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Carlo C Gomez Sep 19
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."

A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.

Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.

Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.

The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer

(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).

Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.

His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.

He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.

Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...
Femi Sep 15
her name was season
she could change four times.
her name was silver,
they called her dime.
her name was motion
she came, and went.
they called her good-time,
money well spent.
her name was legend
villain, hero, lover, and friend.
she left with everything,
that's how the story begins...
Shane Leigh Sep 8
The tale goes:
If you lose a loved one to the sea
It will be kind and carry a message.
Place the letter in a bottle
And upon Its currents place it.

Take heed, this message
Has but once a year to give.
By sunset love, by sunset,
The oldest rule – It won’t forgive.

The sea shall swallow, with the sun,
The letter, It will not forget.
And it shall be delivered so
On the very morn their fate was met.
I just did this as a writing assignment for class and I thought it was a fun write. I'm not sure what to title it lol
I hope you enjoy (:
© Shane Leigh
Benjamin Aug 28
Like Sisyphus,
And Atlas himself,
We endure and we struggle,
To maintain our health,
The weight of the world,
An impossible task,
A moment of respite,
Is all we could ask,
Our life is no myth,
No legend of old,
But our story is real,
A tale to be told.
The sand is coarse among the waves,
The foamy froth curls, rants and raves,
The grainy ground is wet and packed,
And seaweed from the ground is hacked.

Plucked from stormy shallows dark -
bold fish swims among the shark.
Twisting in the deeper pools,
Threads of green unfurl in spools.

Monster beyond comprehension,
Slim limbs hanging in suspension.
Serpent lurks in Blue Lagoon,
Carved in its scales a single rune.

Magicks infuse currents strong -
powers deep and tendrils long.
The shrouded spirit, great insurgent,
Mairocant, the last sea serpent.
Norman Crane Aug 17
Among the hideous shapes
   you are my favoured
For the wretched silence of your scoliotic spine
   flavoured with our crimson wine:
Blood diamonds
   screaming songs of sirens
   writhing on a desiccated island's edge
Boiled alive—
   can be distilled into the language of a pledge
I hereby promise to be yours
Foretell you will be mine
Dear diary:

Land sakes! Leofric cannot believe I carried through with it. But indeed, today I rode naked along the sparse, meager streets of ye old Coventry.

And whilst my long hair, let down for the occasion, did provide me a jot of modesty; alas! a strong breeze I am most certain granted uncivil eyes to plainly see my top half is much ado about nothing.

Nonetheless, an even more discomfiting fear shall be if some peeping tom espied his fair countess to be no natural blonde at all; just a fare-thee-well lemon juicing, miracle bra wearing charlatan.

On the plus side, I did achieve quite a lovely, even, 'no-lines' tan!
Thomas W. Case's Historical Figure Poetry Challenge, Lady Godiva.
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