what we do,
We all hate who we've been,
But they will love the new.
Originally a song
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i... i'm finding myself bound to having
a green fetish...
a green fetish for gomorrah...
Zoe Saldana....
no please... no cinnamon skins...
no copper skins... no brass...
no rust... none of the chocolate skin...
nothing milky-way...
i'm in it for the green...
perhaps ol' me porky skinned -
hapless white when i scortch via
pink is all evesdropping via
the glaswegian route via
carntyne west and haghill -
north barlanark and easterhouse south:
otherwise better to import foreign
perspectives... from salty Sou -
and d'lan...
but i still have green fever...
i'm tired of liking the copper,
the cinnamon,
i'm tired of burnt butter antics...
just give me the alien green ***-whip...
how else will ever befriend the chance
to escape this oriental onslaught
of the... less than courteous
mr. Hiab and happen via Mrs. Gipsy
and the latest: motiff in ****** of Kan-tow!
bow.. ****** better bow...
it's still a fetish for green...
you paint me as pink as,
what i really am...
paint me crimson curious...
emerald skin aged nearing my 60s
and with a furious nose...
you know what comes across as most disagreeable
to me?
essex girls teasing a suntan in winter...
with prokofiev's oranges...
i wouldn't lament... milktooth
milk skin of some sun deprived
aristrocratic wannabe st. petersburg beauty...
when you can look
at the veins like maps of roads
that extend outside the curriculum
of a "nation"...
but the green, the green...
i'm just so into the green skin!
i'd **** a green skinned girl...
prior to the copper cinnamon and the cumin /
coriander powder earthling...
sign me up for green skin
and ****** ***** of feeding a suckling of
an octopus humanoid morph...
god knows what else will wash up
with the next tsunami...
this is my wave...
this is my skateboard and this is my ramp's
worth of a reef...
and this not not anything...
that otherwise comes with
the "molotov" cocktail of
interracial breeding... the casual Cassie...
perhaps the porky skinned beauties
of casual oh-so...
forgot to keep their: dear diaries...
and i somehow demanded myself
to keep mine...
however you look at it:
big fetish for green.
Anavah  Jan 2019
One Day
Anavah Jan 2019
One day I will have a home

With a roof that shelters me

One day I will have a home

With a pantry that satiates my needs

One day my home will clothe me in modesty

One day I will have a home

That isn't swayed by the frothy seas.



One day I will have a home

That celebrates my uniqueness

A home that shelters me

From the prongs of society

Poking into my very essence

One day I will have a home

Where the promise of deliverance lingers

Beyond a Sunday afternoon worship.



One day my home

Will not ****** up my peace of mind

Because it will be a part of it

One day my home will welcome me with wide arms

One day I will have a home that wraps me in a hug

When I am broken to the point of no return

A home that will celebrate my joy

One day I will have a home.

One day I will have a home

With a bed that rests my wearied bones

Without questioning my weariness

Without pointing fingers at my uselessness.

A home where the skies will not scortch

The dried tears of the past

Fountains will spring

When one day I have a home.

(c) Anavah 2019
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
there's nothing transcendent about
an idea,
no more than an enclosure
in ideology,
   and bound by the "offshoot"
of cognition into
          the domains of the narrative...
least, the "concern" for
a novelty....
                               most: an abject
"sentiment" of purpose;
higher-ground of the most
profound saying gaining foundation:
dive into the fiction
of science...
                 with...
                          the current science...
and then:
                      a temptation
                                     by the lacklustre:
metaphorical
                 interpretation of time,
of **** genesis;
         star wars versus.
                          back to the future;
the unobserved wine &
dine...
                         slick:
      a stretching scortch of
                            skins...
like...
         the purple in peacock feathers
blinking.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
at best: a drink and a homage to sleep -
nothing too complicated:
not allowing dreams to leave
traces of having invested in me -

i blame the cameo cinema of memory
for a lack of dreams -
then again:
i only have a bouquet of four or five
return-to memories
that i **** myself with...

        but it's all oh so un-
           -spectacular...
  everything is these days...
         because i feel: more than i think...
it's hardly an argument:
i feel therefore
            is no therefore to trickle down
toward...
an ontology detached from etymology
and subsequently from history...

everything is such a grand: devoid...
it's like... beside the nouns
there are only onomatopoeias...
there's a "wake-up" call
for those in a noon sizzle and scortch...
there's the milking of a camel
by rubbing the humb
with hands for sandpaper dust...
and there's the arithmetic
of bones:
         a rubric of the spine...
of those / i.e. things made
into a market of pickling...
cucumbers - later gherkins...

