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Starry Sep 5
Gharsheeelish to hell
Where everything is dark
And seems like an endless halloween
The flames are everywhere
Making candles out of pots and trees talk
This will be emotional young Dante
Qharsheeeiilesh means welcome in uyger
Starry Sep 5
In the Ninth circle
Of Hell
I ealk
The frozen path of
The ****** until I see a cold
Yes cold pit of flames
Where the resttry to
Get warm
With no success
Nigdaw Jul 14
No fiery fate awaits my ****** soul
In Dante’s infernal inferno, on Level Five
I will swim beneath the wrathful
To permanently drown, with bulging eyes
Gasping for a breath I can never take
The River Styx, the embodiment of my sorrow
Liquified unhappiness, stagnant sadness
My sin? To live my life with a glass half empty
Having found no joy in man, nor God, nor the world
Which has already left me feeling punished.
I wonder if I’ll get a break down there,
Or will I still have to work my ******* lunch hour!
stylesclash Mar 8
a Disney Land including all attractions, where satisfaction is
the only price of admission, for you may not enjoy your stay;
lines that are based on your circle of Hell: cheaters, invisible to
everyone and vice versa, riding in no time flat—just like real life;
behind them the corpulent, occupying two spaces, experiencing
time as multiplied by their weight, a minute as several hours;

hoarders, keeping too much, failing to keep to themselves;
confessions with the legs of Usain Bolt: finish lines of thought
that move opposite of you, forcing you to sweat out more secrets
to no "Father"--for now, like an orphan, Daddy is just the man
next to you, changing time and again; once you catch up, another
run on sentence running over your sense of self-restraint;

angry souls who cannot remove an ear implant that finds
their pain points; one, for instance, features Al Franken narrating
himself only groping your *******; his verbiage, as elegant

as epic, recalls a troubadour reciting Homer’s Iliad, lasting about
eight hours; looped infinitely, the hysteria here approximates
that driving his resignation; the cartoon anger of vigilante justice:
vigilante because, post-******* Clinton continued sitting as
president (or standing, depending on how he likes his *******).

amusement rides incorporating sin; a Small World where ego
grasps the size of the universe: one's sense of self overlayed
to its very edges; a sense of hollowness, always larger, upon exit;
a Toy Story for the ****** who, tallying high his rub register,
has funded a **** star's spank bank; her body digitized, he does

not see himself as purchasing prostitution; he inserts—filling
now his own spank bank—ever larger toys on himself, to which
his audience remarks, in support, “wow, what an *******”;
a Mad Tea Party where we, in our first world bougieness,
must drink the psychosis of our prisoners who play ballgames
with their own ****, and then pitch our own; for it is rather
****** that we place ourselves willfully in solitary confinement
and complain: we will never suffer as do the truly alone.

a Barnstormer, where gluttons are *****, like cattle, on-rack
in the commodification of their reproductive organs; machines
that milk their **** to the point of mastitis; slaughter as life:
all ground, ultimately, into SoyLent Green, to feed the others;
Monsters Ink for the new journalists, the Twitterati, who are
transfigured into the shade they’ve thrown; grotesque shadows,
their life-force is generated by bearing themselves to rejection—
what was visited upon others, now themselves—for, otherwise,
they must die slowly; Tomorrowland for procrastinators who

must mime, daily, the movements of Shia LaBeouf in a sunrise
to sunset Tai Chi class; they sleep only to discover, at wake,
they daydreamed about sleeping; delusional insomniacs—
awake eternal, they cannot bring themselves to “Just Do It”;
Under the Sea for rich and poor; underwater in unnecessary
debt, they thirst no matter how they quench themselves;
drinking only by drowning, they beg to choke on their desire.

Frontierland Shootin’ Arcade for politicians who put in
crosshairs everything except war; they must be murdered
collaterally—innocent as they are—for sport; a ******
shooting from his helicopter and laughing megaphonically:
for the fact that their lives do not matter should echo
as distinctly as it has in Mai Lai, where “**** Anything

That Moves” is an actual order; the women in their family
will be *****, the babies will have their heads smashed in
with the butts of rifles in a lust for body count; and then,
like Prometheus’ liver, they will be resurrected to live again.

a Shootin’ Arcade where those who cheered Trayvon's
death replace him: transported, they are homunculi:
adults in children form, they are shot for walking home
with a "parent"--and mistaken identity is irrelevant--
a dependent child, in this world, is so suspicious that
one may be snuffed-out for bearing only his likeness;
victory isn't less real when symbolic, than when real.

