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Philomena Jun 2019
"Some girls like diamonds
Some of them want fancy things
They hunger for the taste of glamour
And we rot and find some others' rings

Your sweethearts need their princes
Flattery and filthy pearls
Barbie, don't mess with the Marilyn kisses
Your original material girl

But I'm not like those other types, baby
I'm your ****** creature poster girl

Make you crawl, make you beg, make you plead
Make you want, make you hurt, make you bleed

So toxic
****** creature poster girl

Make you laugh, make you cry, make you need every little slasher
**** the father's sweetheart, ****** creature poster girl

Baby, you can keep your diamonds
You can burn all your fancy things
I hunger for the taste of a painful week
That can survive my wicked sting

Darling I don't need no princes
I'm no damsel in distress
The only thing I'm needing is for you to be bleeding
From my homicidal kiss

You see, I'm not like those other girls, baby
I'm your ****** creature poster girl"
JR Rhine Oct 2016
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.

Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.

Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and ***-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.

Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--

Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.

The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--

Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--

Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.

The door opens.
The heart is a ****** metaphor for love
it is not a muscle
cannot atrophy from lack of use

We collect bruises like badges
staying under water until
we become buried treasure
that someone, anyone will
want to find

When your teeth touch metal
and the bullet dissolves on your tongue,
standing on your own becomes a task
pushed off like last night’s ***** dishes

when the circus poster falls off the post
we rip it off, it becomes strips of a blank page,

I know puppets when I see them
I know when I’m the right shade of numb
ms reluctance Apr 2014
Life is like a roller coaster —
Up and down, down then up we go.
Or so I read once in a motivational poster.
Well, life must knock me down pretty hard
Because somehow I keep missing the good part.
NaPoWriMo Day 13
Poetry form: Pentastich

— The End —