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cypress Nov 5
iconoclastic art spirits wildness

served against the knuckles of mainstream engagement

it falls like vinegar in the oils of western modernism
S R Mats Oct 18
Dear pussycat, you clever little beast
To hide the paws that hid the claws
That shred my pretty face.

Feline, fooled as I was to forget
Within your blood wildness simmered
Just beneath the folds and crease;

Of eyes that looked asleep!
Never put your face close to the face of an unknowable cat.
preston Sep 5

One fine, postdiluvian day,
God glanced down on Noah and crew,  midfloat..

((ding)) "NOAH.."

                          ­  "Hmm..? what is that?

((ding)) "NOAH.."

                            "Oh, ****.. its the boss.. everyone, ****** chill"

((ding)) "NOAH.."

                               "yes Lord..?"

Noah, now concerning being fruitful and.. uh..  whatever
you know-- lala,  and stuff.."


"Ya yourself, Noah.
Hast thou considered the howler monkey..?
That wild-assed little pair going at it up there in the crowsnest
are tantric AF."

                                 "Dude.. you should bless those cute, hairy
                                   little love-machines with the most *******-sounding
                                   lovehowl on the planet.."

****.. I wish I was the one who thought of that..  

The End.

(This postdiluvian-dialogue was what was on a cartoon-like tract that was rolled up and left tucked in the jamb of my front door by the most gorgeous little J.W. doorknocker I have ever seen..)
true story  (almost)

Mm.. to that cute little J-dub princess from long, long ago~
Baby baby baby
Take me in your arms and love me
cause you know what I am, anyway..

moonrabbit Sep 2
It begins as a tingling in my legs,
unpleasant like something squirmy trying
to get out, something huger than my skin,
wriggling, bursting to get free.

Without ceremony it spreads, bulging in
my chest, prickles poking through my
shoulder blades. Suppressing only makes
it worse, I need to run, to fly, to breathe-

"What's wrong?" you ask.

I cannot answer, it is taking all my
willpower not to scream, or punch an
innocent bystander. Would I? Whether I
would or not I've never found out,

I just leave.

"I love you," you say. I still cannot reply,
the tears have been melting my face, but
now they trickle down shiny scales.
External sensations have become
insensible, overpowered by the
overwhelming rage of barely managed fire
within. The sharpness of my teeth meets
an unfeeling leathery lip.

I go downstairs and leave the building. I
don’t know if I remembered my keys. I run
just as reptilian wings free themselves
from my back, they flutter, stretch out wide
at last.

I'm free,

but I still want this thing inside me, this
thing that now is me, to leave. I am
ashamed of it, afraid of its newness and
my inability to control it. It's happier now
in the open air where it can thrash about
without restraint. I let it, no longer worried
it will lash out at something or someone

We fly far and long, my arms and lungs
ache, but still the fire burns in my whole
body waiting to be unleashed. We soar,
sore and angry until suddenly I'm alone

I look down but I don't need to look to know
the scales are gone. My lip feels soft again
beneath my rounded teeth. The wings still
flap but gentler now, quietly bringing me
back to the ground then softly folding and
painlessly absorbing back into my
shoulders. I head home.
CarolineSD Aug 2019
My heart is a smoldering ember
That too easily ignites,
Melting this skin of innocence  
Releasing feral things to flight.

But oh how they are beautiful,
Like solitary wolves, slinking from the hollows of my heart
All glistening and yellow-eyed,
Gliding through the midnight forests
On the inside portion of my soul;
The part that only others like us ever know.

Yes, I can see the untamed wilds that make you whole,
And I release the ravens from my heart each time I walk with you.

And sometimes they are beautiful
And sometimes they are dark
And sometimes they cry as their wings beat a breathless pattern to the stars.

With this pen, I trace the elegance of their arcs across the
Uncharted corners of our skies.
Wided Ben Jul 2018
And sometimes I feel like my heart is bursting from all the lives I’ve lived for others, I’d abandon the comfort of the familiar and the approval of herds
for the enchantment of new faces, new songs and the mystery of new roads, escape from the tyranny of morality and sanctity, and lose myself to the beat of the soul and the pulse of desire. I want mornings that don’t remember yesterdays and a present that exists for itself, days that don’t hope for the future because the moment is so full of my mother and all the love she has for me, all the wrong that’s born out of splendor and a God that has no expectations but to see us surrender to the wildness of our spirits and the softness of our being.
kiran goswami May 2018
Embraces me
Devours my senses.
Love eats my hunger away.
All Beauty is in the darkness.
In the heart,
A wild beast rules.
While the withering soul cries,
Waiting for the true love
Waiting for the only one
Tears don't fall anymore.
It's heavenly but it's lonely.
Those cries are no more heard.
Shrieks have become inaudible
It's only silence that echoes
And only solitude embraces me,
It traces down my curves.
Dryness kisses my throat.
My lips meet the darkness where even
The darkness can't see me.
My hands are touched by the unwanted pain.
Hatred eats my happiness away.
It's all wild, all dark.
But it's only solitude that embraces me,
Devours my senses.
Jade Mar 2018

The colour

of bruised knees


and lips begging

for oxygen


A hue

caught somewhere

between blue and red

(two extremes).

