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Sky was clear, deep blue,
When a jet plane passed through;
Aesthetically foul!
IPM Feb 2019
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.
nja Feb 2019
Recoil. And recoil fast.
She was of simple taste so He shattered her veiny lungs with his spit almost effortlessly.
Under his weight she was stunted, her limbs frozen by the constant of his blarring audioporn.
At every touch she had to brace herself for his embrace.
nja Jan 2019
He tasted dry,
When licked with sour spit.
His scent was foul.
Broad hands rejected
Curling feet.
Met by scowling eyes,
He criticised me with love.
Ken Voltaire Oct 2018
In some twisted way,
I almost feel happy.
My body is tense,
My breathing rapid,
My mind skirts the edges of insanity.
My conscience hangs by a mere thread,
Dangling precariously over the edge.
In some twisted way,
I almost feel whole.
The dark that rapes me holds me steady,
It fills in the spaces otherwise unoccupied.
There are unexplored oceans,
Haunted by ghostly ships,
Rising high on the crest of the evening tide.
A beautiful, terrifying event to witness.
In some twisted way,
I see black as a colour.
The speck that grows in a distant corner,
Nearing its full force,
Is elegant.
Ever so gently, it drains my free will.
It absorbs my ambition, my desire to accomplish,
The very air in my lungs is anything but my own.
I am the black, just as the black is me.
In some twisted way,
I feel powerful.
The disdain I feel for myself,
Cannot be outweighed.
It moves, breathes death,
And with a mind of its own it consumes me.
Until, I have been overcome,
And the grass is grey,
Birds shriek in terror,
Waves crash violently against jagged stone,
Laughter turns to mockery,
Food is poison,
Sleep is a crypt,
Life is a tomb.
Rajinder Sep 2018
You, the ashen alyssum
homing in on dark bushes
breeding maggots
feeding on flesh.  

You the fetid parasite  
carrion, the rotten stink
a toxin laced tongue
devouring pith.

You, the stench of
malignant blossoms
a venomous creeper, you
had to attract snakes.

You live among the graves
the poison pollinator,
a corpse floret
of foul odour.

You the venin
cloaked in smirk
a shrew, spiked with malice
must be crushed,
must die.
Poetic T Aug 2018
Wounds were never
             afflicted with
repercussion of syllable lesions..

No quite the opposite,
       Unfamiliar tastes on the
       tongue, cleansed improper tastes.
Washing ones mouth out with salt clears undue tastes..
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