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Elizabeth Jan 2012
It's a humorous thing
How scent can take you places
Past, present and future
Relive fury
Remember lust
Extract happiness
O sweet aroma
Teach me to conjure these feelings again

O masculine, divine smell
Covering my clothes
Filling the atmosphere with mesmerizing fumes
Intoxicating my mind with sensual aromatics
Drink me up
I will **** you in, I will take you in completely
Take me to far away places, dreams and memories of soft kisses and tender hugs
Of romantic dances and innocent laughter
Remind me of past events once enjoyed
Resurface memories far and near, quiet and loud
Let me live them once more
My Boyfriend's sweatshirts ;) nuff said!
Elizabeth Dec 2014
So excuse me while I dump out my Starbucks in the fridge
and paper shred my valued customer card.

Let me hate coffee for you,
Because you're the only person I've been willing to hate coffee for in three years.
Those other boys could never tear me from the coffee shop counter,
I would latch on like a koala to a tree limb,
Thirsting for that satisfying and hypnotizing liquid.

Let me loath coffee for you,
Because I haven't been so excited about loathing coffee in three years.
Its tantalizing aromatics will woo me no more.
The other men in my life have no affect on my love affair with these beans,
Their scents loop around my neck and drag me in,
The craving becomes irrefutable,
My bones creak with each body convulgence
In response to the grinders on the espresso machines.

Please let me get you a drink,
Orange juice? Milk?
Gatorade?
I swear, I'll keep coffee as far away as possible at all times,
Avoiding every Dunkin' Donuts while driving,
Every quaint mom-and-pop coffee shop while walking,
And flight attendants will never dare bring a coffee ***
on their food cart when we fly.

I won't ***** this up with the **** coffee,
Because perhaps it was coffee the last three times that left things in rancid rot,
The filters from yesterday's shift never disposed of.

Let's go anywhere but a coffee shop together,
Let's go everywhere but a coffee shop forever.
And I promise,
I won't even try and sneak a latte around you,
But can I please keep my chai tea?
King Panda Aug 2017
the morning sky
performs a hot dance of rain.
ever-growing lime washes away,
white and sour mistaken
by some noses as
aromatics.
a season
of ever-ending frost
absent from windows
and misty
misty
journey
through the rain
without an umbrella.

rain jilts
its luscious sun-lover
behind clouds.
it beheads drops into
the thin morning air
only to be crushed
by the sidewalk.

this excites the worms
who unearth themselves
like fishing-bait zombies.
the worms are then eaten
by the birds who brave
the rain and the slick
sidewalk, once baptized,
now eats their ****.

