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Walk on babe, the night will find you soon enough. But, do not give in so kindly- it seeks to play with you for 100 hours, or 100 years; perhaps 100 years and 100 hours, I don’t know…. my glasses fell off. The best way to say it: if the day is temporary, so are you, and the night will swallow everything, from common skin to rare hues.
Don’t pull your punches with nature! Don’t let that primeval smell defeat you or good God- get a kick out of you. Nature is the piece of furniture that you bought, not the other way ‘round. So, how do you feel? Icicle fingers, sap bearing veins, rebar arms, tenderloin body, washboard neck, prison gate mouth, airstrip nose, typhoon eyes, telephone ears, coniferous hair, freedom’s mind. You owe it to nature, she coddles you.
A funny thing, then: the lifetime of a dream. Where love, bliss, sorrow, *** are not unknown, but as uncanny as they can be. Old friends may sleep it off and give you a check and a kick out the front door, but don’t you know what you were in their beds for? It was something true, and if you were the only one to find it in that pile of quick-messy lovers, it is truer still. So walk on babe, the technicolor night has left you, but in its hazy laboured breath, it promised to return. It swore to explode all over you- what can you do in return?
Twice hardly could I believe mine eyes
As old sunset did arise
To and fro, the honeysuckle morn
That brought the nascent-sparkling dawn
So surely did I meet
The words so concrete
As grass and dew held sway
And all old scrolls had no delay
For beauty was the mare on which I rode
As the buck-toothed medallion began to corrode
Overlapping streams of great renown
All seeking the final ivory crown
In pillars of smoke, bellows of grass
The hastened steps of many a mass
Send their prayers to remorseful wind
For a useless chance to begin
The rhythms of Eunoia did spring
As the new decrepit moon was beginning
So beset was I with the city’s ills that I had decided to make it muse and dog. It would be from there that I would attain character and breed disdain. It was the city’s beating sun that made my skin crawl with darkness, the streets’ sharp nights that would eviscerate my wiry gut. In the beating, repulsive core of it all: the architect of my passage into all loves unknown. In that quick breath, I am not made a cynic by my pocketed demeanour. The cynics are stiff to love and unmoved by devotion. I am more brutish than those tired men; younger and filled with lashing virility. Through peaks and troughs, by veins and alleys, I am made whole and aware by motion and truth. This truth, I know: that master will cede control to the mammal, that frivolity will make way for chaos. In the age of tired bliss and hopeful terror, I could fasten myself to the reins and decry with swept breath; a vain dust in the wind. Instead, I will run and in that moment, be given up to love. A love so supreme it may gnash and look hideous. It is ill enough to think, and such incisions are the armour of the valiant.

I will stare at impudent reflection, and he will riposte with words that will tear at my suppositions. He will make me absolute- by my doing, and mine alone. In the simple hour, I see that every small movement is a microcosm of my Self. The act of lighting a match is then diluted into the whimsy of sparking the torch with nuclear fission. To be ablaze, then, is good enough and will atone me of my heritage- a heritage of vanity and shallow delight. When all dreams converge upon me, my shackles will cut me and throw me into the loose embrace of freedom. It will be painted in the image of *****, and all peers may peer and gawk, but not me. I have spent the past gazing through stolen periscopes, and piecing that frame of entropy in such lost silence. When the hawk of summer is finally shot dead by the falconer, he will steal its skin and thrive as the griffin of cold bedlam- where nothing grows to be forgotten, and nothing thrives to be forsaken. I will keep one hand open and one eye hidden, to shield my intentions and maintain the prized mark. There, am I not made man and bright by such exodus? Am I still the furrowed animal with sunken brow, sleeping at the behest of the sunset? If salvation will not follow, then I will afford myself time to wait and simmer in the tender visions of tomorrow. Be assured, though, that I lie in wait like the two-legged beast- the same beasts that crawled through the dagger sands and drowned under careless seas. In plight, I retain my name and definition. My mane is left unkempt as it desecrates the horizon behind me- soon to be below. I lie, herdless and tamed by instincts of the Bedouin- a steep and supple corpse. The sun too, knows my name now and it wishes to dominate me. When the white light swallows the grass ahead, I will climb-never crawl- to my cellar and continue to toil at my ill-gotten gains, my unremarkable shape.
Raylene Lu Jun 13
i always feel so stuck, like there is this strange expectation of me, like i am not the person they are expecting, they are using, that they are searching for. Or perhaps i constantly feel like that towards everything. I belong, and yet i don't. people belong yet they dont.
constantly trying to beat others, yet never knew be friends with them was really the answer. I am not involving myself enough yet i never want to be. I try then act like I never tried, blame others for annoying me yet allow them to.
I use platforms as an escape from people yet show the same people as a way of being accepted straight after. I do things behind people's backs only to tell everything later. i want to be free yet i have no clue what of.i dont know what is trapping me, but i just know it is. im writing things for myself only to tell them to others.
i message people and they finally reply, then only to feel abandoned again. Things come and go, but never here forever or for very long.
i complain of eyestrain yet stare continuously at the screen like some kind of void for the stress and blame inside me.
Marissa May 25
No matter the weather I depend on you forever, always with you making bank together.
I wish not to see you go, but I'm here to let you know that, no business too strong, no sale too low, I’ll talk the talk and win boardwalk.
You may raise the steaks, eat 'em with a shake, but I'll be the one to monopolize park place.

Every day, we continue to strive, simply because we are alive with a passion of conquest that will put any limit to the test.
Don’t tell us your rules, you fool, we pull the strings, so watch what you say, or everything you know of will go missing.
Beware, our empire expands at a rate, which will never yield any capitalist mistakes, because at our core, we are omnipotent nationalists.
We have climbed the steps, to the very top of the throne, and mark my words — the world will be ours to own.
Sometimes, it is fun to write poetry just for fun and dismiss any elements of seriousness. It unlocks a new realm of creativity. So, go write, let it be a little humorous, get a laugh out of it, and smile at the masterpiece you have created.
In one breath, now
Lucidity takes hold
As the night in all its restless soul
Awakens from wicked slumber
And I, privy to the noise of nothing
Where every muted moan reaches out
And leaves scars on the skin
I dream of the car screeches
Stopping, loading a magazine
Releasing itself unto me
A burst of harsh light
And the noise of bullets
That could so easily meet me
As I sit, on the porch
Breathing in- letting out smoke
With my pants suffocating the waist
Purple the *****
Stiff the finger
I hear that violent, quiet thing
Sounds like a ringing tingle
Reverberate so cold
From some placeless footstep
A new kind of constriction
In the night's endless fiction
g Apr 27
he is wearing africa and all i have is a civil war playing out inside of me. i ring him. i tell him i have no money left. i say “i'm sorry you couldn’t **** the gay out of me.” he laughs like it’s his fault, i hang up. i think about how there will never be enough air in the atmosphere for me to breathe. my skin is infinite, i don’t have edges. it’s difficult to expect to not get touched when you live in endless skin. the air is hanging low tonight, lower than ever. i go to ring her, to tell her she is a gardener, a hospital-clean being. i don’t have her number anymore. i have to tell her about these hands, these old hands, how i think they caused chernobyl when i was someone else. i have to tell her that every word was a mistake; they were all just really bad spellings of her name.
copyright gb 2014
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