oysters... garlic K9s....
                   everything is so impossible
not because of some laziness...
but because... a be-at-a-loss...
            so immediately presented
the pressure comes of its own accord...

i'll sooner come across
a sentence with om / par /
le /              yod / -dle
                      lubi- /
                              decant... decant...

big words... yoyo...
   etymology... ontology etc.
  epistemology... bogus drawn a...
poker and a 2 + 2 = 4 is all the new
fathomed glue: and basics...

a return to... hardly...
somewhere between e. e. cummings
and will alexander...
                
  it's not because:
but there's no great awakening of a narrative
ready for a paragraph...
this alone is shrapnel logistics...
it's splinter-cell wo-wo-wording(s)...

         once upon a time grand adventure...
meat in the grinder...
a metallic-aftertaste...
   a softness of the chin after having
shaved...
and the beard...
  something i admire for my own self's
"purpose"...
like... the fiddle... of the dubious
***** afro extension:
in my hand a fiddle a bunch an
imitation / metaphor of a violin...
the fizzle of the mane stressed
toward the aid of the bow...

or the "new" invention of the
hammer and the nail...
counter: the ***** and the driver...
otherwise... the sickle...
and the wait-parody
of the chaff... autumn too late...
the first begotten
mill churns for flour...

                     the cement of a proper
stash of ****...
   a well deserved agony
of a browning of a loaf...
       a ceremony of sorts... beside...
wainbor and that pirate ship
of... cul de sac d.n.a. confiscations...
well! no more stupid than
no one knows who...

      a contradictory rubric:
science and it's contra: the aesthetic...
the 1960s and its hindu ****
and the western hangover materialism...
an isaiah berlin and
               the **** and the jig...
hence the... saw...
              
              it's still a chemical soup
of the brain in realm of psychiatry...
and those things and tender "bones"
of psychology...
em em: objective...
inclinations scarce...
          this over-worded
scholastic peacock and a gravity
guiding toward
a crux - the golgotha 1 +1 =
    and a revision upon the "thrice"...

               the better the worded
in that there must be a newly worded
vogue... a vogue of synonyms...
to scuttle... the best of the neutral:

chem. soup of the brain...
the basic fruition of the heart's
rhythmic junctions...
              
   the "leisures" of skin to contradict
a half-baked fathom of leather...
thus? to grow BALLz like
watermeHlons...
              and... count teeth like...
those "things" bound to
                be lodged into a scrutiny
for toothpicks in...
those grey-bits and shadows...
and those un-explored
clouts of brainz-it-freese...

                         hoop-l'ah!
less, concerning calling a dog a dog...
and more...
                        just ******* barking!
woof!
wo'ah!          blitzkrieg rotts-veil-ms.-eerie!

new photo-anti-objective
"reality"...
the old l.c.d. and new-hormones...
    otherwise: leash the old gorgon...
and *******... bro...

the best new transcendent...
reality...
come some old communism
of femme...
because the reality of males
and as plumbers
and the churn of rubbing charcoal...

but all those oh cherry-whipping lips!
these standards of...
my best whittle wowld
and standards...
and... octopus oogling the next
big scrutiny...
        
   again... truly objective...
the new hormone junkies
is... nothing new of the U.V.
subjective spectacular amazonian
mind-****: or call it...
p.t.s.d. from new vietnam...
because...
                new drugs... new highs...
the mind less a sponge...
and the body the old platonic
                     "it" wed itself to a grotesque
slow-roasting the gall: and the *******
and the chimney sweep...
and... uvula monobrow...

             dr. and dr.'s an 'atan...
                             thus saying...
no one is being judged...
but everyone is being trampled...
my brain's the juice...
your body is a hromonal ****...
and it just so happens...
the paratroopers of the grand
-oid are...
              lost? looters?
loitering?
sow the new normie...
                  who's to judge,
judge who... zoo-curious old berlin...
yeah...
           that's this new old ****
i have always been looking for...
no...
              no d.n.a. impropmptu forward...
chains and perv brilliant...

            hell...
this me this new becoming...
                chappie b'oh...
                      gets ***** by an ottoman...
gets ***** by a mongol
gets ***** by a chrimp wishard geijingyjingy...
cold basics within the confines
of taipei in W(oo)...

                            loot! the scoop!
no new brave...
no new old...
                ergo?
   the brave old...
              and the old brave;
nasal... nasal... umbrellas...
                     umbrellas... loitering
shadows constipated to make grip
of a shin.
.

— The End —