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There is a barber shop built on the ashes of Babylon,
where men lose their ******* with shame that skip to the fourth kid,

There once was place where Samson's hairstyle was a treasure map.
A place where lost man travel
Where David found no stone
where Noah built an Ark but storm never came.

When we pass through that place even the stars we use for direction disappear.
Pauper of Prose Nov 2018
Amongst the broken ships
I see thy standing upon a sinking deck
No chains bound her in place
The glare of sunlight shields her face
Then swans and sparrows come in pairs
Settling upon her feet
Pecking and prodding with cooing sounds
Their music a masterful soothing score
That drowns out the brutish ocean’s roar
So that a new sea of melody floods the world
Then all these notes flow into the girl
Resting within her once rigid heart
Which has now become a sacred Ark
Matthew Barnes Aug 2018
Your good book couldn't save me as I saw the abyss,
Yet your rage, and fury and bile drew me to Hell,
And I saw that Hell is so subjective.

Looking down at a thousand souls screaming,
Writhing, drowning, dying,
I realised that they were all my own.

I looked back at a life battered,
Burned, scorched earth,
Filled with constant plagues that I hadn't earned.

I tried to reach for help – my sides, the sky, the ground,
But there was no voice from above, nobody beside me, and no ground below me,
I just hovered in stasis.

Is this your 'purgatory'?
I doubt it, because that's how I'd describe my life;
Just one bitter, broken period of waiting for something every worse.

Every emotional floor, cracking bones like cracking thunder,
Heart shattered by lightning, eyes torn out as pennance,
It was all so ******* biblical.
For more of my poetry, please visit: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Matthew-Barnes/e/B07BYSKPWH/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_5?qid=1533800178&sr=8-5
Martin Narrod Jul 2018
Flits of crepuscular longing across the simoom in the night. For with samiel at the helm, all hell will take us for sloth. Firstly, a schism overtakes the wind, backsliding the doorstep of Lucifer’s kin. Keep an eye on the door’s of ewes. The child angered by sky will surely lust for the hedonists imbue. Then the rattle shakes, pelting trunks of lye, chafing the goons of the dawn and choking from the ***** in our young. Aristotle bakes yore, and relief takes the pen, until the quietness of the impala becomes transfixed by our brethren. Then sores take the skin by trial. Eagerly rushing towards the venomous trails, and only then does the bandit bemoan the pain. Only then will the hungered and hungry peel back their fingers for fare, there where the flocks lay in wait and in pairs. Here where the melancholy of revenge, fills our quivers with children’s tears. Only then do we make haste for the shade, otherwise the sun will cook our hides to the colors of the day, then we will lay quiet too. Maybe then we’ll be overtaken by the Xombie Moon.
A Trudeau Chant

a man
was blue
when his
mother was
butter just
a vapor
in awe
that got
their day
to mesmerize
them  under
the sun
there that
might not
recess the
River with
a wall
a tepid hear
ls May 2018
In the garden she danced
Hair flowing ebony
Flitting and fleeting from one flower to the next
Inhaling their beauty
Admiring their depth
My delighted eyes entranced
Locked on that sight
As I watched her

She climbed the trees
And rested among the branches
Counting the leaves and the creatures
Marvelling at their magnificence
Commending the creator
My enraptured eyes fixated
Silently
As I watched her

The sun grew taller
And the heat grew unbearable
A splendid combination of her passion
And the peak of summer's glory
She was restless
In perpetual adventure
All in the confines
Of our small slice of nature

She grabbed me by the wrist
That grip she held on the branches moments earlier
Pulled me to the grass and we lay
We laughed
We dreamed
Of summers days to come
Her excitement and vigour
Breathtaking

Finally at peace in the silence
Next to that ebony hair
And hazel stare
We lay until the sun dipped into the horizon
And left nothing but a pastel glow
Inhaling the scent of the evening
Admiring the softness of the clouds
She was locked on that sight

Yet,
I watched just her.
Lauren R Apr 2018
(The day I met you, I relented: “Friend, do what you are here to do.”)

I flicked the gas card between my fingers. We had $50 to do whatever we wanted, maybe even take that aquarium trip up to Boston we had talked about so much. Your birthday was a month ago, you were then 17. This was the second birthday of yours we shared together and before you left- not before I told you to drive carefully, my love, and before you forgot all the leftover cake at my house- you kissed my cheek. I laughed into the naked air over my bed- Judas. You are my Judas. The Bible never taught me anything.

I don't think you know what anger can do to a person. You see, I haven't cried about you once. Not once, in one year. I have laid in the same spot where we first kissed, and I have not imagined your clumsy lips over mine.  I realized then you could love something more than yourself- as yourself. The heat from your shoulder never bled out of my body. But, I do not imagine much more.

And maybe I'll be here, standing in the spot where we looked to the stars, a spot whose coordinates will never be written in history books, a spot with numbers I have no reason to remember but I will, and I will be screaming, where are you? Where did you go? Where did I go?

But I know exactly where you are. I will know you are lying asleep in your too-neat bedroom, the one blanket you had before me pressed over you like origami. I will know you are not thinking of me, and definitely not dreaming of me because you do not dream.

And I will know that when we were 15, we dreamed about 18. You could finally drive to who knows where, the window of your car down, music as loud as the law allows, the soft Cali sunlight sainting you. But now, my Judas, you are a birthday and a lifetime away, and where you are now and forever is wherever I left you when we last held hands.

(Today: “I will not kiss Thee as did Judas; but as the thief, I will confess Thee: Lord, remember me in Thy kingdom.”)
“The gospels of Matthew (26:47–50) and Mark (14:43–45) both use the Greek verb καταφιλέω (kataphileó), which means to "kiss, caress; distinct from φιλεῖν (philein); especially of an amorous kiss"
The world imbalanced, you mighty man of mind
Giant creatures fell to your greed and pride.
You destroyed the human plan, now we are divided
Who will release us from from your chains?

Nature now in jeopardy, struggling to survive
Planet zero soon to be, intervention needed
Thanks to you mighty man of mind
Your bows and arrows will break one day.

There was once a picture painted of peace and love
Then it all disappeared at the strike of your hand
The power was yours given by higher source
Then you crossed a line and now your in decline.

So down you must fall, you must reap what you have sown
The beast of the field felt your domain, mighty man of mind.
So walk tall like a Philistine, it was in yourself you put your trust
Now nature brings you to your knees, on your sword die you must.
King ****** a mighty hunter of the beasts of the field then hunter of man. He relied on his wealth and his power which lead to his downfall and his demise.
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