I step in a puddle
with my rain boots.
there are holes in their
heels, and I feel
my skin start to crinkle.
I think of you
for the first time in sky water
unsubmerged
docked
landed
and lean in
to the liquid veil.
barnoahMike Nov 2010
_I'LL NEVER FORGET  "THAT-NIGHT" It was 8;00PM, a Thunder and Lightening  storm had just begun  and what seemed like thousands of BB sized HAIL WERE  PELTING  the roof,  making it Hard to Hear the  Ringing Phone ! !     I Barked OUT a  "HELLO",,,the tearful,   hesitant voice on the OTHER END....CRIED OUT... " Come over  quickly"  She pleaded and  continued with  "IT'S LIKE DEMONS Have CONTROL OF HER ! ! !   ,and SHE KEEPS CRYING OUT ..  AUNT BEA,,, Aunt Bea... Over and over"_  .      This was going to require a SPECIAL-EXORCISM  I Stated... "I'm ON MY WAY" !             Upon my Arrival , I was greeted  by a trembling,sobbing  LaCretia,,claiming,  "HURRY  to the Library Room.,Rochelle is waiting ! !"         The repeating AUNT BEAS   were spoken as if Gargling...   "WHAT are her Symptoms "  I Queried ?    IN A VERY-SLOW  Determined Voice, LaCretia   detailed the following,,,,     "She has the BLUES,  She has the BLAHS,  She has BLEMISHES,   She has BOWEL Constriction,   She has been BLASPHEMING,  She has BUTTOCKS Wrinkles,   She has  BREAST quivers and has been having BELCHING FITS "! ! !     I THREW MYSELF ON THE FLOOR IN PRAYER...Asking for the strength to DEAL-WITH  these DEMONS...** A N D _Here's what CAME-OUT of  ROCHELLE,,,, (#1)=BREEZEWAY-LIPS= when encountering these rascals ,it's highly suggested  that  WE BE UNDER  Proper Cover..    (#2)= BISTRO-BREATH-LEADER= Demons that emit SPECIAL AROMATICS  into the air ,that keep screaming  ,,"IT'S TIME TO EAT"....(#3)=BEHEMOTH -TESTER=  Demon assigned to see how BIG OF A MONSTER  he can turn you in to ....( #4)=BRAZEN-FELLOWS=  Demon who attempts to Get "YOU" TO   **** INTO EVERYBODYS BUSINESS,  and ruin their whole day & night...! ! !      I   THEN SHOUTED OUT  TO *ROCHELLE *    " ARE there any more " B " DEMONS IN there ??"     Rochelle, collapsed to the floor,, I promptly RUBBED-IN  the BROWN SHOE POLISH  into the soles and heels of feet,, FOREVER-BLOCKING *" B " DEMONS ,  the ONLY-ENTRANCE to our BODIES ..__  Rochelle ,with a new found strength, lifted herself from the floor,  Gingerly grasped my hand,  Pulled me "VERY-CLOSE" .    KISSED   me with a FERVOR , THAT I   CAN "TASTE"     TO THIS very-day...     I bid LaCretia and Rochelle "GOOD-NIGHT",,   AND FOUND MYSELF "WHISTLING" and  "THINKING"  as I walked to my Vehicle.... "The Demons are increasing their activity ! !    I MUST  "BE-PREPARED" for the *NEXT-CALL*PERHAPS  FROM  *  Y O U * ??_
copyright 2010      by barnoahMike           Mike Ham
Chambord recollections,
   exhaling smoky vapors,
wisps of  Madagascar aromatics
midst a French Château dream,
  dipped in honeysuckle reminisces
  of cardamom spice and the pungent
zest of once 'neath a midnight legend
Robert Peck Sep 2015
1 the chemical essential to the covalent bond, that is amorous,
2 the non-verbal communication that’s equivalent to conversing for hours,
3 Vibrations
4 The aromatics of bed sheets and perspiration
5 The forte of a night club and the pianissimo of a night spent star gazing
6 Libations
Frieda P Jan 2014
I sip your essence, it rushes through me,

                   swells upon a quiver of my mind

blushing up against my burnish'd lips

                      boldly filling my ***** with warmth

reminiscing the surrender of our souls

                               traces of your lingering aromatics

musky scent of sandalwood and lust

                       my eyes drew you in of dire ecstasy

drinking in your sweet fragrant notes

                        surging high above memory's intoxication
Barry Comer Feb 2010
Buzzing street lights in ‘65, while riding down broadway, I saw him raise a fist and knock on air, giving honorary mention, on a sidewalk, with licorice aromatics and things to come; a riot in mind and lost roads yet to try; I was driving down the hours, until the great eruption, the beautiful hydrogen plume, that turned my earliest stages to glass; of misunderstanding.I chose deep coma puffs for months; hoping for a big bang difference, but saw more of the same, those political chants and the binge melody; spread my head from ear to nose, and dripped to a kneeling pose that hurt the knees; that he created.There were buses choked with cigarettes and little fires that fumed high on revolution; I inhaled the moment, spiritual avenues of peace, ambience for a dime and phony masters of ‘68, who passed good karma as market produce, picked for it’s grace maybe taste; remembering a twisted paste, twirled around a pipe; I found his holiness smeared with rosin, powdered and heated in delicious spice.Banging down the hours, in the hallway and on the walls, the musicians in the park, the harmonica boy and a licorice man who posed like Cleopatra, a fist pumped high, finding power far from the action, the corner vacation it had become; one year late and an intersection erupting intolerance; a fascist dialect foaming at the mouth.It’s ****** man, the sacrifice for love’s survival, the astute grew grumpy, coyly taking savage steps for attention, a smiling Buddha danced mediocrity, and the breeze cleaned the streets of licorice lice.I pledged to mystic beasts, the iconic gods, who gave us head while swaying beads, killing rice cake hero babies, then slurped the carnage. That was the rise in ‘69, the fall of all, you young men, robed preachers; who stole the show. We worshipped your footprints, discovered nothing, but eased each in; so wild were our mouths.The cold floating fogs in ‘71, let’s drive the dark, close our eyes, seeing cars in stars, luck was far from there, it was over. Time to surrender, the freedom, the ravished femmes, the man with junk, singing ancient song, who lived in trees, who coasted hills, whose licorice taste, his heavenly dreams; visit my nighttime history, and the years we lived.
2010 Barry Comer
Christoúgenna parable: “from the third tusk that remained behind the underside of the Bedouin of the seventh dream, Mariah's nativity path is touched, hearing in the sieve ears of the dried fruit of the Achenium in the hemlock, near her mother Hanna who always tease the bird visions feeding Mariah's fertility. Hanna's progenitor slipped into the third parchment, being a fruit of infertile destiny not being a dried fruit, but rather of his lord that in a female a male will be born and that he will resurrect healing adjacent patients in the neo-testamentary and in his biblical canon, in seventy-three keys of the old testament that will be used to open a new crown ”. The Bedouin wrote with the drops of the sea that exuded from the compendium of Stella Maris, while this nomad brought them closer to a son in their fellow men and in the plurality of individuals, expanding on the announcement of an unborn son acclaimed Jesus.

