"aesthetically" poems
#
*I wander throught the works of art
upon a gorgeous but cool day,
Bewildered by the beauty
(and the price they ask to pay).
Paintings hang in canvas booths
in styles of every kind.
Statues, crafts and metalwork
aesthetically designed
Food and drink and music too
a rousing, festive place.
But oh my friends, the greatest art
was smiles on every face.
So many strangers mingling
with a common goal to share
To wit: a friendly greeting
and goodwill enough to spare.
Indeed, the day was perfect
with weather cool and fine.
But nothing tops a friendly smile
in harmony with mine.*
#
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
I wouldn’t dare to guess
The whole extent of
The adolescent mess
Left upon the first broken heart..
Certainly you are one of those
Who have overcome
Those common blows
That tears a first timer's world apart...
Or even luckier yet
Perhaps your soulmate
This time around
Is who you met
Reflected in the passion of your art....
Being a poet
Can be quite telling
Aesthetically rebelling
Sharing all the secrets
Of one's unique solitary heart.....
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
I am a small and expressive six-year-old
I just came back from India, just a trip to visit family
I wear a bindi
My hands are decorated with mehndhi*¹
I wear bangles on my arm of all different colors
I wore a little churi daar*²
And everyone teased me
“She has a disease?”
“Why is there a dot on your forehead?”
“You look funny”
A few of my friends tell me that I look pretty and they wish to wear it too.
I get a few compliments but the rest hurt
I never wore a bindi in front of them again
I washed my hands to rid the orange stains
I never wear my Indian clothes
I am a not so small and not expressive sixteen-year-old
I see music festivals, I see movies, I see the people who teased me when I was six
They wear the dots that I had worn
They decorate their hands with what they call “henna”
It wasn’t an Indian holiday
I’m a little hurt
Why was I teased?
But they are praised
“It’s aesthetically pleasing?”
“The bindi is indie”
Do not tease me for my culture
And then take it for your own praise
Is that even fair?
Do you think that’s fair?
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
As she is Feeling worthy,
She takes the journey
With Eyes wide shut; in truth ever so blindly
Embracing her spirituality Divinely
She Rises As Peek of the Day At High Noon
She’s In tune
Like the Sun in rotation to the 28 phases of the moon
She’s in tune as summer in the month of June
Just as a flower in its fullest bloom
She’s in tune
As the skin embracing the molecules of perfume
She’s in tune
Just as a baby in the mother’s Womb
Just waiting to be born soon
She’s uses Art of Divination
Shes sees Life/God in all of Creation
She self heals through crystals, spiritual baths and mediation
Her Aura is that of roses, poetry, and galaxies
She pulls one in with her defiant rules of gravity
Draws one closer with her celestial cavity
She’s cosmic candy
Some may say They call her the Milky Way Because around her even the stars feel safe enough to come out and play
She’s a whole vibe, the rhythm of reggae
She’s life one breathes into their airway
She’s paradise’s secret highway
She’s Cosmic Candy
She’s As beautiful as watching the chaotic grace of a Star burst to me
Her spirit is wild and free as the unknown depths of the sea
Speaking aesthetically,
she is truth So heavenly
She is Cosmic Candy
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
scars of a past I wanted nothing to do with
led me to handcuff myself
to a lampole for security.
I had reached my consensus.
I threw the keys to these cuffs
in mental portals where I thought
no one would dare to ever travel.
Many tried searching
but I intentionally
obstructed access
with deceptive rants of fear and caution.
By then
I was sure
that I had thoroughly built walls of security;
I was safe
...but who would've thought
my aesthetically intellectual design
had a weakness?
The enemy came just as they all did,
hoping to be let in...
but this one reacted differently when the ranting came;
I was now at a disadvantage
because I had no other alternatives for defense.
The enemy showed no care for my security;
It was attractive
And I succumbed while
Never forgetting my plan
Although it seemed my design was nugatory.
My mental lampole and cuffs,
gone.
I was left subjugated
at the feet of a queen
who carried an aura
with the most beautiful spectrum.
Like a bull snake,
promises of security
grappled my core,
draining it of all fear
leaving behind no traces
of deception.
Although defeated,
she still remains my enemy
because serendipity
never seems to stick around.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
I once read the lines
“Practically on top of us
is a girl
with long brown hair
a black hoodie
and the tightest jeans I have ever seen
I automatically hate her
because those jeans
make her look good”
From a book
This mentality bothers me
I mean
Why can't we
Admire another girl's beauty
Instead of becoming jealous
Or envious of it
While attempting to find
A flaw of theirs
To counteract their beauty
Why can't we just appreciate it
While loving ourselves
Completely
Without making ourselves feel less
Important
Or desirable
Or worthy
Because they have something
That is "better"
Which is entirely subjective
Due to the fact
That there are many opinions
Of what being beautiful
Aesthetically means
Since there are many people
In this world
Which in itself
Is beautiful
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
Some days I think I could love you
If the grass was green enough
If I didn't associate your musk with the flannel
I search for at every goodwill
At every thrift store
Trying them on relentlessly
Button up, button down
As if each little plaid square could shrink my ******* smaller
Stretch my back vertically
Aesthetically speaking.
