Breath was exhumed from the corpses
lingering impressions.
   But all were merged beyond
                           the futile emotions of the flesh.

For where reflections were void,
             only true deliberations stigmatized.
                                    Everything of before,
               that  were psychedelic illusions.

Reminiscing of stained windows,
                recently cleansed of the memories of
                                                                ­yesterday.
Only now were remnant fallen dreams buried
                                           beneath falling stars..



                           That crawled like maggots
                                                 in the heavens
burrowing deeper the more they fell...
                And still though falling, there breath still
                                          gasped as death only exhales.

My bones are turning
dry,
       breaking,
on the silver rope.
My flesh decaying
dry,
       cells,
blackened dirt.
Foul meat
drops,
        beneath,
the hounds hungered long.

I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
  
Witness the failure of funeral directors to please true aesthetes:
the dead Ingrid Bergman lacks the beauty of a living bag lady.
  
Tennis masters
given K-Mart rackets
win gracefully,
while the high-school violinist
playing a Stradivarius
fails to delight us.
  
Thus noses, lips, ******* have no beauty in themselves.
Perfect features are easily distorted by
anger, sloth, irritability, or conceit.
But in a rare few
energy, grace, composure, and sensitivity
are blended in such a quantity
that they overflow
and color with an exquisite beauty every pore of the body,
fill with a subtle music every gesture, every word.
  
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.

By Arcassin Burnham

Soul Searching, Earth lurking,
Just mind your business , we're over here,
Bird chirping, commenting,
Keep talking **** , we can not hear,
This house , ain't a home in my eyes, there's so much to
Be discussed.

Not taking too much from the fort,
I gotta hold it down,
I plan to place this little heart in a jar for my
safe keeping.

Losing my lil sanity and calcifying fear away,
Too much to bare in this pile of flesh that I
could not be in this place, turn day to night
with just a flick, there is no escape...

Take a picture,
Make it last,
Might be your last to be on this earth,
Don't a menace,
Don't be in your feelings,
Worrying too much , they put aside their dealings,
Way too much healing.

Because I'm Losing my lil sanity and calcifying fear away,
Too much to bare in this pile of flesh that I
could not be in this place, turn day to night
with just a flick, there is no escape.

As the writer wore away page after page,
a swelling of maddening frustration grew.
The parchment soaked in the dark ink,
and pockets of hell seeped through each word.
There is desperate power in written verse;
They know this, yet the pen rages onward.
The writer pays this debt in full,
in flesh and blood, as one does.
Stories must be told, the price is high,
but silence cost ever more.

But she's exposed herself.
Flesh and bone protruding out the protective bubble.
She's only just gone and dragged herself to the margins of society.
Removed from the warmth of the gooey womb she supresses a lingering shiver.
Now she resides in a ***** dimension. Present, not quite faded yet.
Now the perfectly grown princess has self-inflicted chips on her shoulders.
Addicted to self-flagulation she tries to regress back home to her former alter.
Beyond. Reach.
A stone bleeding with pleasure weighs down the remains of her birth right.

The damp
oh
     oh      

                      oh
i fear the damp
the earth is hard and still
           and my flesh is dead and
                      and
                          grey
It will not absorb the blow
                      
                                                 l ike .     live        fllee .  s . sh      ca aan

and does
           it . will only rot
          

                                                            and the worms come out
                                                            and the worms come out
                                                            and the worms come out