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danny Jan 2018
It was solitary,
Seemingly erected from nothing and nowhere,
At a time when It was unknowingly
Needed the most.

A purple haze enveloped the base,
Faint neon light buzzed,
Mimicking a heartbeat.
The car engine finally conked.

Desolate and enchanting,
A siren call if you will.
As it is in life, hesitation seeps
When you have a choice to push some buttons.

Purred to life underneath the initial caress
Inner motor jarring to action.
'Discover your fate.' The tinny voice announced.
On a dark and lonely road, the question apt.

"Could it be you have fought what you
Ultimately seek.
The courage that ebbed, introduced you to
Weak."

"The passion that once burnt has
Tainted your soul.
A bigger picture unseen,
Left you unfilled yet whole."

"So turn around and be gone,
Live life like you do.
The car engine didn't die.
It was never about you."
BJFWords May 2017
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes​ were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.

Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******.
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.

Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -

True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.

£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
Clubby is a social club in Scotland
****** is bookmaker.
To hear me speak the way I do,
to see, to understand, my way...
that is why you should have another.

To make me comfortable,
with what I have given you,
comfortable in the knowledge
that you will not,
remember it.

I buy drinks
to ensure
my words
are
forgotten
Any other way about this makes you dangerous to me.
Vincent JFA Mar 2017
I felt my pulse stutter when I spoke of you
long before I met you, back when
I was marooned on the Island
with a bunch of sourpusses some years ago,
who told me it would have taken
a pipeline chilled on dry ice (with a faucet installed)
for all the people in Hell who want iced water,
and a meteor the size of Mauna Loa
tearing through every layer
of realistic expectations to discover you.

and that the meteor would still end up
the size of a gumball by the time
it hit the pavement, and the first drop of water
would get to the ****** warm as ****,
and they almost had me convinced,
crossing fingers and predicting meteor showers
before I learned of you by name,
swore Hell's patrons could stay parched
for all I cared, and headed west for forty-two miles
until I found you in a part of the Island
where those sore losers must've never bothered to look.

since then, I've made a list of reasons
why nothing's felt more profoundly simple
and beautiful to me than each instance
where I could have sworn your signals synced with my pulse.
and they're all worth explaining, but I've grown
more timid at twenty-two, and mostly stare
at the bottle of Magic Hat, the roof of the shed,
the scruff on your upper-lip or the creases in your shoes,
just to avoid making eye-contact
(though you don't seem to mind it.)

speaking of then, back at the shed,
when you were tapping your foot
to one of Twain's records, I was going to mention
something about how I love the sound
hard-heeled shoes make when they click against vinyl,
tile and hardwood floors, because it's soothing to me—
the same way the tone in your voice was
when you saw the Sour Belts on the candy rack,
when you thanked the gas station clerk
on the way out, told me you were having fun,
and softly brushed my hand
before you asked to borrow my lighter;
it's just a sound I adore.

though I wouldn't clarify whether I meant
the click of heels or the sound of your voice,
because I know it's going to sound silly either way,
so I speak to you in Morse code
and send the signals to myself
to remember there are things that
will always mean more than
they probably really do—

to you, to the world, to the psychic
who guaranteed simplicity and tenderness
for me when I was nineteen, and
probably laughed her way to the bank,
bought a gumball-sized rock on a silver ring,
and will be in stitches by the time she gets to Hell
to buy a round for the ******* underground
who are placing bets that I might be wrong about you,
and that I'll lose your signal soon
whether or not I want to.
Morse code always fascinated me; it's one of those sounds that calm me when I listen to it (much like the sound hard-heeled shoes make, haha.) I've also felt this strange affinity with the complexity of it, and how cryptic or even ambiguous it is when someone doesn't know how to decipher it.

I often find that, as a hopeless romantic who isn't exactly brave with being honest when I'm fond of someone, I tend to somewhat water-down or keep my sentiments vague when I try to say how I feel; I get petrified by the thought of something mattering to me more than it probably should, and experiencing the disappointment when I am reminded that might be true, whether by a person I am fond of, or a friend/family member when I share my struggles with unrequited love.

It never really stopped me from believing strongly in that adoration when I feel it (or having good expectations because of it,) even if I find myself too afraid sometimes to try to realize my ambitions for love. That idealism has often made me gullible.

Five or six years ago, a "psychic" promised me a lot of things would happen within that year; I'd find love unexpectedly, come to a windfall of money, become successful, etc. Well, I ended up broke by that December, I still don't have a 401K, and while I've found love a few times since, it has often been unrequited. So the psychic probably bought herself something nice with the money she made cold-reading me.

Needless to say, it was one of the few things that reminded me realism is just as essential as idealism. However, being torn between them is why I tend to be taciturn in love; never sure if I am being too idealistic or too realistic.
Sacrelicious Feb 2017
The incredible guilt,
I have for telling you
Deathscsweet seal
Is the hardest cross,
I've ever had to bear.
Incineratorin,
slowly in silence.
Burning like the Matches
only speak.
This course is speeding up my hour glass.
A little too fast for comfort.
I cannot see the end in front of me?

How...

WHAT THE **** IS GOING ON!?

Something about two buckets of soil...

GO NOW!
GO NOW!

Go ...now,

How does the Seer work?

Do You
See?

AMC

Vikings

I

see

Why are my skinned eyes?

...crows, crows, crows, crows

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