Goofy as the only mascot that you may take a picture with;
a mirror that, upon asking ‘who’s the fairest one of all?’,
turns you into an albino; gold diggers who are accompanied,
always, by dwarfs singing “heigh-**, heigh-**”; a Mini
Mouse, shrinking to inscrutability, when you want to log out;
you may want to leave—but pleasure and self-annihilation,
as in addiction, are the same; so you must destroy yourself.
Mel Williams Feb 28
"Stop yelling at me," I tell the walls,
as if they were the culprit.
Stop keeping time with my fingernails,
tracing squares in chalkboard wallpaper.
I have forgotten you.

If only you would forget me.

You trace lines on my skin,
Like a cartography of forgotten myth.

"Don't tell me what to think."
You don't own me.

"Don't tell me how to feel."
That is a priviledge you no longer possess.

"Leave me alone,
Old friend."

Leave me be.
Elizabeth Dick Dec 2018
I have traded in my fanboys
For an air conditioner.

My chariot is a minivan,
No longer a palanquin.

I have given up the power of Julius Caesar,
And the lust of Mark Anthony,
For an orthodontist with a beer gut.

Caesarion ate decadent Mediterranean feast from the best chefs in the world,
Now my son Conner eats something called, “chicken nuggets” from a drive thru delivered by a greasy teen.

I still remember the taste of glutton when I drank my pearls,
To flash my wealth in front of Anthony,
I thought Rome was a ***** to deal with,
Now, I have credit card debt.

When I theatrically entered the after life
I did not think of the next.

On Palm Sunday I have flashbacks,
Of being praised,
Of being a queen,
Of being a God!

What circle of Hell is this?
Sam Starr Dec 2018
I try my hardest not to think of you
To keep you from my mind
Cause you're not here
Swooning is my religion, faithful in my remembrance
Inside i think you're angelic
A terrible machine of destruction
That gets inside, looks at me, wings outstretched
Light pouring out of you
Leaving me bathed in the divine grace of fear
Be not a afraid
Knowing full well you every word obliterates me
Nearby, awash in the warmth of a higher being
Manically enlightened to the extent of myself
You are perfect, horrendous, immaculate, and untamed
Can do no wrong to me, or anyone else
When in fact I die
Because Ive made you a god in the pantheon of my mind

But youre a person
With a life, and flaws, and fears
You exist in the same way I do
Sick to your stomach
About a person you think of
Stuck on the thought of being
So overwhelmingly alone
Without them
Nearby
Amazing, and awesome
Your prayers landing on deaf, omnipotent ears
Saying time and time again
Be not afraid
Brandon Conway Aug 2018

The words that
                               d
                                  r
                          ­    i
                            p


off your serpentine tongue
dissolves the flesh            r
                                     u    n      n
                                  b         i        g
my lungs

breathless gasping at fetid air
reckless in this never ending nightmare
derelict and disrepair
death wish traveling nowhere
except
            D
            O
            W
            N


under­ a mound of stone and flowers
twirling aimless in  buffet showers
leaving flesh devoured

by passionate winds  
soul left caged in

self-indulging bones

left to wither to dust
this is the final price
of a wandering lust
a real fool's paradise
Amela Kovacevic Jul 2018
With Statius I will spend
400 years whispering
accompanied by 500 more
before we might venture
to that shining shore
of Paradise.
Would it have been worth it,
after all,
after the wealth,
the races,
after the fiery sea,
among some whispers between you and me,
would it have been worthwhile
to have prayed for 900 years
for sin as vile as
Paris' bow and arrow?
I know only
what you know,
save for the certain facade
we tread now.
Brandon Conway Jul 2018
I wish I could speak words that assuage
But I’m nothing but an introvert
I’ve accepted this and that’s ok
I’ll type the words out in hopes of an alert
That you have read and agreed
At least that’s something I want to believe
But who am I kidding you don’t follow me
So I will admire from afar and dream
Of you
My sweet
Beatrice
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