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{[<<~•==•>>]}

Drunk on Love or Malt Liquor,
Does it really Matter??

*|\~•~/|
....well...hmmm...my buzz is kicking in
((((••••))))
___••••___

Here lies below a (very) brief list to review, welcome to my nightmares,
I bid you adieu....

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Back in the day, when I was a kid
I'd so many nightmares, oh Yes! indeed I did.
There were monsters in my closet and under my bed, gnomes that would hunt me and hags on my chest.
Zombies were mobbing, roaming my street, right out of Thriller, minus the beat.
I would get so scared that I'd tremble at night, restlessly sweating, awaiting the Creeps, I muffled my sobbing under my sheets.
~~•~~••~~•••~~••••~~•••••~~

So, now that we've visited those very few, let's look on to my Teens for new mares to review.
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Sooo....Nighttime falls, and here we go, where I meet up with sleepers, ghouls, the undead, on stretch of empty highway, I'm deserted with dread, except for the drones swooping down overhead.
I've had my fair share of falling dreams, nighttime terrors, and muffled screams, ones where I'm blind, buried alive or running like molasses while helplessly knowing that something is coming to do me harm, all filled with a chill~guaranteed to alarm.
••~••~~••~~~••~~~~••~~~~~••

As I grew older, into my twenties, I'd dream of ex~lovers, back then I'd had plenty.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some were seductive yet chillingly cold, setting a jealous scene to unfold. Some were so vicious, I would wake up crying, still others were heartless and hauntingly frightening in their callous displays of cheating and lying.
<<==>>===<<====>>=====<<=>>

Of course, now in my thirties most of my mares center upon guilt, and regretful dispairs.
Reliving my shame, the losses and tragedies, taunting me with the full scope of all my inadequacies.
I still often get the nighttime paralysis, I can't move a muscle, though lucidly I realize that this time the fight seems to come from inside.

--|[{}]|----|[{}]|----|[{}]|--

So now that I've shared an abbreviated list of some of my nightmares, well, you get the gist.

I hope you've enjoyed a jolly good read, just don't be afraid when it's your time to sleep.

**EN SCENCE
For a more detailed recollection of any one dream, give me a holler or a blood curdled scream.
:-)) Sweet Dreams :-))
.
.
hands shaking
and lips trembling
i crave your hips on mine
push into me
and satisfy my lust
your wet lips meet my body
leaving marks
purple and blue
you don't hesitate to claim me yours

my turn too satisfy
my warm tongue meets your neck
leave little trails down your chest
to your hips
all the way down
i will start from bottom to top
form my mouth around you
spread my warmth to your body
won't stop till we're both shaking

push me down and take charge
pin me against the wall
come into me and press against me
hard
lay me on the bed
lick me
move your tongue fast
allow my nails to scratch your back
dig into you
my moans encourage you to go more
driving me insane
making me shake uncontrollably

i pull you up hard
and take all of you in me
matching your thrusts
going as fast as we can
as hard as we can
thrusting our hips
drenched and heated
we melt into each other
The slam poet sings his songs of false hope,
feigning poetry and swinging his hips in time
with his ego. He is patient with his beer, nestling
it into his confidence like sugar in the blood.

I remember him telling me that poetry belonged
to a voice, that silent passions only go so far in
getting you laid. He held a joint between his
fingers, and then drew his name in the air.

It lasted just a moment; a flash in the pan.
He said that this was the essence of poetry,
of music and art: 'You cannot possibly hope
to live forever through printed word alone.'

We sat in the beer garden listening to cover bands
and arranging our set-lists for an upcoming gig.
He crossed out most of my suggestions
in favour of ****-breaks and introductions.

I remember telling him after my fourth whiskey
that I wring my hands in between writing verses,
swallowing pills and jittering my leg in time
with slow jazz tunes and next door's bass-line.

To that he said: 'forget the oldies, forget Christ;
nothing that dies will come back again. Poetry is dead.
We are in love with Frankenstein's monster,
and we'll only kiss each other in electric bursts.'

The slam poet went back to his backlit stage.
I sat at the back and started on my fifth.
There was a blonde girl in a blue dress, mouth open.
Her eyelashes curled. I was persuaded to sing.
A semi-fictional encounter.
I am skilled in the art of the bitter self-slur.
Coward, selfish, ugly, weak,
For now, these are my truths.
I blend them, drink them in,
They make me thin.
I am myself. These are my choices,
I direct rage inwards, flee non-sanctuary,
Take refuge in the trees, and there, a black-eyed dog
bares his teeth and threatens, but I let him,
I pet him. His tongue is rough, and grazes me,
I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
 Aug 2014 Spencer Dennison
AJ
I'm not internally screaming or anything,
If you were going to ask.
Just wandering around the void.
It's not a big adventure.

"Who's using who?
What should we do?
Well you can't be a ****
And a ******* too."
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