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fray narte Feb 19
My 11:11s were made for sleepless nights
playing back all these scenes
when your heartbeat still melted against my ears,
every sigh that lingered on my temple,
every touch that lingered on my skin
11:11s were made for asking
this dimmed wall sconces what it would be like
to feel your body close the spaces,
to feel it next to mine once more,
of what it would be like to kiss you in the dark,
with complete abandonment,
like a wolf howling its heart out
to the moon after a sunset that lasted forever

It was 11:11, and now, I know
I should’ve closed my eyes
and kissed you that drunken April night,
and melted in your arms when I still had the chance.
Now, I close them, without you around,
wrestling with these fixations
trying to convince myself
that one more recall of the memories would be the last;
one more make-believe,
one more fantasy wouldn't hurt.
One more,

and one more,
and one more,
I said,

and it was 11:12
and suddenly,

it did.
leon Feb 18
Universal trans experiences:
I don’t think there are any.

But when I reach for my camouflage underwear in the
half-joke
half sincere hope
that my junk will just kind of,
disappear....
I like to think I’m in good company.

But, again,
there can’t be many.
i saw one or two trans related poems recently so i thought i might as well try.
The poet, decadent
I and he and it
In old shivers and inebriation
We take virtue and fold it
Into ink-beguiled truths
Formless vocation, rough vernacular
Soft from jagged distance
Come closer, now insincere
Hard and ragged, vile fingers
They hold not beauty
But seething desire
Uncouth ambition
Trained to sour excellence
Impeccable sin of tainted life
Bless the fiends
Build them a nest in hell
Allow them to earn this prize
A prize of ailing drink
Drowned in saccharine agony
Are their unnamed tongues
Speaking new extremities
On a road too severe
May they write their own coffins
In the image of a mirror
Dante Leto Nov 2019
I met her one night in a dream: a divine being of singular beauty with long, dark hair and a heavenly radiance, with eyes of the bluest aether. She was the paradigm of unparalleled perfection, uncontested and enchanting.

Upon waking I expected to find she was a mere creation of my imagination. However, I was surprised to see in my hand the note she had written me. So small a keepsake, yet enormously treasured.

I walked outside and began a search to find the angelic being of my dreams. Where is one to look for angels but in the sky? I knew then that to the highest peak of the tallest mountain I must go if there was any hope of finding her.

Leaving behind my home and eveything I own, I journeyed to the mountain. A peak so high it pierced the belly of the heavens, but I climbed it with unwavering zeal. I felt such a strong desire to see her pulling me inexorably toward the top despite any tiredness...or any logical expectation that it wasn't all for nothing.

As I approached the summit I saw city walls made of some sort of ivory-coloured marbled stone, bejeweled with great jade and sapphire. As I approached the gates they opened for me, and I felt a rush of cold air carrying a very pleasant and familiar scent. It was her! Her sweet, ambrosial aroma took rapturous hold of my bones and pulled me through the gates.

Despite the majesty of this city of wonderous stonework, I quickly realized it was devoid of life. Strange, but a mystery of insignificant proportions compared to my current goal. If she was there, I would find her. I made my way through the barren streets guided by some immaterial leash of sentiment, obsession, and something else. I dared not question anything, and only surrendered to the force. It was as if she was calling me to her by way of all my senses and all I had to do was listen.

The empty streets themselves whispered stories of their own. What was once a vibrant, vivacious realm is now resting on a foundation of the dead. No evidence of war or struggle marred the place. Headstones lined each street, and the roads themselves were paved with stone coffins. On every structure where headstones couldn't be set, plaques were placed instead in honour of each fallen citizen. However, no single one had a date written on it...only names. I wondered if the cause of such thorough devastation to this place was a disease of some sort. After all, the city was completely isolated.

While some minor portion of my mind was analyzing this enigmatic environment, my driving focus remained steadfast. I knew little about her, but I knew that no one in a dream nor in the waking world had I ever wanted more. I could see that she wanted me too, as it had become clear that she was drawing me in. So, I continued to submit.

I was brought to the bell tower of a grand cathedral. There was a large outlook off the side of the tower. It offered an unobstructed view of the starry sky and swaying aurora. As I stared at the entrancing scene, my meditation was interrupted by a touch on my shoulder. I had found her!

With an embrace and a kiss we began a partnership the likes of which no world had ever known. Many conversations we shared, and much more. I learned of this forsaken city that she calls home, its secrets, and its history. I learned of her strengths and weaknesses, and learned that even an angel of such splendour can have insecurities. She told me of the people that once lived here and how they took to worshipping her. Dodengel, they called her. But her true name is for me alone.

She pointed to the stars and the black abyss between. The pale blue aurora performing before the black backdrop was something I had always wanted to see, and I had a front row seat. Never had I been so close to the outer reaches. As fascinating as the cosmic show was, nothing had ever been more captivating than the radiant creature beside me. She moved her body in the most seductive manner demanding my full attention. In the starlit dark of night she now had what appeared to be wings of golden light, and her eyes...those eyes! So bright and blue, glowing hypnotically and rendering me helplessly under her control. Never had I experienced such a total loss of faculties.