They ran the lines of the nativity and in it would rest the arms of his father of Mariah; Yhoyaqim in memory of predecessor Imram as Hanna's father. He had wine for two in their wineskins, and in the nuptiality of carnality, for more siblings of a betrothal and of only one unpolluted and not carnal, full of Gratia Plena, as a factual verb in the Vulgate or Hebrew Bible for the purpose of whom He writes like Jerome of Stridon or just like a Bedouin with the tooth of a viper in a holy narrative of the matzo and its annunciation in its sixth month.

The Bedouin continues: “Mariah was born to engender the grace that nothing disturbs in the majesty of her heart…, it will take me a while to reach your nativity, but here I have to be before the reactions of going where my desires that cut through the impulsiveness of arriving now more than ever to Mariah's birth of the only child. Here in the foggy Judean night with the fathoms of the bush and stone substitutes, clay with mother-metal on the vegetable fibers that I carry in my donkeys. I will come to finish and rub the planks and crossbars that will support our new home in conifers of cypress and fir, up to the beams and balustrades of his coming. Cedar antisepsis and its aromatics will fill you up on arrival with cypress resin to caulk the Capernaum vessels that will ship you by the Aramaic word. Do not die waiting for me with the door open, where I will wash your feet with the gold of Ophir, which on the laden ***** of my donkeys I will carry natron to whiten the fabrics of its dressing, among any scented and refined lyes of light. With beryl, topaz, and ruby I will also seal the footsteps that reach her as far as her mother Hanna, I will continue to happen among the mystery of Simún that includes me in her life project, I am Imram, Hanna's father, and grandfather of this precious gem, who between acts they stand in the concession of his body-soul and mother-son as a venerable spirit, as anticipation more than a life of pain, joy, and martyrdom, piercing the soul to whoever disintegrates the desert of silica with blood in the prophecies of Simeon "

While the immaculate is adorned with flowers and oracles of ovation, Imram's shepherding bequeaths us in the vicinity of Nazareth, in all things that have their order and more than others must be prescribed for the births of those who fly the spiritual cities, which in itself brings us with its placenta. Mariah in her nature constitutes the first fractal of light of the One-Dimensional Beams, where she is born doubly into a body of peace and a prized winged spirit. Knowing that her sacred breaths do not become full or in twentieth dawn of the topaz nor less of the ruby, in which no sunset dies of all the venerable benefits that are born with God, nor before the visit to her cousin Elizabeth and in her Magnificat, nor less in a resentment in twelve years of his son already put on a tree, from the very dialogues of a son with a father, leaving them as patriarchs, before the convenience of engaging in the tasks of his father, being the son of his chosen Mariah, and that in the womb of his mother Hanna there was no one to whom it would not be, not even when his son Jesus told him in units of his father that he did not understand, in the naivety of the flesh made of the divine verb and in the existence of the mediate mystery.

