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Third Eye Candy Dec 2012
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****.
toe nails clipped from yeti  
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat

and a brick banana.

blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****.
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask

while hailing a black cab.

tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.

your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho

your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll

your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone

your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.

your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
A re-posting of a deleted work. please enjoy.
sandra wyllie Jun 2021
black as the night sky
brown as flapjacks buttered and syrupy
peach as a peach farm tree
red as my son’s skinned knee
thick as an alligator
thin as a high-school waiter
acned and wrinkled
old and pickled
fresh as a baby’s bottom
fallen as the leaves in autumn
every mole, rash and blush
is lush with life
and hasn’t been touched
by a doctor’s knife
aging isn’t flawless
it’s beautiful
Lewis Bosworth Feb 2017
—For my brothers in cabins, in hiding, out-of-this-world.

I succumb to the baby-oiled glossy perfect flesh.
The abs, the pecs, the shiny *****, the angles
and shadows creating those illusions.

These man-boys, some still acned and purple with
non-air-brushed bodies, fascinate me.  But
I look again.  These are photos of posing and
***** boys.

They’ve never seen the planting of garlic, nor
the digging of a grave to put to rest a
beloved raccoon, nor the dirt-fresh smells of
putting-down a root cellar, nor anything
that is our ‘neighbors.’

So, my brothers, I have no gloss to share, no hot
glamour to peddle. Rather, I’ll give you
my ***** finger-nails touching men in black-
and-white portraits, who consume me
with life and earth and real *****
and warts and paunches and hard-earned
scars and stains and 2X4 poems.


© Lewis Bosworth, ca. 1980
Fish The Pig Jun 2014
Nothing depresses me more
than when a picture is taken.
A day of bliss
but when the camera comes out
I suddenly remember
how ugly I am.
Even on the days I feel pretty,
I smile and it flashes-
and the results bring me to tears
for even though I know I'm a heinous beast,
born with a pig's face
isntead of a human,
I still always wonder why I was cursed like this.
why I am perpetually a mutant.
I still have hope that I'll be satisfied with a picture one day,
that I won't grimace
and cry
and not feel a tremendous amount of guilt for the swans
that have to share the same photo as I,
and that maybe this nasty pink pudgy acned pig face will peel off.
I know it won't.
But I can hope.
JoJo Nguyen Dec 2020
Here come we
as perfect a baby

Button nosed
and dimpled cheek
shrieking nights
and babbling morns

A handsome son
A beautiful daughter

Somewhere
Somehow

We become misfits
design by Evolution
or Grace
to take too much risk
with each other

Nose ringed
and potted face
acned ambivalence
and strident justice

We come together
in holy matrimony
to find outsized
reward randomly binds
only a few in rarified
forever

The languid eternity
of a few
short
nasty brutish and sharp
years

We leave her
We leave him
Here stay we
Ashley Feb 2020
I look in the mirror
Put on a lot of make-up
Untill I don't recognize myself anymore
Tell myself im not as pretty
as those other girls
Walk the halls with a fake smile on my face
Trying to make it through the day
I go into the bathroom look in the mirror
I can't even face the girl I see in the mirror
It's not me it's a mask to cover up reality
That I am not perfect
I went home
took a shower
As I watch my mask disappear
Revealing the true me
It's me in my own skin
It's me with the acne
It's me who is lying to me
Thinking that all my problems will be solved
If I was just pretty enough
If I was skinny enough
But at the end of the day it's me vs me
The girl in the mirror facing the girl looking in the mirror
And my naked skin
My acned up face
Me not pretending to be someone that I'm not
This is me
And I'm good enough being me.
Im starting a challenge to be true to who you are for a week wear your hair down. No makeup fancy dress. Get comfy in your own skin!
Third Eye Candy Nov 2020
i get the hives when my mind Zens in on a brand Knew.
my Ottoman Empire is a footstool in a plush Rumor.
at rest in the best humor that genius can buy for a Yen
when the Yang is an awkward ruby.
i steal from the vaults of a common supernatural
with all the aplomb of a minnow in a mouth.
sleeping on the hillocks of a rust moon
acned with meteor kiss and fierce serenities
the width of Space between notes
in a deanument.

then poetry assumes i have something to say.
only then does it open to the introversion
of my extraverted inner Hermit.
I leap out of conch shells
on some kind of fire
that slakes a thirst.

i knit wings to eyes
and abandon every photon
to my Will.

then

I have metaphors I keep using
whenever I try to be Original-
and i meta-criticize the artifice
of my chosen pearls.
but seldom do I confess it.
the unseemly devices I am left too.
as my Id designs the Ego
of my Indomitable Heart
with the schematics
of my Lost Architect
unhumbled by my Illusions
having spun such webs
as to conquer a Fool
and his Guesses.

I eat stone wheat and the wet essence
of dry zephyrs on sea errands
to blanch dunes
to Beau Geste.
i consume the ridiculous hubris
of my epileptic Angels
and squander no opaque verse
to tadpole.


I Swim In A Yes That A No Dreamt Of

like a ferret
in a healing
scar.

— The End —