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Vera Anne Wolf Apr 2019

We’re all in the same Hell now...
The swindlers, the believers,
The cowards, and the leaders.
We’re all in the same Hell now...
Welcome to reality,
Welcome to reality.

It’s nothing personal
You were born mortal.
Heaven watches from the skies
But Hell waits beneath the lies.
What are you going to do?
When you stand and face
The life you chose.
What excuse will you impose?

The devils are laughing
as they welcome you.
They once believed that
they were special too.

(But)
We’re all in the same Hell now...
The ******, the healers,
The judges, and the killers.
We’re all in the same Hell now....
Welcome to reality,
Welcome to reality.

What are you doing with your life?
What are you doing with your life?
Flash back to Sixteen years
Did you relish in their tears?
What’s waiting for you when you die?
What’s waiting for you when you die?
Rich or poor, we don’t care,
The weight on sin will find you here.

Did you really think that
Doing some good things
Would hide all the stains
On your grubby little hands?

(Ha!)
We’re all in the same Hell now...
The victims, the abusers,
The winners, and the losers.
We’re all in the same Hell now...
Welcome to reality,
Welcome to reality.

Wake up! Your not dead.
Get up from your bed.
We’re still waiting,
We’re still laughing,
We’re still watching you.


©veraannewolf
What the hell is wrong with me???
Abednigo Mogale Oct 2018
I have been watching the heavens
For a sign that your soul
Graces the earth
For a clue that your smile
Ignites the sky

For a while now
I have been listening to the echoes
That carry the wind
For a sound that booms
From the depths of your chest
A message that voices the
Whispers of your heart

For a while now
I have been looking through
Forest growth for a path
That leads to the tip of your finger
A road that leads to the shield
of your arms
A place to call home.

For a while now
I have wondered about your existences
The sheer sight of your face
the true essences of your love
And most frequently whether
I will ever know your name
Poetic T Jun 2018
I never bite my nails,
the taste is just not for me.
I see others chew on pinkies
and much to my disgust
        they chop on them between
                                      their teeth.

Do you know where they
                          have been,
do you know you didn't
                  wash your hands
Now your biting the tips.

I noticed that those who chew,
have stubby fingers
                           looking grossly.
Use a pair of scissors manicure
                                appropriately.

Please don't bite your nails,
              then spit them out near me.
Its not the wild west there isn't
       spit buckets to collect rejected
                                      nail clippings.

Paint them,
                trim them,
manicure them properly.
but please don't chew them,  
its unhygienic and is so unsanitary.
hum...habit...hic...abbott woozy
celebrating with British Royal Family
     and...hub bout red dee
     to take a snoozy
sup...par'n...this poet
     fur...hib bit..bing a lil oozy.

Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night what felt like galactic body
     fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
     lest worst nightmare,
     would crush with might
but lo…just then zee spouse
     plunked herself
     with unconsciousness deep
unable to recapture pleasant dreams
     well nigh past day light.

So...rather than emit shrieks
     like some angry birds
the idea arose to attempt poem
     to express discombobulated state

whereby grey matter feels
     similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
     per rest will clear muddled pate

thick with grogginess
     and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
     than unsuitable mate

or a world wide web filled with nerds
thus lethargy purged
     via catharsis with forming words
that follow rhyming pattern
     to convey mood = to a synonym for turds.

respite from a cat nap as tonic no lion here
can spell relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm

before this human
     goes a berserk manic tear
being revisited from haunts
     inside head of this scrivener
caught by men in white coats
     strait jacketing this maniac

     in tattered under wear
whose ***** by the way
     oh about the size of an average palm
yet taut for witnessing
     deux score plus eighteen mortal year.
James Gable Jun 2016
‘OLD AGE is a SHIPWRECK’
Charles de Gaulle

Some boats sink themselves slightly in order to
sleep—they awake with grog hangovers, leaning against

rocks, tillers askew as sea is softened by golden dawn.
The boom swung, tipsily; when the drowsy sail

was hoisted it groaned: *auxiliary!
Poking its prow
through the greybeards, the cutter then gathered pace,

parting plungers and apologetic waves as it cast off,
taking leave of the harbour in a cloud of spindrift.

The sail was slumped dizzily on the once-strong
shoulders of the mast—it sighs for its sorry spar and

state, remembering arduous journeys on seas of glass,
but no one dares say how conifer bark rains down in

flakes when it sleeps. The signal lamp, once brilliantly
bright, fraternising with the stars each night, is now

outshone by the eyes of abyssal creatures; see it
wrapped up in a pea jacket, perched on the yardarm.