Some days I think I could love you
If was smaller and wiser
If I could believe in nothing
Rather than the absence of something
Every time I close my eyes and pray once more
Beneath the shadow of the hospital-tainted shower curtain.
Some days I think I could love you
If I remember the piercing blanch
Of whiskey burning in the back of my throat
If I recall the tears in your eyes on a mid-May afternoon
Standing closely in a gravel parking lot
Telling me "See ya later" instead of goodbye
Kissing my forehead, nose, and eyes.
Some days I think I could love you
If you told me it didn't matter how prominent my collar bones are
Or that it didn't take the catalyst of pickling my insides
******* a lonely man while you were away
To make you want for me.
Some days I think I could love you
When you trace the lines of my waist
Asking me not to lose any more weight
When you tell me I'm beautiful
That you envy my heaven
When you ask to see me simply to hear my thoughts.
Some days I think I could love you
If you told me you loved me
If that alone didn't set you apart from the rest
Aligning yourself a whole in one with the others
Only greater.
Some days I think I could love you
If I couldn't recall the misshapen line
Between a large vocabulary and eloquencey
Between a man and a frightened boy
Between an eating disorder and self-motivation.
Some days, I think I might love you
If I could silence my mind of all the fragrances of adultery
If I could leap elegantly past the fear of such a concept
Without wondering how I appear to you compared to the rest.
Some days I think I could love you
If I could forget that you can't
If I could remember how to open my own hatch
Without fear, as the key
If I could remember to love myself.
Some days, I think I could love you
Some days, I believe it.
Some days, I don't.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
She sits with one leg
Crossed over the other,
Her hair is parted
Off-center,
But not enough to be
Considered a side-part.
Her smile is a little crooked
Because of a surgery she had
Years ago.
Her gait is a little awkward,
Especially when she runs,
And her hips aren't nearly
As wide as her personality.
She has a birth mark that
Most people would not
Say is aesthetically pleasing,
But regardless of her imperfections,
She is perfect to me.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
A strange kind of intrusive ambiance; voices in several languages, forced laughter, technological functioning; human activity intermarried with machines. The volume rising perfectly in sync with my cortisol levels, I interrogate my past for signs of the path that led me here; it remains blurred. I did not dream of working in customer service; but here I am regardless, moments of my life that I will never ponder again; a cascade of the present moment repeating as long as my employment contract exists. An event-less horizon, memories are stillborn here and true ingenuity stifled. There is much and nothing that has led me here. It is hard not to feel like a horse bred for performance in this place; everything is monitored, quantified, reviewed and collaborated. Performance reports produced with the fervor of medieval scholars translating the bible. I look to the sky, what else is there to do; only to see smoke alarms and aesthetically neutral lighting arrangements. There is art work on the walls, but is generic, created to defy analysis. The colouring of the walls is chosen to exude a neutral sort of trendiness; on brand for the overarching corporate image.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
Its science versus religion
And cognitive thought versus deranged fantasy
Wars fought for love where loves lost and heroes are burned, cherished, forgotten
Little boys with ***** faces and sticks
Teenagers with cars
Young adults with assault rifles
Men in jail some with bars some with front doors a fax machines
Trees that reach the sky and some that wither crack and die
Burning thoughts of the afterlife a fire fueled by fear of death
The chance of being wrong
The opposite thought of being right keeping you grounded in the daylight
But fleeting in the night escaping just like the sun to comfort some other being
The loneliness of lying awake with a deranged mind running free
Clawing its way from your brain
Grandpa’s dead and dads on his way out
And moms still preaching the gospel
And gods still ******* on ashes but not putting out fires
Cities crumble and rebuild and repeat
Everything is a cycle love, hate, lust, love, hate, die, repeat
Breathe in oxygen exhale ***** and regurgitated knowledge
Of free press movements and the civil war
Fighting, sleeping, ******* eating, drinking, smoking, hurting, smiling
Fields of crops that feed nations and economies
They grow then comes harvest and their end
Just like us harvested in the end to feed nations and economies
Words that burn politicians and inspire masses
Bombs that end lives and ******* children
But prove were right and your wrong
Our god is bigger than yours he has more firepower too
Wrong side of the tracks on the wrong side of the ocean
Worms eat dirt what a pathetic existence
They eat dirt, **** dirt then die
We eat love **** love then die
We’re just worms
Bigger, intelligent, more aesthetically pleasing worms
Hateful thoughts and bold words
Worldly views from the comfort of a laptop
Medication and frozen dinners
Sick, fat and dying
Life is beautiful
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
My water’s luminosity…
whisky and sage.