The Bedouin continues: “as gospel, I have transcended my paternity beyond the ministry of the relief of virginity of the maternal conscience of a divine son, but of resolution of the word from mother to son, still not understanding him…, but speaking for generations that they will never remove the word of God and his mystery from my soul. I will always be a Bedouin of Galilee, as in the amount of Simún and in the values of the disciples who are also my children of the fertility of a woman in all living beings, as a family line that is born from the ruins of Eve, to be reborn in the beginning of the clamorous genesis of Mariah "

Imram, visibly exhausted, traveled in the row of Simún, which was endowed with a being that creator of everything, as a spirit that engenders family love to reunite them at the nativity of his descendant, always with the existence that embodies the infinite ***** of the star. that skewed and guided him, taking out the entrails of the universe that did not fit in the world, to lead them in the exploits of an orthodox nihilism, to protect with their heralds and sustain them from such motherhood, in the de facto conception and mother-granddaughter, preceded by the archangels who guard everything until their appendages are lost in the confines that have no consummation. Before the holy dormancy of the fire of love, ramshackle yielded by the rosary and the Simun, where promontory praises are noticed about the good adventure of a perennial nativity, from those hours that continue to be subjects for the times of time as the immortal reign of the centuries, and the apostolates sponsoring their worthy catechesis in their filial course, from reverend mother in evident assumption taking him away from his sufferings.

Imram continues: “Wine for servants and kings, in a chalice for one, in a family that does not skimp on glasses to include, for more brothers to offer to have them closer than writing with other literary legions warned, rather alive in canon lines from the bible, in perpetuity as an existential ****** of an advent community, which is nothing more than a Christmas sermon, for it came in two being born into a mother and child, in the seventh dream and in its Christmas tirade. I will run closer to where I will be able to fall outside the walls of his holy house, to bring him all my offerings, for a very purified mother, who smells of roses and lilies adorning herself with cousin gifts from God, in the dispute of venerating him without time or saves opportune works of formerly bad deeds, but because of an urgent visit that I compensate at the end of intention and murmur, like his Messiah, only twelve years old, rising from the cliffs and also from the Apsid, avoiding the discursive center in the masses of his assumption, lining traces and returns from a crown like a dying star king, with a fearful stain in the vicinity of perihelion and as proximity to its orbital of Faith. "

His aphelion is more distant from a greater lost lot, always luminous in the night to reach the lap of the nativity of Nazareth, in an eternal dream that makes us be welcomed and transfigured by Mariah, in cosmopolitan frequency, in the liberations from herself. apotheosis, and those that deprivatize the internal idylls of a son and his wasted mother, only leaving us in the middle of a desert and their gifts separated, between points where it is intended to arrive by offering the doctrine in its sacramental figure, and manifesting its supernatural presence in melted nascent sheets and eternity that flees down from its equivalent marquee, becoming carved from the One-dimensional Beams..., being first-born, mother and multi-believer in the same hope and in the halo of Holiness of John within his wood and within his Nazarene halo.
Christoúgenna Parable
Derrick Jones Jan 2019
With my mental acrobatics, I create verbal aromatics
Conjuring sweet scents with my perfect meter and tense
Using my dense prose to weigh you down like soggy clothes
And then I dry you right in time with my fluffy rhythm and rhyme

I execute mental backflips as I dodge Freudian slips
Spinning into the subconscious ’til my wordplay makes you nauseous
As I twirl around in this whirlwind I am reminded that the world could end
But it hasn’t happened yet so I might as well forget it
For more poetry and essays, follow my blog on Medium at https://medium.com/words-ideas-thoughts
Thanks for reading!
melli7 Mar 2017
Food
Of a sort
Don't eat the aromatics though
Massive indigestion may follow
Appreciate what you can consume
Potatoes, paprika, meat and oats are awesome
Anais Vionet Jan 2021
We hurtle down the last few hundred feet
of steep lavender lined cobbled *****
shaded by majestic umbrella pines - around
a last hairpin turn and there they are:

The blue-white Pampelonne beaches, of St Tropez.
Their indecent beauty almost defeats words.

