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with your sin stained touch,
unholy scriptures,
and whispered prayers
falling from your wicked tongue,
sometimes i wonder if we’re
truly of the ******,
disgraced in the eyes of the lord,
or if the lord revels in our unholiness
7 octobre 2020
13:03 pm
Mystic Ink Plus Sep 2020
When she hold
His heart

She chopped it
Into edible pieces
Pour Jack Daniel
Lit 2 Cigars
One for her
One for
Her new lover
Genre: Dark Humor
Theme: Unholy
Styling C. Bukowski
Kit Scott Aug 2020
you are an unholy sort of beautiful
a rejection of divinity in every freckle and curve
in the dirt under your nails and the blood in your smile
your crooked nose and clever fingers screaming that you are godless

you dress yourself in an artless kind of humanity and revel in the shock it brings
hair and skin and dirt and all the warmth you can gather between two hands
you cup your heart in scarred palms like the very opposite of a benediction

you wear debauchery like a second skin
darling, you could **** god with a grin
this doesnt flow very well but i like it
Riley Jun 2020
Decaying parts
Live zombies
Ungodly bodies made holy again
Are you still alive?

Though I know you to be ashes stashed in the broom closet,
how is it your skin still walks this Earth?
Unattached to me, but grasping onto a stranger.
If they wish to pull the heart from their chest, will you die again?

This imposter wears your skin as a sweater.
If he sins will you too, be a born again sinner?
she once had stars on her eyes that could light up the way back home without the moon helping out

and she once had a fire on her heart that could warm up even the coldest night with just the touch of her fingertips
but the stars were ripped out
and the fire burned out
now all she has are a broken pair of wings and a tainted halo

and her forsaken form walks the streets of a land she doesnt know

but oh, dear,
she has never felt more alive than she does on earth
sinful; wicked.
The Foodie One Apr 2020
You were
my Sin
And my
Redemption -

at once.

Was it
a Miracle?

That, I still question.

- unholy pleasure -
© 13/04/20
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
a woman comes to me at 2:20am,
from across the world, asking if I am that cool jew,
occupant/son of the unholy hours when death and crucifixion,
them two old friends, are waving temptation with both hands,
never mentioning heaven, offering .99 cents of sanitized compliments,
which for a fifth rate amateur writer is revolutionary,
as close as you will ever come to global recognition

that woman says, yes! you’re that insufferable fool whose
suffering keeps us awake when he should be sleeping in the
half-death state, in the unholy hours, only reporting back
what he has seen across the borderline, in these times
when a thousand-die-a-day daily from suffering
that is uniquely human, a wracking medieval torture,
granting those viral messengers, slow extra pleasure

be nice to yourself for a change, write ‘bout what they want,
broken love and suicide, mundane pain, keep it plain, short!
easy stuff that sells records, making you not whisper words
never meant to be shared, the language of the unholy hours,
a dialect unique, that Google can’t quite rightly translate,
for not every vision is substitutable, suitable, rated G for babies, so,
keep it short like a miserable life that needs a prophecy to complete

48 hours ago thought I was infected, a glide path to rocky moon-smooth,
a landing where words unique, taken away, sealing your mouth with
tubed oxygen that inhibits thinking, air that might **** all of you, not just pain, but what makes you unique, your own 10 commandments
of speech, the old testament, the source book of insight into whatever
makes your lungs breath in rhythmic to heart beating, and dying
discordant disrupts the gene sequencing of inhaling and exhaling

the editors and the critics overlooking, that sit on both shoulders,
are already complaining, no más, no más, no más!
suture that incision, close your mouth, the unholy hours
need a special silence, Ruth’s lips that move but go unheard,
make no mistake, we want to listen in, voyeurs of visions
but we need you broken, we need a break, from confronting
the repeatedly delayed, but undeniable, the clockwork orange
second coming of the ungodly hours

new york city of lips
inspired and spired  completely and totally by a mid-of-night conversation with a Lady From Manila 😉
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