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Arcassin B Jul 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

I gotta be a man for you,
Eliminate The circumstance for you,
There's no other quick way to prove,
How deeply I'm so in love with you,
We create our own little horror story,
Witches and covens make the best out of a love spell,
I couldn't tell,
You give me no hell,
But you make me tear up when I stare down at you,
Watching the light as it propelled,
Giving pride to others when you react alot,
Serving the audience like giving out crack,
In plastic bags where the dreams grow,
So does the shrums,
I swear your ambition can consume,
Replace my fragments,
Kissing would be hell and heaven,
Screaming back and forth,
We'll never get into one,
I love more than the sun,
If I could blow it for you I would,
Do something your feelings never could,
I miss you violet.
Violet from American horror story ;-)  and also happy birthday to me its still July 1st
Martin Narrod May 2014
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
*Johnny 3:16 is an unattainable film featuring Vincent Gallo. The trailer for the film is available here

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