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Olivebird Mar 2017
With his eloquent tongue,
Quick wit,
And grinning eyes.
He made us love him.
He made us feel loved.
If only for a moment.
Then it got ****.
Suddenly there were questions.
Fighting amongst ourselves.
Betraying one another.
Never trusting.
No one.
Not even ourselves.
He made us weak.
Afraid.
Spiteful.
He turned us into something we're not.
He played us all.
He crushed us.
Or tried to.
Without a thought.
Without a care.
With his crippled black soul,
Deadened eyes,
And withered self.
Hidden behind a handsome mask,
A gentle hand,
His lies.
His fear drove him.
His fear of being realized.
His fear of being alone,
And others seeing him,
As he really is.
For he is dark,
He is apathetic,
He doesn't feel what others feel.
He cannot feel remorse,
Except for in fear of himself.
For he only cares for himself.  
He claims he doesn't care.
He claims to be free.
Free of restraints.
Free of emotion.
Free of love.
But for what he claims is free,
Is imprisoned in fear.
For he is a coward.
Terribly frightened.
Afraid of others.
What they might say.
What they might think.
But mainly he is afraid of himself.
For he knows his noxious soul,
Will one day find him.
Abandoned.
Exposed.
The day he knows he is unloved.
The day he knows he is alone.
Alone with no one but himself.
The one he fears the most.
He will weep.
For nothing is stronger.
Nor more horrifying.
Than facing one's greatest fear.
To open one's eyes.
To face all alone.
The one you despise the most.
To see in the mirror,
The demon you've become,
As no fear is stronger,
Than that of oneself.
I'm sorry but I just don't like you in that way.
Yes, I know you'd work like a Pole,
mortgage your soul,
shovel **** in cold bitter
as a Borderline love lyric
for me and my baby girl.
I know you'd keep the vampires from the door,
man up to the big bad wolf,
fling yourself full square
into the fangful furnace of a dragon
to buy my baby girl and I precious seconds.
I know you'd be our sacrificial
human bridge on a sinking ship,
subdue your sweat reflex
so we wouldn't slip.
I know'd you'd be a doormat,
I know you'd be a hard nut,
I know you'd hunt and gather,
I know you'd beg and borrow.
And I know

you'd listen to my every childhood fear,
that everything I've ever suffered
would move you to a poet's tears,
then you'd hunt down my abusers,
every last one, and give them a taste
of backstreet Cockney justice
in a lockup garage.
I know

you'd pull yourself together forever,
renounce the sauce, the juice, the tabs, the gear,
all that diehard dieeasy despair at the bottom
of the battered heart of you.
And, mummified in nicotine patches,
buddy up to all mankind, be a crusader without rest
for a world that might even begin to be a beacon
of anything good enough to guide my baby girl
to eternal safety, just that I might enjoy peace
of mind whilst I live and after I die. I know

you'd go everywhere I've ever wanted to see,
anywhere I've ever wanted to be, no matter
how hard people are for you. I know

you'd become the world's foremost scholar
of the Karma Sutra, a
supple sinewy spidery suitor,
that my ******* would be the pinkest pearl
in the least seedy, most respectful
*** museum ever opened.
And that you would be its
Gollumesque curator, attentive
to an extreme, lickpolishing it even after you're spent.
so it ruddily radiates in evermore
innermore ******* strobe,
hard light of my sensuality in forever-1st-time-like
rush and flush of perfect play gentle and rough.
You would be my Gollum but with a better bottom,
in a crotchless deepsea diversuit were that my kink.
In bed, my Drop Dead Fred, my disgusting best friend.
Postcoitally, we'd strip down
to our inner children,  you would remind me
laughter is the ****** of the child.  
I know

to you my ******* would always be the perfect *******,
however the autumn of the female form might fall,
that you'd squeeze them thru out the night from fitful
fear my glories won't be there *** morning. Or clasp
my little finger in your sleep like an instinctively
worshipful newborn. And
however stout and selfaccepting and Rubenesque
in domestic bliss I become, due to everyday Valentine's
pralines and your fussing, lifeextending homecooked
meals, I know you'll still stay trim, get down the gym,
splash on some aftershave, put on a nice shirt,
in case I desert you for the next Jackthelad. I know

there'd be so many trails of rosepetals to our boudoir,
so many silken rosepetals on the silk bedsheets
you'd be in hock to Harrods for, that the hooverbag
would be like a florist's returning from holiday.
I know

that when you're ancient as Mummra and his spirits of evil,
you'd spend a pharaoh's ransom on ******
just to make me still feel attractive, run
your arthritic fingers with difficulty thru my blue rinse.
And if I know anything,

it's that you'd write me a poem everyday,
illustrate like a whitehot monk
all the fantasias for children I've ever
idly imagined a fulfilling moneyspinner.
I'd be a Gala to your Dali
without all the twisted ****. I know

we'd be the Broadland Brangelina,
that if it ever came to it, one phonecall
after twenty years and you'd fly to me
like an angel from back in the day,
adopt my Accrington Stanley
football team of other men's kids
and lead them up the leagues. I know

you'd lie for me, die for me,
change for me, stop being strange for me.
I know

you'd lie for my baby girl, die for my baby girl,
change for my baby girl, stop being strange for my
baby girl. But

I'm sorry, I don't know what to say,
I just don't like you in that way.
Sienna Luna Jan 2017
and isn't strange

that i'm sitting in my car

in a parking garage

thinking of you and missing

your stupid plumb apple face

or maybe it's carved from soap

or shaved glass

fragmented by pieces

collected in bindles

followed by bundles

of the joy i used to have

of the sleep i used to get

of the energy i used to take

and isn't it strange how

i have no desire to have you

all to myself for you are

an automous being that

breathes and thinks and acts

wholy different than me

but i can't help but miss you

and your kiwi colored eyes

with the seeds cut out

dipped in a ring of gold

and like smegal i yearn to

hold that precious ring of gold

in my shriveled hands

even though i know

it'll corrupt me

but i'm drawn to mordor

all the same



that's what it's like

missing you



wanting to go there

even when I shouldn't



and isn't it strange

that my world is shifting

complicit and complicated

a deficit of the senses

a pull from the void

a shake of the head

with such filigree i am sated

but blinded by such yearning

to touch your hot skin

feel it rest

against mine



again but



maybe i'm too addicted to sparks
Tricksy, you are—false—
We hates it, yes we hates it,
Hates it forever!

— The End —