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Mandi Feb 20
One kiss could send me straight to ruin
One sinful touch my soul to ****
But just to have you for a night
My soul would cry out "It is well"
To taste the sweetness of your lips
To have my flesh be a feast for you to dine
I'd gladly face those burning embers
Just to say you once were mine
Let marks on my skin tell the story
Of a night of savagery and bliss
Yes I would give up crown and glory
Just to have one taste of you like this
The forbidden fruit always looks the sweetest
Helene Marie Jan 30
it’s every man for themselves
in this world where
we are shown how
to tear each other apart
instead of love one another
treat yourselves and others with kindness
Ignatius Hosiana Feb 2017
Maybe all Humanity's lost
and savagery's our true nature
*and we're at war simply
because we aren't born for peace.
Guido Orifice Oct 2016
After all, poetry is a savage calling.*
-Edel Garcellano

Let poetry be an interstice.

Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call.  Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves.

What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth.

Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth.

Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry.

An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring.

A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations.

“The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry.

We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies.

Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold.

Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal.

We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows.

Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example.

To answer this question is the task of poetry.

Let poetry be an interstice.
C Cavierre Apr 2016
Then fear comes
with exaggeratedly elongated fangs
with gasping breathes and hungry growls in the background
Whose feverish savagery is snapping at my heels
the whole poem is broken into three separate posts, to enhance the reader's experience. they all have the same title

— The End —