Taking me by the hand she swept us into the black expanse where no mortal being can survive. Beyond the realm of men, outside the shadows from which I was conjured. Into Oblivion she took me, her secret place. I remained willingly under her spell. Those eyes are shackles, binding the will of one who dares to get close. That one was me. A fantasy that was conceived in dreams was born into reality. I had found her. She was here in front of me as real as I myself am real. Her obsessive love for me as real as mine for her. Her beauty as real as the pain in my stomach...as real as the metallic taste of thick blood filling my mouth. I had given myself to her, and as long as she kept me bound I was powerless to stop her. She was carving into me, eviscerating me and tearing me apart all while sustaining a smile. A pain so harrowing made worse by feeling my own warm intestines unraveling down my legs. With a hand like a razor-sharpened blade she opened me up from pelvis to neck, leaving all the organs exposed and bones separated. I couldn't stop her from mutilating me. Even as I stayed locked into her gaze she wouldn't grant me as much mercy as fainting from the pain. It was agony. But no matter the anguish, I was unable to break the spell she had over me.

When she finished and my body was in tatters she took me back to the world we'd left. With what intact parts of me I had left I could feel myself writhing. So much pain yet so much ecstasy! Back to my home she flew me and laid my broken body on my bed. With one last kiss she said goodbye, and at that I finally lost consciousness.

As I write in recovery from surgeons' work putting me back together I can't get her off my mind. The scars I'll bear will forever remind me of of something extraordinary. And I will be with her again. No forces in this world nor any world beyond can quell this addiction.

You see, she was an angel, true. But "Dodengel" is a word in a long lost language meaning roughly "Angel of Death". How can I say that this was in any way a declaration of love, you ask? The Angel of Death is a harvester of lives. It is her nature to **** any marked for death. No entities are more marked by the gods than the Draa'ma, or Daemons, of which I, in part, am one. Her nature is to ****, yet she only maimed. No effort was made to properly **** me, as destruction of the body doesn't mean true death for one of my kind. She showed me her true self. She showed an unlovable monster unequivocal love: for what is more loving that denying one's intrinsic nature in favour of another?
Atoosa Jun 2019
Have you imagined in your turquoise dreams majestic mountains and seaside scenes?

Then go West my friend and come to me in endless summer, savoring fruits of joy in sun warmed shimmer....
https://www.instagram.com/doctoratoosa/p/ByoOlyllTDZ/?igshid=121mo8uwa05ob
Jon-Paul Smith Aug 2018
O People of time’s salutations, my love is gathering seashells by that hilled windy gathering place the sea (like dim worlds vexed with sound in the stuck conch, to undo this day the scaly wrongs that scuttle in the soul’s sea); for gull-winged griefs that drop their vowels on spat hills of light, my love is gathering portents like sea-made money for the truths found there in untruth, and hearing them there, I see them there:

Summer folk that come from cold to these great gathering hills and find one breasted ounce of ocean silver to keep like crying know that taut pants cringing came, the color of kisses, scattered on the sand grains like arms and legs. O People of time’s salutations, this shell and ear will bray there for the weeped hills that leaving love labored.

Folk of autumn come from fear, wracked by youth, grow old there where the hills recede — gather dust of water to glow the sun over with knowing that came too late. Sad gone days lean to and fro in the salutating tide that tugs the land for lack of care. O People of time’s salutations, this conch and ear will hear them scratch as the days go out to sea.

The morning folk that come from shadow gather wand watered proverbs in the still light. Great hills for these mad people who froth like waves for the sayings of ages. O People of time’s salutations, though eternities implode like new suns in their slow gatherings, shell and breath can not blow them out beyond sound’s ill reach where the sea goes endlessly rocking and mocking their finitudes.

The folk of evening come from labor, their wasted souls on hill and sullied waves dropped like shells in wrong places. Muscles matted on sanddollar days yield no virtue’s wages. Work is a shark’s tooth for the weary. O People of time’s salutations, shell and ear will hear them breathe though the sun going down can not.

Shell and ear for these splay sounds that daunt and dabble (by a sea of hilly days go on). But to pity and praise this great endeavour, my love is seashell gathering by that same great sea while the waves go pithily out on this hill and moneyed water like thoughts and implications. O People of time’s salutations, this conch and ear will trumpet eternities in the long-winded tides that walk there.
Jonathan Finch Jul 2017
It was a slim blue book, a pittance of acutely sounded words, dropped from a shelf and fell upon the floor, rustling its pages from the full extension to the readers’ counter; and I felt its unmistakable attraction touched in late October of last year; and thought : “This poet who has chanced his world and been ignored, beckons and shields himself from vivisection by an absent readership but I shall tie the broken, knot and mend, stamping today the slip with lustrous ink.”
Jonathan Finch Jul 2017
She stole upon me as the curved light of the evening
mounted the ladder of the stars. Thigh-white and small
as re-pressed flowers her ******* upon my arms became a
silent impulse and the impetus that strove between
the crushed grass and the risen stem, tight like the angle
of a kestrel’s wing; and unaccentuated by the glitter
of the sun, her night was an unfolding and reprieve of
warmth hastened no less by the peculiar reticence of
paler stars, hung like a cross from the white throat
of cloud awaiting the kaleidoscopic brightness of
confetti, and the marriage bells.
Jericho Urbano Mar 2017
Im not over
A girl
Who's not over
A boy.
I kept chasing after her shadow
Of who she once was,
So much so
That I failed to realize
She was running
In the other direction.
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