On the weatherdeck mop and bucket are talking
scuttlebutt and canonising shipwreckless legends of the

past—when the laughter stops, and the deployment of
nets, perhaps they stop to think why, and sloppy work

and holystone and, sky…



Kittee-wa-aaake, kitte-wa-aaake—looking for a
school of fish whilst, in their numbers, orbiting the

vessel in an ellipsis; suspicious eyes on our walty
cutter and its measly midday catch. Tragic wrecks of

birds and ships alike, who is to say—to draw the lines
and make divisions of sea and bird and wood? Birds in

their collective strength move like waves, how they
could carry ships! This one is anchored fast, riding it

out as if a storm. But this collective strength, these
birds with villainous intent nip at the weather-worn

fishing nets and lines and a few ***** are lifted. The
barnacles sleep, nightmare visions of keelhauling—who

knew they had such wounds to heal?—forgotten
underneath in the darkness, they are plucked from their

shells by beaks regardless.

Back at the harbour the boat and its weary flanks and
planks and parts and hollow and hull are comfortably

submerged and sleep. The sun is sinking too it seems,
melting on the tongue of the sea. The broken-backed

vessel, dead doors shut, sail folded, mast
unencumbered. The signal lamp, intimidated and

outnumbered by the many who are brighter in the sky
with light years in their eyes, it decides to sleep out

and keep check for the night for the crows in their
murders covet nesting spots on board.


Splinters and vibrating minutes and the bitter end,
perturbed by the day of eddies and unseen internal

waves, nipped by the endless Kittiwake, they are
consulting compasses for the correct hour—

but no response, just the obviousness of the moon,
even from fathoms down and not a whisper.


As in every dark night here there is no silence for the
utterance of water and rustling of stars. You can hear

Sargasso **** dreaming, after hundreds of years afloat
without making root, dreaming of something better or

at last nothing at all. And in every creak of wood there
is a year of bad weather. And within the strength of

every bird is an empty stomach and a restlessness of
wings. In every decomposing fishing net there’s an

echo of vengeance, heard beneath the ringing of a bell
on the harbour. And in every compass there is a needle

tirelessly at work, endlessly referring to the stars—

The red-tipped needle in its binnacle tower
—confused it still spins and swirls

and in every skiff, freshly built or sea-worn and sore,
there is always a desire it will never speak of:


   to
   dive
   for
   pearls


                                     on the ocean floor.
Part Eight of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster (see collections)
We cuddle naked
On a lonely island, in the sea,

Where our bodies press each other
On the sand, under the tree.

With sound of splashing waves,
Your arms tangle me, legs ready to heave.

Where we make love to each other,
My body under yours, we are so free.
#press #sand #tree #splashing #waves #arms #tangle #heave #free #cuddle #naked #lonely #island #sea
Revenant Aug 2014
I miss how we were the only ones alike.
We were the only two of that caliber, and you knew it.
Electricity flew between your lips and mine.
We were beautiful.
I miss how our voices pierced the heavy silence around us, and tangled up with one another.
I miss how we preformed for no more than one another.
I miss how your melodies kissed my face as they glided about our space.
I miss our shared breath.  
I miss my voice moving in perfect time with yours; curving up to meet your highs, and dipping down to brush against your lows.
I miss the way you would look at me when I took control and owned the song-- with that sly, crooked grin.
The accidental physical touch
The longing when our time ran out
The lingering of your voice, and that crystal gaze burning into my core
The teasing and the backhanded compliments
Never too sure of what's work and what's play
But I'm sure of this:
There is a certain intimacy that comes with throwing your heart and soul into the void, and hoping it doesn't fall flat.
There's an even deeper intimacy that follows when you meet another voice, and you move and reach and swell and growl and throw everything you have into that one note.
Because without passion, we are dead.

Breathe into me.
Martin Narrod May 2014
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and
Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at
One another. Heaping piles of human soup.
Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and
Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined.
Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly
Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams.
Streamers above a long rooting movement.

Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman,
Legs pressed tightly to the chest,
Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls
In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat.
Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up
I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.

Stage two:

Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar.
To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips
In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth.
We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was
A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.

Stage three:

***.

Stage four.

***.

Stage five:

As we earn our pageantry to take
Stride on this Earth, and string a
Great bow of eager success among all of us,
You, me, them. While I continue to
Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a
Cup of tea instead.

— The End —