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Marri Dec 2019
Waste my time.
Distract me from the pain of other earthly things.

Raise my Hope from the dead.
Give it mouth to mouth,
And So *****.

Inflate its lungs.
Out & in, in & out.
Bruise its lips.

We all are just Living to die.

Take me to church--
Show me God, boy.
Bring me to my knees,
Make me sing his praises.

Shed your tears on my bare back while we break classroom desks apart.
Piece by piece,
You use me.
You shape me,
And Create me into yours.

Make me wear skirts with stockings.
Make me play nice.
Make me smile.
You know you want to.

Make me wear fishnets.
Make me tease you.
Make me want to please you.
I know I want to.

Let's play dress up for the night.
Let's Spider-Man climb the walls of our insecurities and broken hearts.
Let's bite each others shoulders,
Don't you wanna get primal with me?

Tell me I'm pretty.
Say it,
Say it,
Say it.
Be good and I'll reward you.
Be bad and I'll ignore you.

Make me feel all nasty.
Make me feel so graceful.
Make me feel so perfect.

Pedestal perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Let's just pray I don't fall.
stopdoopy Nov 2018
There she goes

Girls file into line
Three by three
Knee length skirts

Down the aisle

Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine
Prayers morning, noon, and night
Careful now, They're prepared to smite

Up the Stairs

Now we dine
And then off to bed
One "lucky" girl gets to practice head

The tallest tower

She's had too much sacramental wine
Hands touched and caressed
And she felt far from blessed

Down she jumps

Touched by filthy swine
"what a horrible disaster"
Her eulogy given by that same pastor

The Devil moves on
olympia May 2014
i sit there with
the cool wind
breezing against my face
while the summer sizzles
on my shoulders

your golden thigh
sticks to my skin
as we drive to the game
every ******* week

the boys
they sit in the back
and pack their lips
and talk **** about
the girls

the girls
who don't realize
that they're their easy targets
who skip around
in their short, tight

they talk about their waists
and the way they like to moan
every little imperfection
all avail have they shown

they think that it makes them buff
they think that it makes them cool
and i let them light their egos
and sometimes i chirp on too

but yet i sit and listen
and sometimes i think
they don't realize that i'm a girl

i don't know how i feel about that
Martin Narrod May 2014
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.

No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.

The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.

I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta.  I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm

— The End —