With the scents of lavender, pine and salt sea air, you can
get dizzy on the aromatics. It's a Mediterranean performance
or perhaps a preview of heaven.

Our daredevil, fifteen year old driver, (Sylvain)
gets an unappreciative look from my mom. My brother (Brice)
and sister (Annick) whoop as if practiced, as they leap
from the open-sided Mercedes shuttle. I calmly gather my things.

This tranquil and elegant beach cove is private for hotel
guests - no chic crowds here - just a few quiet guests and
valets dressed in beige. The Pampelonne beaches are *******
(**** if you like), Annick peels ******* just before she hits the waves.

Brice, ever the considerate brother says, “Come ON,
RELAX, you’ll just look like one of the BOYS.”
Which earns him the old, American, one-finger salute.

I missed vacations this year and the beaches - where hours
stretch, with blissful laziness, to the rhythm of nature.
Will we ever get back to some pre-pandemic "normal"?
I hope that we can "storm the beaches" again in 2021 (ready to lead the charge).
Maddie Fay May 2020
maybe it's the way i was raised
or maybe it's my cancer rising
but i only ever feed myself well when i am feeding someone else.
i mean,
my love language is soup.
which is why my whole house smells like curry, garlic, and ginger,
why over the course of a couple of days i spent twelve of the hours i had meant to spend sleeping
pressing blocks of tofu,
individually sauteing seven different types of vegetables in fresh herbs and aromatics,
and really testing the capacity of my roommate's food processor.

I don't remember when I first started believing that everything that feels good is either dangerous or morally wrong, or, most likely, both, but I imagine it started with the church.

I don't remember when I first started believing that love looked less like a fairytale and more like my best friend falling asleep in my sweater with her head on my shoulder, so close I could smell my shampoo in her hair, but I imagine it started with her.

I once spent six months eating cold unseasoned green beans out of a can for almost every meal because suffering for suffering's sake feels righteous when you believe that you deserve it. I once spent ten years pretending not to be a **** for essentially the same reason.


And lord, am I ever. A ****, I mean. A big, masculine ****,
Like,
I have always been more king Kong than Fay wray.
Like,
I have always been taught to be afraid of what my hands can do.
I remember big fat ***** depicted as monstrous,
Only able to destroy,
And I wonder if that's why there are so many of us who make things.


i keep a knife in my pocket most of the time because i have been backed into enough corners to be cautious,
but mostly,
i use it for fixing things and cutting fruit.
danger is contagious and i do what i can to stop it from making me dangerous,
I do not want to be a frightened and frightening thing.
but one time a woman i really liked tried to wake me from a nightmare,
and with ghosts still circling my head
Before I was awake or aware,
i punched her in the face.
When I opened my eyes, there was fear in hers and blood pouring from her nose and no amount of apologizing could unbreak what I had broken.
she kissed me and told me she still trusted me and it made me remember all the ****** noses that i had once forgiven with similar ease.
So i told her i was thinking of moving to oregon and that work was getting busy and that i would wash and return her tupperware before she left in case it was a while before i could see her again.
i hugged her at her car
and she held me for too long
like she didn't even notice all the sharp things where my skin was meant to be.
i spent the next six months
bleeding venom and avoiding handshakes.

And I don't mean to say that I am violent,
Because I am not,
I do not yell
Or degrade
Or intimidate,
I never sleep punched anyone else before or since,
I would never hit a friend or a lover while awake. I only wear spikes to make people think before they touch me, I am all flight or freeze. But violence is not the only way to hurt someone you love. Shutting down or running away can break a heart too and blood all looks the same when it's drying on your hands no matter where it comes from. So now I try to protect the people I love from everything dangerous, including getting too close to me.


i keep a knife in my pocket most of the time,
but on days when my body remembers in the present tense,
i take a knife from the kitchen block instead.
i cut up limes and sweet potatoes,
drown out the sirens in my head
with bubbling water and simmering oil.

i'm still learning what love looks like,
and i am so tired of breaking,
and maybe this is why every time i see someone beautiful i fantasize about building them a house,
maybe this is why i make soup.

i am only easy to love
on the days when love is not a life raft.
i have never been afraid of fire
but i am frozen earth
full of ancient seeds,
already there are new green things pushing up through cracks in me
and i worry that if the ground were to thaw,
softer things might take root,
and i am afraid that anything delicate might not survive in me.

