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Missy Oct 2014
his eyes trace my figure as my fingers trace his
and when lips meet it proves of radiant bliss
but as soon as pale hearts meets the greeting night
then hips align like stars only to delight
as one we seek places of the highest standing
using directions written on love marked skin
once innocent, now dangerous
no question arises to contradict such action
for strangers eyes lead astray when they hear of our stories
but the novels we write are only locked and hidden
for those strangers would assure to steal them away
elegance and divinity are like those of vintage coffee shops
where broken hearts are mended with love stories, caffeine and nicotine
where our adventures are as priceless as the Mona Lisa
and no soul can buy or touch the love we express
frost-touched lips meet in the seldom disturbed fields
where thoughts gallops freely and laughs carry on caressing breezes
for we out number the night's stars in moments made into memories
and our touch burns hotter than the smoldering sun in the Sahara
desires dig deep as our roots of commitment
while seconds pass  by without your sheer image
for our novels live on, as we tangle around each other
and passion gleams farther in fields with cold breezes
darling, our love is stronger than imaginable
for with you, your more addictive than hot caffeine in the morning
stronger impulse than nicotine in a life-long habit
your love, our love
we are forever infinite
Blue Sweater Sep 2014
Rehashing the rare
Out with the new,
In with the old.
She's always had a thing
For the things that exude
A quirkiness and a bucolic charm
The smell of old books
The black and the white
Good ol' Chaplin, James Dean
And the Sound of Music
The Beatles, a tape recorder
High-waisted pants
And the gramophone
And a rustic old bar
With a gruff bartender
Who's off his rocker
But he'll double up as your therapist
And for the boy with the dark brown eyes
Who looks across the bar at her.
And smiles.
It's all black and white again
Except this time,
It isn't her favourite Casablanca scene
But a white screen
And a thousand particles
Microcosmic
A milieu of
Unfathomable numbers float
Through the atmosphere
Connecting her to him.
And she doesn't want that.
She's always had a thing for the old,
But he makes her doubt that.
Anna Vigue Oct 2013
I can't tell you what I meant
because I don't know what I said
I'd tell you what I think
but I haven't got a thought
if I put two and two together
I think that I'd get five
and if you'd **** me
for what I know
I'd only tell you lies
I'm a smashed up piggy bank
robbed of all my pride
broken heart
empty mind
nothing
left
inside
Wrote this at 15
Elizabeth P Aug 2014
A boy he was
Long, long ago
As he glided into the chromed and teal druggist shop
1950s it was
Vintage years
Women in pert dresses
Men in sharp taupe suits
Filled the shop with a smoky manner
On that summer Sunday afternoon
Fan bladed just a-turnin'
Right through time itself

He saw this box before
Jeweled, valuable big music box
Been here not too long
Breathing in a flavored breath
He saw another it
The black round of pure bliss
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
The white letterin' said
Letter G
Number 4
Hands ***** cold metal from warm pockets
Slipping them into the maiden's shelter
Fingers to buttons,
Arm to record
Music to shop
"Well, it's one for the money,
Two for the show,
Three to get ready,
Now go, cat, go."
Floated in mass commodity
Away the ears and mind blew in the wind
Far from his hometown
Far from his school
And far from everything he already knew...

Daydream ended too soon for his comfort
The boy stared at the flashy box
And spoke a quiet goodbye
Tile guided him out the ringing door
Concrete guided him home
Where now the older him
Lives crooked, but happy
With a dear old woman who loves him more than anything else
And a jukebox
With many records in it
But one is still on top
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
In chipped, faded lettering
Vintage poem for the past :)
Q Jun 2014
Drinking bottles of Guinness
"Only socially, I can't stand the stuff"
Fatality in the finesse
Of 'classiness' and *****.

Smoky rooms and jazzy tunes
A cigar hanging from the lips
Fatality in the finesse
Of small talk and swaying hips.

Winehouse's drawl pours from the speakers
That are modern in their vintage style
Fatality in the finesse
Of hidden grimaces and fake smiles.

Every conversations the same
In it's lack of personality
Fatality in the finesse
Of sociability.
I have no idea where this came from.
O dear Morpheus, for thy rest be no disturbance in thee?
For thy sole ideas be neither order nor structure in flow?
Fear I sense for thy sacrèd inmost sanctum closes its eye.
This is a Sijo that I wrote one morning after having trouble sleeping. Its language is mostly influenced by William Shakespeare (hence the grave accent).

---

© Jordan Dean "Mystery" Ezekude
Sarah Michelle Apr 2014
I know of a girl who dreads the New Year
Because it steals her away
from poodle-skirts and telephones
And all that is long gone
Drags her across the floor by her ankles
while she sobs
as though she'd known the era's
dead.

— The End —