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Deadwood Jawn Nov 28
0 degrees.
Iron floors.
Wooden walls.
Incandescent light; dim.
Faint smells of cinnamon and red wine.
Sound of rain on the windows.


Get out.
I will continue to lacerate my arms.
Laceration until your inevitable action.
In the Plymouth Pass where I have passed
I witness buckles gaining mass
The paper cuts within my brew
Lampoon another step anew

Here lies where my skin was sewn
Wheezing steel, nature-grown
The gasps around my mind can see
The ***** yellow tether

Where I have seen my lover last
She kept me in a dress of brass
I long to see the Painted Crew
And eat the early morning dew

Dying’s cheap, dying moans
But living’s false and lies alone
For I believe that there’s a seed
That dares to croon, “forever”

I am strapped to a crown of birds
A shepherd of a mangled herd
We saw the Creviced Brigantine
And dreamt to hear a Byzantine

But speed, it saunters with a lapse
Cleaving instantaneous gaps
Who keeps watch to study time?
I’ll lock my learned head

In mondegreens, I taste a word
That chimes the gong of Lost Kyntire
Delouse the tongue with saccharines
Postcards via magazines

The wheels don’t turn, no, they collapse
Into a delta off the maps
I weep the street with sweat of rhyme
To lose what I have read

Where is Homer’s furrowed lining?
I forget my ink a-shining
The sun berates my slanted sleep
Which leads me to a voidless keep

The ties I twirl have never told
Me money’s green and fakes a fold
This jagged jingle holds a pen
That rakes a love of wealth

My mind is braised and stamped for finding
Reasons for a word’s rescinding
By my sins, I rest on heaps
Of famine-stricken sermon-sheeps

My steel-laced cries have never sold
A penny for my growing old
I decry the breadth of men
Who drink and die to their own health

Christ, I tire of my treads
I sense distaste of the well-fed
Sprouting my depraved behaviour
To find the sport in slaves and saviours

I can’t read with eyes of grain
I can’t draw the dated pane
My limbs belong to Nation Trusts
My child shall have my feet

A Mannish day usurps my bed
As the net that keeps me wed
To depots of deserted paper
And sickened lines of perverse vapour

The printed blue fight to remain
Twenty-four stallions breed to maim
The Court of Mobile states my ****
And treasures it like beets

Berries of the freesome smell
Southtrail deers degrazing ****
I am born to hear the hiss
Of driven serfs endowed with ****

Gratitude is served in rocks
Given life by stale warlocks
Augurs of the larger days
Reducing me to innocence

The Marshall spits a shallow well
Coagulates into a gel
To stress this life, I’d be remiss
And slowly stripped by vicious mist

I should chafe to serve a clock
Which underlines the formless flock
Yet I try to pave my way
To tangible incessance

Vivian Mills, an architect
Loves a state she can’t protect
The walls are hammered willow trees
Mercury arrows, guileless and creased

Edward Crael, a charlatan
Only writes on jars of tin
Where hate is love, rendered stale
And echoes through the past

Lonny Winn, the One Prefect
Cries over a submerged wreck
She feels the transit’s caving knees
And drinks away her soaring pleas

Finnick Gaelan, the Captain
Feels the weight of northern winds
He prays to long for wayward gales
Yet permeates the past
paper boats Aug 25
Draw the curtains, blow out the candles,
We are shy things, harmless shy things,
Who live in quiet, quiet places,
Like the sleeping pages of a dog eared book,
Or floating in an old lover’s new perfume.
But don’t go now, listen first,
Don’t you want to know where you’ll go?
Listen, listen, listen close.

The sound of drizzle on Monday mornings,
Is the soul of a bearded man who died alone,
Waiting in a hospitable bed near the window.
And the careful drops falling from your leaky faucet,
Are elfin souls of children born too soon.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

Every wrinkle on the hands of an arthritic woman,
Is the soul of a struggling artist
Who left without a penny to his name.
And when the sunlight filters through the leaves,
On an especially windy afternoon,
You can hear the snores of a resting Kamakazi,
Who died during some World War many decades ago.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

In the shuffle of sheets strewn across an abandoned desk,
You might find strange numbers and words,
Scribbled down by an absent-minded professor,
Who shot himself during an experiment.
In the tiny sting of an unexpected paper cut,
You might find the letters of every forgotten word,
Like the souls of the great Greek heroes
Who lost their way to Elysium.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

Near the restless moon on a drowsy summer night,
Before you go to bed with the blankets by your side,
You’ll hear the ‘click, click, click’ of a busy keyboard,
And in the ‘click, click, click’ you’ll find,
The coffee-drenched soul of a writer you didn’t know.
So listen, listen, listen close.
Don’t ask me to look you in the eye

It’s not something I can do

I can spell and even multiply

But I cannot look at you

I can speak a foreign language

Even though I’m only three

But I cannot ask you for a drink

And still can’t say Mummy

My body likes to fool me

I don’t always feel my legs

I find Jumping helps me realise

Where I am from all the rest

What is floor and what is me?