Blue for misery,


(frigid, the tundra),

blue like the ocean

(drowning, an ode

to Ophelia).

Red for anger,


(burning, the inferno),

red like flame

(gasoline for blood,

playing hide and seek

with embers).

Ultraviolet radiance

(blinding, turn your eyes away

the Purple).


(well, not so vibrant)

yet dark

(sometimes, too dark).


(just as the lilac

blossom is)

but harsh

(the bee that devours

the blossom's nectar).

China Doll complexion

(rosy cheeks,

skin the colour of moon dust)

paralleled against whirling eyes,

surging pools of burst blood vessels

and flared veins

(dear god, the Madness!)

Poetry personified--

counting syllables

instead of counting sheep

(a spoonful of codeine

to wash down the tears).

Words engraved into flesh

(wearing sadness like it's

crushed velvet--lovely);

these ink-stained wrists

(or is that blood?)

Empty band-aid boxes

(the scars still ache

whenever it rains)

and empty liquor bottles

(enamel eroding,

mouth swimming in froth).

Fearful of the night,

for the night will 

surely bring the mourning

(A seer-- forever dreading


Self-medicating with

Antihistamines and Tequilla

(Witch Doctor,

burned at the stake

in another life).

Dreaming in pastels

(when the insomnia

permits it)

but existing in a

grey-scale reality

(inhaling this pain

like it's cigarette smoke).

"A penny for your thoughts?"

(Haven't you forgotten?

They've stopped making pennies

because this world no longer

has any use for them).

A reflection in the mirror

(glass shatters,

pupils collapse in on themselves).



take away this body!)

"I love you..."


not pretty enough

to be touched).

A serenade for him(s)

(rejected letters,

"maybe we should 

just be friends").










(wind knocked from lungs,

soul plucked from body).

Lips shatter as 

the kiss the cement

(step on a crack

break your mother's 



who named her child


for the gemstone


( ̶p̶r̶e̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶),

for the green,

Mother Nature's

chromatic blush

(wilting dandelions,

forsaken wishes).



It's a colour that

never quite suited

a girl like me--

a girl with a purple soul.
Jade Feb 2018
She is a wild thing.

And I say “thing”

and not girl or woman

because She is neither;

She is both,

caught somewhere in between

the liberated innocence of childhood

and the maddening corruption of growing up.

And this is precisely what makes Her

wilder than the rest of us.

Some will argue that She is woman and woman only,

leaving little room for,

what are considered by many to be,

girlish trivialities.

But these people have only ever viewed Her

from a respectable distance,

a distance from which She appears to occupy

both the form and the essence of a woman

what with Her full ******* and

the manner in which She writes poetry–

with a sort of opulent brutality.

What you will not see

is the girl

(if that is what you choose to call it)–

the lovely child-beast

that dwells inside of Her,

antlers entwined with garlands

of succulents and autumn leaves,

eyes veiled with an ethereal mist.

A deluge of stardust drips from its lashes,

raining down upon the dry expanse of Her bones,

planting dewdrops in the barrenness–

honeyed globules nourished

by free-spirited ambition

and a nonsensical imagination.

And If it weren’t for you,


if it weren’t for your

incessant howling to the moon

and the sweetly curious expression

you get on your face when you’ve been daydreaming,

then this “woman” would be just that–

a woman and nothing more,

the same way you, lovely beast,

would be a girl and nothing more

if it weren’t for the overpowering

womaness of your host.

Do you recall

how you two first met–

the night She had first made your acquaintance?

How, that next morning, you woke up to find

your Hello Kitty ******* stained red,

a sharp pain stabbing at your belly.

You yelled for your mother

in a panicked shock;

you were convinced you were dying

(and perhaps you were, for this was

the very moment you began to grow up.)

But mama told you that there was nothing

to fret about– all females bleed, after all.

But you have come to realize that

while some bleed by nature,

there are also some who bleed out

of their own free will.

At first, it was Her mere nature that

had caused you to bleed.

And, after that, Her wildness.

But She did not mean to hurt you,

to burden your wrists with the

gravity of Her sorrows.

And so you must understand this,

my beast:

like you, She is a wild thing.

The only difference is that

She is a wild thing with a broken heart.

And there are some days where She

would do anything to quiet

the melancholic fervour of her thoughts.

I can see how this alone has destroyed you,

how you have been leached of your innocence.

I watch as you deteriorate

antlers withering to stubs

eyes weeping

stardust congealing

around your tear ducts

mouth frothing with whiskey

shards of broken bottle

embedded in your palms

your body degraded

blouses with alarmingly low necklines

skirts long enough to cover up

the scars on your thighs

but short enough that they feel

the need to whisper “*****”

when your back is turned

because maybe this

lovely beast

is the only way She knows

how to feel okay.

And maybe you have simply

found yourself caught in the

insatiable crossfire of Her darkness;

because the light you possess

was never enough to save yourself,

and it was certainly never enough to save Her.


The wild in you

was never a match

for the wild in Her.

And it is here

in this state of unadulterated wildness

that everything  you are,

everything that She is–

Woman and

child and

Beast alike–

will eventually

be forced to surrender

to the chaos.

This is the place,

wild thing,

where you will be forced to

eat yourself alive.
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