We breed to feed other fishies,
but I’m on stage.
Performing for some human’s selfish garrison.
This disregard is quite humane in comparison.
The cat, your companion,
He claws at me constantly.
I epitomize a pet.
I am merely your captive;
Only aesthetically attractive.
I long to be the social hippie of the sea,
but this isolation is drowning me.
One day you’ll find me ambivalently
sinking at the top of my bowl,
and you will flush me down yours like the rest of your useless ****
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
as i'm laying down tonight
i think of how exhausting it is to wash you off my fingers
even if it's not like i ever get to hold your hand
or touch you, for that matter.
but everynight i have to wash your essence off my fingers
like trying to get rid of gasoline but always ending up
setting myself aflame. and that despite
knowing how dangerous and hazardous that **** could be
you just couldn't stop because you love the smell of gasoline
that fills up your lungs like pumps of adrenaline
right before the stench of your own burning flesh
chokes you to death. most nights, i wash you off like paint.
you can tell that i'm trying to forget what
i bled after your face appeared on the plain canvass
when my hand automatically reaches up and
perfectly colors your lips, and i couldn't help
but resemble them to pastel pink petals
of the roses growing in royal gardens
and i know i'm fooling everyone
making them believe that such expertise
is achieved because
your bottom lip have felt my gentle stroke when i
don't even know how your lips would feel when they quiver
under a curious and longing touch.
so i watch the colors spiral down the drain.
i watch my hands brush against each other
so intensely, trying to scrub the paint gone even
if it won't go away. even if the blood is clean.
even if i look clean.
how can loving you secretly be ever clean?
i'm scared it will never go away.
i am a painter in my own sense, capturing a glimpse
of something so intoxicating and aesthetically forbidden
then turning it into something tangible.
this is how painters show that their hearts
collapse with just a name
with just a glance not meant for their way.
and they paint what little of the hope
that shouldn't have been there in the first place
and every night. every single night they would aim
tirelessly to turn it into something they could allow.
something that could exist not only in my head.
something that i can call mine even if you
don't know that i am yours
and i knew this because your face
have begun to fill every blank wall
in my ******* house and i wonder how it is
possible to fall in love with someone the whole world
believes you shouldn't.
they say that when we turn our hands into fists
it is the size of our hearts.
and sometimes after the long hours of painting
i wash my paint-stained hands clean of
an abstract myriad of yellow and blue and black
and red. red for blood. red for love. red for fire.
i wash my paint-stained hands
turning them into fists
so maybe, just maybe
it will be the same
as getting rid of the colors off my young broken heart.
colors for you.
yet i always end up washing them off
with ******* gasoline.
and you still dare to call me 'smart'
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
We write about two AM because it is simplicity and we are underexposed. Overtime, simplicity becomes complex and subjective and harder to define. Soon you associate two AM with her hair holding on desperately to her shoulder blades, but at that point it doesn't matter what time it is because all your brain understands is her mouth and how badly you want to kiss it. Everything is clinging to something: hair to skin, sheets to mattress, mouth to teeth; but the real fear lies in what will end up letting go and this is why we are born with out fists clenched, because from the moment we are living, every insecurity spills like air out of a bag you thought was vacuum sealed. See, life is full of complexities and we can't seem to find permanent serenity, but, in the midst of it all, there are small things that resonate within us and soon we collapse into a string of cliches and we fight not to drown within them, collectively babbling and trying to make sense of the concept of never letting go.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Aesthetically tuned with the goddess
My curtains blow beauty in the small corners
The vines climb the tallest towers and I swing on chandeliers dancing, swishing, jumping high!
I reach and touch the lantern sky!
But underneath the glove lies an iron fist
With this my glittering charms turn to dusk
The attentive mind ruptures with jewels of intellect,
Standing in the light holding the glass container of justice!
My eyes come alive - I will stand against the balcony lifting the scales
The flower field of lavender petals stand next to my thoughts
The horse in the wind I seem to some, but until the end I will never stop to stand up
Watch my kingdom come
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Sweetheart you need to be have a flatter stomach
Put down that soda pop
Or one day it will make you pop
Put down those puff pastries
Or one day they will make you the Pillsbury Dough-girl.