Sometimes I just can’t understand

So I’ll want a tighter hug

I may constantly demand

This is me! That’s my foot!

Every squeeze and bounce ensures

That I know where I start and end

It is a daily chore

It may take a full morning

to connect to my organic suit

And that’s not all that I contend with

Can you switch that sound to mute?

Mute the tv

Mute the music

Mute the humming of that fan

Stop the talking  

Stop the ticking

Stop all sounds if you can

I can’t filter them like you can

They are all a jumbled mess

It is giving me a headache

Lots of sounds I just detest

I feel dizzy please please make it stop!

And again just squeeze my feet

Where’s the numbers that are soothing

I’ll read them out and then repeat

Repeat is comfort

It is calming

For I know what’s next to come

If I don’t keep to a routine

My anxieties over run

Leave the lights low

I can’t stand them bright

Keep the curtains closed all day

My eyes are just too sensitive

I can see better this way

Give me books and documentaries

I remember everything

Authors names and all their entries

But still I can’t ask for that drink

Am I hungry?

Oh I didn’t know

Hunger I don’t tend to feel

As for food are you kidding!

There are no textures that appeal

The smell and colours even get me

Please don’t ask me to approach

Any food, especially hot

Just makes my tummy turn, it’s gross!

I can’t verbally explain this,

I don’t converse with words

And if I suffer too much input then the nights are even worse

Everything I’ve had to suffer

Overflows inside my head

I am feeling things from hours ago

And it is filling me with dread

It’s confusing and the nights are long

Please please understand me

Because besides these sensory issues

I am still a boy of three
This Poem briefly describes through my sons eyes some of what he faces day and night. He has Autism and Sensory perception disorder. He is having a lot of therapy to help him regulate himself and he is gradually becoming more body aware. The world we live in and I don't mean the natural side of it is very hard for him, It is why I take him camping a lot as he is so much more at peace in nature. He suffers greatly with complex sensory issues. Some people forget he is a three year old boy
matthew May 10
the sound of a car accident is deafening.
time almost seems to stop,
as shards of glass and metal fly through the air,
in what feels like slow motion.
as the airbag goes off,
you wonder if these will be your last moments.
and when the crash is over,
the ringing stays in your ears
as if the sound is etched into your brain.
the smell of burnt rubber and engine smoke will soon fill the air,
a scent you won't be able to forget.
you take a deep breath and close your eyes-
zb May 9
soft sweaters and
harsh breathing
fabric pulled tight
around cold fingers,
the grooves of the stitches
an odd comfort

hair tangled with eyelashes
a dark curtain
a shield from the outside world
knotted and wavy
from days without brushing

toes, flexing
mouth, twitching
unable to stay still
unable to stop moving
for fear of losing self
in a world of bright lights
and too many warm bodies

blood, bubbling like soda
under skin
get out
get quiet
get dark
please, silence,
no more

breathe in
fingers play with hair,
the texture soothing
Middy Apr 7
Clinking cutlery and stomping feet
Shuffling of the seats
Laughs and cries of " I won, I won! "
Adults outside playing ping pong
There's music and dancing
Little girls prancing
Baby boys playing with their toys

Nothing unusual to them
The usual birthday party fun
But not for the girl in the corner
Crying on the floor
Her hands covering her ears
In a usual birthday party
Sorry for not being on for so long guys!
Nimbus Mar 12
I can no longer hide
My soul ignited

once disparaged
I long to share it

The chills in my spine put into words

Lips on skin
Eyes filled with sin

What is this sensation

I drip colors you cannot see

Heightening my passion
Enhancing my touch

Raw emotion channeled as such

My desire aches
The color of flush
My cage breaks
Expressions of ****

I do not fear it
I can hear you blush

My favorite sound

Our souls combust
My restless soul longs for something fulfilling
The pieces crackle under foot.
Glassy daggers pattern the cement.
Alleyway objects fall and stick,
under oil, ash and soot
The pieces crackle under foot.

The cries echo, howling wide
muffled under pain and grim
muffled under bends of time
muffled, quiet
hushed and silent
The cries echo, howling wide

The burning smoke, fowl and rank
invades the air we often drank
suffocates the smiles we made
the yellow thick
the yellow sticks
the yellow smoke
fowl and rank.

The bodies piled, bloated flesh
freshly killed, forgotten trash
faces of crumbled hopes
faces of lost souls
faces froze
faces cold
The bodies piled, bloated flesh
Watching Dunkirk, had me thinking dark war thoughts.
I have a hard time with differentiation
Between getting coffee
  And let's demolish 3 bottles of wine!
Between getting inspired
  And let's spend holidays seeing the country in a van!
Between getting butterflies
  And let's kiss on the face right now!

There must be spectrums I can bisect
   Platonic Love from Romantic
   Sensory from Sensual
   And Casual from Committed
But they are not immediately apparent to me.

Regardless of type
All ships must be properly cared for,
So I will patch the holes
Man the sails,
And try not to rock the boats
Too terribly hard.
10/25 Inktober prompt: Ship
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