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ryn  Apr 2021
Euthanise
ryn Apr 2021
It’s so old and used,

and it barely did it’s job.

It had to be quickly replaced,

and put down...
                              without a sob.
entropiK  Nov 2010
blu AMP
entropiK Nov 2010
you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  



you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.



you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.


there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.


i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.



i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.
sometimes i have to write horrible poems to remind myself of some things;;
entropiK Nov 2010
i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.

i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,


-

spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows  
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.

i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.


--

they are coming, the surgeons, you say.

they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****,
to clean, to find, to ****, to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to ****, to ****, to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****,

to make me sick.


---

i may as well be sick.  


----

i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.


silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.


-----

i was the faire semblant and  
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.


euthanise me, i want
your ugly face




------

to be the last ugly face i see.
Why don't you just spray on the tear gas
do not let me pass go
don't tell me the things that I need to know

I am the throwaway in this throwaway society
and why me?
why?
because I'm old and a drain on resources?
a reminder that old horses should be shot?
but you ain't got the necessary to
euthanise me,
you'd really like me to move far away.

But when we go it's you who'll be crying
on the streets you'll be weeping
on the streets where the sleeping
will spray on the tear gas
and
not let you pass go.
Paul Horne  Apr 2020
Alpha
Paul Horne Apr 2020
As the man says,
there’s only one winner
in love, never try
to patch things up
with well-meaning words,
I’m bored of this double life,
single cream, easier to swallow
taken what I need,
not enough
to scratch this itch
need a man with means
not a boy with dreams
someone to pamper,
not hamper, full stop.

No point lying,
trying to dress them up
feel better than they really are,
were they really that sharp
I’d be staying, not straying
displays of loyalty
just not what they need,
the inevitable is,
and don’t look back,
euthanise quickly
before soothing moods, worm
and warm, fertile comforts
change your mind
slip on the slippers,
pipe and hat...

Normal, ordinary,
insanity for this, sensually
a negative charge, nothing
I crave less,
no drug can replace
what’s missing,
adventure, the missing gene,
no money, no trinket
in all the world,
when between the ears
is tumbleweed, drifting.

So,
what starts with a swipe
turns to a tumble
ends with a chain
to the bed, around
sweet neck,
and a text,
“it’s not me, it’s you,
we’re done."

— The End —