It's not that I am wholly unable to love recklessly,
I run whole body into the ocean every time i see her,
emerge breathless and invisible and singing praises to nobody at all but the stars.
The last time I wanted to die, I took an overnight bus to the ocean. I held my breath and dipped my whole body beneath the surface of the sea,
tried to practice drowning but instead,
by mistake,
fell in love all over again with the waves and the moon and the stars,
All the beautiful things too big and too powerful for me to hurt accidentally.
I am a soft foolish thing,
All alive and longing.
I have loved fully
What I always knew I could not hold,
My tiny heart so full of moon and sea
And every mountain
That every place is now both a home
And not.

I am not as afraid as I used to be,
I have done a lot of therapy,
And maybe one day I will sleep next to somebody breakable without feeling guilty.
And I think maybe one day,
I will trust myself enough to love the softest things that love me in the fearless way I love the ocean.
And I don't know when that day will be,
Or whether you will stick around long enough to find out,
but i do know that i want you always to be warm and full of good things,
so in the meantime,
If you want it,
I made you some soup.
Delton Peele Dec 2021
The midnight
Hung quiet and tensions rising .......
eery, slithering an
Crawling .....
Through the thickets ..... So slow ..... So
Very very slow
.......
Feel the tickling from the sweat ...
Trepidation sets in.....
Only  I mean only .........
When noise is being made by them ....
Shall I move
Then
×{[STOP]}×
.....
When the crickets stop.
Fickle.
F-N
Snitches
.....
C.I.'s
You loose sight
Hearing
..Intensifies..
Fear when it's used right
Will help you ...survive ...
If you're being hunted
Eye see by .hearing .
And not
.

. Hearing .
I see what I'm hunting
And when I give my word
And I put it on my skin
Look you in the eye.
It's no longer a promise ring my friend
It's backed by blood love .
There is no fear on this earth
That I have ever seen
That disturbs
....
Which is  
The predator
I become
When
I'm called
On it .

Flip the switch I'm gone
I
Animal
Eyes black
Hackle
Up
Hind legs twitch
I can taste the air.
And when I savour the piquant
Salty flavour of twilight glistened
Terrified
Sweat....
I'm close enough
Feal the pink
Heat signature of your breath.
And when I slowly lower my head in you general direction
My lips pursed and nose sneared  .....
Picking up  aromatics like
A dog picking up pheremone
Messages from the
***** in heat opening my eyes and they have a far off
Sleepy
..
..Glassy  gaze..
Grinch like smirk
One tear
On the front of the well over taken by the swell
Accidently
escapes
From  the empathy
Part
Of me
Petitioning
The executioner
( The inner me that governs
The right or wrong)
((In the event the circumstances
Prevent
Clemency
And stay of execution
Withdrawn ..
The inner me has the ultimate
Group
Of professional
Psychologist,
A "ta die for"
Debrief sanctuary
And a team of
Rational ends to meet the needs
And justifiers
To make things
Be
Just as if I never committed my....
Er things  
I mean never done a thing !

Because the
Governor stepped down
( Again the inner me)
LET THE GAME
CONTINUE
.....
:
One tear
Breaches
Then hesitates
As if to look back and say
C'mon it's ok  ,
Let's go ....
As it travels past the cheek
Gets
hooked and pulled past the nose like a venturi
Stops confused on the upper lip .
And defuses into nothing
Changed
Nothing
.
I hide further back into
Happy places in my mind
Because
That  streak of
Saline
Left sparkling in the twilight is sadly evaporating
....
The natural order of things
Steps in
Removing
It
To see this through
That one tear
One tear ....
From the heart and backed by a sea...
Was your last advocate
And the last
Lost trace
Of my humanity
One
Just one
Just.....
.....
WAIT
.....
.....
..
.
.

.



.




HE
HhhhhhhhhH
.



Had one word for me......
No.....
Wait
What happend

Owe wow
This started with an analogy
Like poetry
Or my stupid attempt at it..
I got too  into it and although it ends like a confession

It's not.

K.


YOU HAVE MY WORD ON IT.


