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Sparrow Mar 12
Hello there, stranger.
Come for a little darkness, have you?
Trade me a cigarette,
and I'll dive into the depths of time
to conjure some horrors true,
Scars old and wounds anew
Would it not be easy if the past could be shed like a lizard's tail?
It would give space for new memories to grow
Paul Butters May 2018
Deep within the spacial abyss that is my brain
There lies a little blue planet called “Paul”.
Hidden away from most of reality
This world is full of wondrous dreams.

Its drifting continents are full of sporting arenas,
Traditional pubs and inns
And swarms of gorgeous women.
Lofty mountains overlook sandy beaches
Fringed by sun kissed palms.
Endless vistas of hill and dale
Teeming with Life.

There is a Dark Side too:
I have my “Mordor” for sure
And my own Sauron.
Who doesn’t?
Lands full of man eating wasps
Fearful ghouls and witches
And torture chambers
Full of dental equipment.
Giant eyes
And Mirrors
Which take on a life
Of their own.

But let’s focus on the Brightness here:
The music and poetry
And even dance
And romance!
A place where we can “Get Around”
To Beach Boys harmonies,
Rock to Chuck Berry
And enjoy whatever delights Carlsberg can conjure up,
If not a pint of “*****’s Beer”
From Cleethorpes.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\5\2018.
Welcome to Planet Paul.
Luna Lima Aug 2017
the worms crawl into our brains
as we passively accept our reality
the worms crawl into our brains
as we lead our lives so mundanely
the dream for which we reach
proves that we're asleep
and as it molds itself into a nightmare
we realize, alas, too late
of the horrors we create
My first poem on HP.
Martin Narrod Aug 2017
what is more gentle?

than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,


I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
youth inside me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.
Or answer an echoing voice
From across the gloom
Where nearness emotes itself
And I freeze inside my own cacophony
Of brilliant moods and total confusion.


four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I may never forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as youth and eves
Three drops of cuteness
Spilt against a human act of
Being.
Martin Narrod Apr 2017
Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.
Emily Chambers May 2016
Sometimes I dream at night
I think
Of things I cannot see
Of things I cannot feel
When my voice has left me
And all I can do is
Watch
Observe the horrors
Reach
But my arms won't move
Cry
But no sound can be heard
And the tears don't form
Not till I wake up
Drenched
But for what reason?
Shaking
But what fear is there?
As I roam the halls
It plays through my head
Like a distant
Memory
That isn't real
And the lines become blurred
Between my reality and
Dreams
MG Apr 2016
when i was a little girl, i'd always dream of a happily ever after. i'd imagine myself as cinderella, with a perfect gown and shoes and hair, in a castle with a prince who loved me so dear.

it was cute, hoping that my fantasies would someday come true. but once upon a time, i grew up. i realized that there were no happily ever afters, and that life was just a constant battle with everyone around you. i thought about my gown, and how there'll always be a pull in the fabric somewhere; my shoes, how they'll eventually make my feet ache to an unbearable point; my hair, how its curls will fall when i dance; my castle, how its size will make me feel so lonely; and my prince, how he will inevitably leave me or hurt me or play me, or all of the above.

but you helped me see the light, my prince. you made me forget all the negativities of royalty. when i am with you, i am happy. and happiness is all i want, all i need. does that mean that all i need is you?

you made me forget that you were of royal blood, and i was not; that you never had to lift a finger, and i had to work night and day to simply survive; that you were loved and needed and sought after, and i was neglected and insignificant and never anyone's number one.

but what i thought to be amnesia for the better, wasn't, and like everything else, gave me a false sense of hope that life was beautiful. i pity noble and peasant girls when they think royalty is complete and utter bliss, for they are greatly misinformed. it is all a show, which, no matter how sadistic, deserves a standing ovation.

and sometimes i wish i were little me again, free of sadness and pain; clueless of the horrors of this world. but reality checks in and reminds me that there's no such thing as a rewind or a replay, and time will not stop or slow down or repeat itself. not for me at least.
Pauline Russell Mar 2016
Know that I am sorrow please take my hand
I'll lead you to constant pain in new land
But unlike happiness I'll never leave you
I won't make you sit in the churches hard pew
But at times I'll make you drop to your knees
Under the weeping willow trees
I let the limbs hide your tear stained face
I'll show you the horrors,for you I'll make my case
For I have no mercy for you at all
I'll trip you and laugh as you fall
I'll take all your fears and make them come true
You'll never be happy again, that will never do
I am sorrow and I'll never leave you
Ami Shae Dec 2015
Turned on the television
for the first time in many a day
had to shut it off poste haste
as everything they had to say
was full of venom and hate
and horrors that I cannot understand
sometimes I wish I would have been born
in a far away distant land.

Perhaps I came into this realm
at the most inopportune time--
should have come along years long ago
way back before machine guns were involved in crime--
should have been here
during the horse and buggy days
working on a ranch somewhere
sowing seeds and baling hay...

I have to fight the urge each morning
to leave and run far far away
to run into the woods and find a tree
where I can hole up and stay
and forget the horrors and hatred all around
that seems to be
this lifetime's favorite and unending sound...

Turned on the television
for the first time in many a day
had to shut it off poste haste
as everything they had to say
was full of venom and hate
and horrors that I cannot understand
sometimes I wish I would have been born
in a far away distant land.
is it just me? am I the only one who feels like they just do NOT belong in this time and place? I do NOT understand all the hate, the vileness of human kind. I just want to go away somewhere and find peace and love, but I'm afraid it really does NOT exist.
:(
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