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DannyBoyJ Feb 2016
Smoky air, fedora and billboards,
testosterone-fuelled dreams.
the purest of all male forms in its finest
yet darkest days.
Who run the world? Men.
The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow
that controls what we are prohibited.
The lights of Morris Minors flooding the
streets.
The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes.
They’re in charge. Them, and only them.
A red right-hand to those anti-them.
They will tear you apart
if you decide against pledging allegiance.
Or you’ll end up in the sand.
Frank Ruland Aug 2014
Meet me where forever lies
where hot-blooded passion
clashes with the fervor
created by our eyes.

A different kind of drug
and another type of high
the promise of warm skin
alludes to a heated night.

Crush, crushed, crushing
red velvet fingernails
against my forlorn flesh
taint me, lest we both regret.

Your euphoric, wicked sigh
cuts through ruffling sheets
clothes are tossed about
as if Heaven's coming down.

Tender, rendered skin
underneath my fingers
absolute ecstasy
for both you and me.

Time to get to business
no more little giggles
down to tooth and nail
lust has never failed.

Two solid forms convene
carnality, animalism, greed
tell me your little secrets
and I'll give you what you need.

— The End —