Ok I am sorry...
I'm off on
Side bar your....
  Now on with the memory ......
Er .....
Um

Poetry?

So those stupid little
Simple fickle
Insects
On your side
There to help  
keep  your word
Then turn coat and
Turn into rats
And tryin  flush you out...

Those creepy things all over me
In my hair
So so so
Very difficult...
On the cusp of
im·pos·si·bil·i·ty
Staying quiet in the blackberry's bleeding
Cuts and puncture marks leaking
CCHHHSSST
YA WE THINK HES UP IN THE BOULDER FIELD ....
OVERCCCCHHHST
K
DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHOURISED...CCCCHHHST
...........
...I ..KNOW .....
I * CCHHHHST*

FLOOD lights being all chauvanistic
Accosting
The night
Ogling her privates
The sweats stinging blood drying .
Bugs down  my pluggers creepily up my inner thigh ...
...
Some one with a really nice ****** rifle acting all "eyes on me "sayin  loudly
Hey cap cmere I think we found something
!!!!!
This is the needle hole
I need !!
These rookies think there in a movie

..mabe they'll make one out of me...
Kidding ...
Kinda
Anyway ...
Focus I gotta move quickly and silently  
One chance ....
One

Just
...
The commotion  
Bristling
Is ........ like the comforting sounds that loom from the kitchen on through the living room .
Sizzling bacon
And Saturday morning cartoons.
The noise they make is my cover
To escape..
Ants...
I think
Atleast I hope these are ants and ......
Not .. spiders
No theyr not
They can't be.
I

Would

Freak

The

F..k
    

Out
!
K
...
keep going in my ear and up my nostrils
I turn quickly.
20 maybe 30 feet  
Across a  half light opening
And there's the sorta slow part of the river .....
The.............
Ice melt ....
And 1/4 mile the **** ...
An  

Turbines....
And the ****   lights ... An  
The 300 foot drop .


An ..
Giant maelstrom's .

As I turned to take of my shirt and slither out the blackberry patch
A large overly crusted with stickers
CANE.
grabbed my cheek poked my ...Eye. .
My body. Has no plans on being shot and cares not for accessories
I can live with the loss of an eye or scar's
Keep moving
Me on the other hand I'm still trying.......
Owe my head tilting tryin to get out the way..
Owwwwe....
Bit..
Get out the way ......
Owee wait I got a big one sinking into my lip..
Wooooe slow the role one second

Got one in my throat .
Then snap crackle ....snap
Like having 35 fish hooks in ya..trying to run and be quiet at the same time ....
I hit the river
And
O m G
I'm a pink quivering quiet crock ...
No body heard

No body saw ..
...I'm ...just....
SSSSKKKRRRT
baby Huey
The  assault rifle guy .
In the river puts a warm Glock against my ear ...
Kinda felt good actually ..
I put my hands and back feet down into the river bed .
Stop floating...
Wrapped my hand around a big rock ...
And slowly reached for my knife.....
He motioned me with ******* pointing to his eyes then to mine then back and forth as if saying I caught you.. .
I am predator
You prey
I got you
You submit
You understand
You see me
I see you  see me
You understand this is it ......
And motioned me to stand an turn around.
I complied  when I locked my fingers behind my neck .
He hit me in the kidney
Put his knife to my throat ....and quietly I felt my legs warming ....and I shivers
Allot a things
He said to me
One thing
Just one word

Just one

Just


. .

.

He said ....


Goodby
.....

And loosed his grip
Watch me float
Crying
.....
....


Wana know why ......


Maybe.


Some day

Maybe
Don't be like
Dennis Willis Jul 2022
Combinatorials of aromatics
defenestrations of passings
can you smell them leaving
this pronage this patron age
descending from upending
I am arranged by mr chaos
He hangs out with mr coffee
Trip over me and fall down
onto infinite is dom to find
Gypsy Dec 2020
This moment of awakening
That eternity lost to us
Lights up my abyss
Quarrels with the world
The sacred aromatics of filthy education
Grumbling Beggars, Artists, Scoundrels
From that same desert - the ghoul kings of life
Exempt from all morality - nurtured with lies
Bury my imagination
A precious flame - returned to the soil
All those noisome memories
The hissing of the fires - fading

Gypsy

— The End —