Take up crunches and sit-ups
And just ignore when your body screams for food
Take up ******* in and waist trainers
And just ignore that ******* in all day weakens your muscles pushing you further from your ideal
Hey good lookin’ you’d be prettier if you had smaller thighs
Stop eatin’ them donuts
They turnin’ you too dough
Stop ordering your pizzas in larges
They turnin’ you large
Start doing some squats
Just ignore your back screaming in pain
Start running sum more
Just ignore that bigger thighs mean a lower risk of heart disease and premature death
And a simple request from everyone else: make sure your hair always looks like a girl from a movie, that your skin is flawless, you dress perfectly, are always happy, smiling constantly, have an aesthetically pleasing Instagram, be in an adorable relationship, know all the newest music and shows
You know what
just be perfect
but
not to perfect
-love society
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
Opportunity or opposing unity to unify and untie
Leper's lesion sipping each seasonal reason for loving your flowing hair and knowing care
Strike the stench and light the match and throw open the hatch jump inside along with furry-toad-love
*** and lust and the vex of the ****** of what is on the television gone up and through and something grew inside my skull where IT is thus, null
And I speak of course off course because of this coarse curse of your love
Flinching finch-pinch-tense, since she's, hence, a personal goddess
I'm a man of fetus-like love of birth and woman-girth
I like my girls to be bigger
Though perhaps for a less redeemable reason
I am the humanoid-elemental-embodiment of low self-confidence
And most are out of my "league" (at least physically and aesthetically)
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Every night
And every morning
I stare at my body
Trying to figure out
Who could possibly love someone
With so much extra
So much extra
That has nowhere to go
But out
I roll over
And see the extra gather
Who could love that?
Not I, not anyone
Less is more
I'm not asking to be the most
I'll eat less to be less
Not realizing that I'm blessed
With a body that works
And does what I ask of it
It just isn't pretty enough for me
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
I love the majestic ugliness of the Eucalypt;
Aesthetically more appealing in its twisted, gnarled appearance
Than any uniform northern conifer;
Infinitely more adapted to the unforgiving antipodean climate
Than those idealised European deciduous living monuments
Still transfixing our collective view of how a tree should be.
Those dropping leaves allowing scenes beyond;
Those tendrils of bark denoting Darwinian fitness;
All tug at the heart of we new Australians,
Conflicted, as we are, by sensibilities born elsewhere,
But borne, nevertheless, into an Ancient Eden.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Mental illnesses are not something to be envious of
There is nothing beautiful about being up at 4am at the fall of the moon
And the constant dull ache inside of you that never stops
With the hope that this pain will go away sometime soon
There is nothing cute about cutting your wrists
Hiding the evidence in a hurried, panicked mess
And hoping you'll be the only one to know
About the relationship with depression, who leaves you feeling helpless
There is no reason to be envious over the girl panicking in the car park,
Sobbing, shaking, running out of breath,
Throwing up because of a fast heart beat,
And feeling like you're seconds away from death
So what is beautiful about Crimson coloured wrists, wet cheeks and sobbing so hard you throw up?
Because last time I checked
Pain isn't beautiful
Pain is raw, honest and destructive.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil
am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle
you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential
see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing
think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited
for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain
my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn
they, the residuals of a man’s *********** with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa
Who else?
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
a soft grey blanket flows through the peaks of green pines
silencing the celestial voice of the moon
while steel horses restlessly paw, panting gas fumes
the volleyball desert, at first glance barren
reveals a complex terrain of mountains and cigarettes
to the watchful eagle's eye
a wooden temple towers, built on artificial ground
cool stone poured into aesthetically pleasing islands
a forty square foot-print
a holy site of human ingenuity
with offerings from the clans of Miller and Busch
lying scattered like bones on the monolithic plain
anbaric lamps imitating miniature stars cast shadows at night
and the once vibrant world takes on unifying hues of blue
I guess the old adage that
"misery loves company"
is indiscriminate of nature
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
I wish the world were blind,
so love could be.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Solicitation
by Michael R. Burch
He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging
my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman,
and his eyes are on my eyes like a snake’s on a bird’s—
quizzical, mesmerizing.
He ***** his head as though something he heard intrigues him
(though I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense;
his words are full of desire and loathing, and though I hear,
he says nothing that I understand.
The moon shines—maniacal, queer—as he takes my hand and whispers
Our time has come . . . and so we stroll together along the docks
where the sea sends things that wriggle and crawl
scurrying under rocks and boards.
Moonlight in great floods washes his pale face as he stares unseeing
into my eyes. He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine,
and my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face.
He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared.
His teeth are long, yellow and hard. His face is bearded and haggard.
A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp.
My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly.
He likes it like that.
Published by Dowton Abbey, Aesthetically Pleasing Vampires, Into the Unknown, Since Halloween is Coming, and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords: vampire, werewolf, supernatural, New York, gentleman, blood, neck, teeth, canines, wolves, desire, loathing, moon, snake, bird, mesmerizing, reptilian
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 11:31 PM UTC