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Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence.
I'm wasting away in a paradise of my own creation!

Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
Like ashen trees and factories which procrastinate and suffocate.

We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and lonely daydreams.
I know it sounds dramatic but as is the nature of reality.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little peices of honey soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pond.
So.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Of coffee and two bass lines and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.

Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked acceptance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.

Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac

!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.!
SITCOMS
ADJASENT PLOTLINES
mumble rap
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
seven letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning

Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite our efforts
We still waste away
September Roses Sep 2019
Lightning playful through a poisoned bloodstream,
Veins on torturous, burning fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of the faux trauma and unresolved crucifix standing ready to bear.
Left unfulfilled by the crushing unrefusable statement of self sabotage.
The flaming star of the avatar, the nomadic extreme of the eternal hellscape that resides in my hunted stomach.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
No Elysium, I denounce Gehenna,
I crave nothing but the sweet, serene, comatose clemency of unending hibernation.
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, adrenalitic pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest its self.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******* rest of departure.
Pretty hot. Haha get it .a ha ha
September Roses Jun 2019
Strangers on the subway
Who I never met and never will
Say, "hey, martha", like they're hailing a taxi
And I say, "hey" back, because, I am martha.
The lights go out in the tunnels, because, the conductor thinks it's funny and,
Three murders happened in that time but, no one cared
And the conductor still does it.
That train after 1 am
The grey and green one that smokes and used to have a future,
That was, good at writing or something in high school, but, never made it to college, you know the one.
That train rolls up and its five minutes late, but it's always five minutes late so no one complains,
And I stub my toe on the way in, I forgot to, mind the gap, and
A strange stranger bumps into me,
They say, "watch where you're going Sal"
And I say
"Sorry"
Because, I'm Sal,
And we all get on and no one says a word, and most of the passengers are rodents
But maybe some are marsupials
I dont know the difference.
And we sit in there for ten minutes maybe, avoiding eye contact like it's the plague,
Excepting, of course, those few that make eye contact the whole ride, like you're interesting or, appetising, or, they're blind and those are actually glass eyes that just happen to be looking your way.
And, when the train starts it lurches, it belches down the cars, because it, doesnt think anyone can hear it because its five meters underground and, no one could hear anything from down there.
And as we sit and we ride the silence turns to music, like the lack of even rustling, or bustling, or conversation to a friend, becomes the sound of collective recognition, often purposefully ignored, that no one on that train is going.
The train moves, but they dont, and, even though their stop is right around the corner, no one on that bench will ever find their corner piece, or land that gig, or get the girl, or save the day
Because in the looming washed out morning,
They're all just, simply, nothing more than, strangers, on the subway.
September Roses May 2019
The letter I never sent,
I write my valentine on your beating heart,
And send a perennial prayer,
That you could know without knowing.

Petals on your doorstep,
But no signature,
Pink Rosehip on your bedsheets,
Spying through your window blinds,
At someone unreal.

A label that travels as my desperations move it,
How I value the sick,
The unnatural,
The corpse and the consent.

The tenacious nature of a train,
With a hundred destinations,
None finite,
Moving and passing every station,
Leaving like it never stopped,

The will to pull me off it,
The weight of every expectation,
The ommitance after the deprication,
And the incommodious silence after the exposè.

I lust for that iced libation,
The roseate water of ivy and redemption,
A clay to fit inside my insatiable skin hunger,
A welcomed error of continuity in my own beliefs.

The rain of rapture will flood the streets to the chorus of weeping,
The composition of the crestfallen,
And my perennial prayer,
For an ardent antiphon.

-Unabaitingly, The Romantically Inept
September Roses Mar 2019
Please come and find me
Playful whispers in the dark.
Who am I calling?
I suppose...
My baby,
Can I call you baby?


Oh sweet lullabyes in the night,
Hold me tight in constriction.
Squeeze a little bit tighter, love.
I don't know how much time I have left.
Delusional!
Oh bitterly hopeless
Alone on the void
Scratching at air for any oxygen my depraved lungs can find,
Suffocating on your love,
Choking on your divinity.

Oh darling,
My sweet crimson lover
Dancing on the bridge of death at the break of dawn,
You swing me in your arms,
Torched tongue behind your tight toothed grin,
Your hair grows stars, and your arms bend time,
my fatal partner in a tango to the edge of the earth.

Darkness as you torture me
Wrench my soul willingly
Foolishly and ignorantly
Pulling my strings
Through obligation
And autopilot daydreams
Painting patterns
On an inky black sky

Orange slices on existential beach
Sparkling warm coast,
The cosmos like a bright sunny day above.
Bitter ashes mix and churn with the sand,
I'm sinking,
Quickly,
Help,
Help me!
But you just watch.
Mournfully?
Guiltily?
I sink until I hit the bottom
And there I lie,
Falling asleep to my tears.


The zodiac locked fate,
Fish and Virgins! Fish and Virgins!
Poets and failures,
Academics and frauds,
Spring and summer to autumn and sadness,
My eternal indigo diary,
My blueberry lipstick,
Leaving light stains on my love-lorn letters,
Lavender scattered in the envelope,
Mailed to you on Sunday,
Delivered along the milky way,
A sickly jazmine blend,
Of cherry blossom confusion.

Blood red,
Soaked through,
The same old colours fill my thoughts.
So many clouds for a sunny day.
Raining garnets,
Thick and playful,
Flooding the streets with sweet poison,
Bathing in my deep obsession,
Drowning in my addiction.

Waiting emptily,
In an empty white asylum,
With an empty mind,
Waiting for you,
My answer,
My meaning,
My red and blue jumper.
Not standing up to stretch,
But sitting still,
Letting my bones grow stiff,
To creak under my weight,
Like an old back porch,
Made for a pair of old lovers,
Desolate and dilapidated,
Withered by neglect,
Empty.

A pointless pray for solace,
In hope you will come,
My prince of milk,
My fifth science,
My escape from this never ending sporadic spiral down into the murky, dusty, purple fog of asinine and inane.
My peace of mind.
My baby.
Can I call you baby?
September Roses Dec 2018
Lemon drop notes play across my lips
Spring is here
The grass is velvet green
White gold dances in our eyes as we look towards the sky
We sip sweet tea
And listen to an old radio
Out on the back porch
Staring over the fence
Sugary laughter comes from the fields
The light comes early
And the birds sing like honey
Oh spring
Isnt it sweet
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