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I look at all the boney people.
I look at all the boney people.

Ellanor Twigby
Picks up the rice in the church where her wedding has been;
Lives in a dream.
Waits at the window,
Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door.
Who is it for?
All the boney people, where do they all come from?
All the boney people, where do they all belong?

Jenny McCraigsie
Writing the words of a sermon that thick ones will fear;
Don't have a beer!.
Look at her schlocking,
Selling snake oil to lonely dysmorphic out there.
What does she care?
All the boney people, where do they all come from?
All the boney people, where do they all belong?

I look at all the boney people.
I look at all the boney people.

Ellanor Twigby
Died in the church and was buried alone with her name.
Nobody came.
Jenny McCraigsie
Counting her cash with her hands as she walks from her grave.
One less drone slave.
All the boney people, where do they all come from?
All the boney people, where do they all belong?
dj Sep 2012
I am counting twelve pairs of ribs lining the perimeters
of my torso
Boney Me
Asthenia fingers
Wasted knees and knuckles
Pricking the hard chords on my chest-guitar
Misery eyes -- Dashing around in dustbin sockets
My head like a raisin with skull-shaped framing
****** inward
Looking at the dead animals guilting me
Looking at the withering plants begging for water
Evil food.

Attracted to the mirror
I know only this
Only what I see -- And I see a sow.

Lost in this possibly regrettable movement
Towards
Skeletons
Boney Me
Looking at the evil food
I tell it that I hate it and that it will never be me

I tell it I want to be like the flossy ones on magazines
Thin to skinny to boney
Boney me smoking an e-cig
I defeat the evil foods tonight
Surviving on primal back-up spirits
Surviving for the hope of closeness
Maybe
I can waste away all this skin
And finally see my own heart.
Madisen Kuhn Aug 2013
I'd rather have scars on my cheeks
   And a crooked nose and
Bad skin and boney hips
   Or boring eyes and boring hair and a boring mouth
And someone tell me
   “You’re beautiful,”

Because I’d know they meant
   I am beautiful in the way that I talk,
In the way that I listen, in the way that I love,
   In the way that I am

Than have

   Pretty lips and pretty teeth and
Pretty hair and a pretty nose
   And ignorantly believe
That being beautiful in the way that I look
   Is enough.”
Joel A Doetsch Jul 2012
There once was a blues man
as skinny as could be
who went by the moniker
of Boney Bones Dupree

He was the worst singer
I ever had heard
sounded like an alley cat
who done choked on a bird

His guitar wasn't tuned
it whined and it wailed
as he struck it with a
sharp and rusty 'ol nail

His teeth were yellow
his eyes were gray
his hair looked like
stray bits of hay

Still people came
from miles around
to listen to his music,
his haunting sound

He danced on the stage
in jaunty puzzle steps
you could hear the *****
comin' off of his breath

He'd scream one verse
until his face'd turn red
then he'd whisper the next
while he stood on his head

He'd jump up and down
and slam his guitar
throw the **** thing
right over the bar

Then he'd look to the crowd
and playfully smile
and thank us for
sharing his crazy awhile

After taking a shot
and waving goodbye
he went and jumped
back into the sky

He painted those evening
clouds with delight
as we watched him
sail off into the night

Outta sight.
An internet meme told me that this was my blues name.  I'm one crazy SOB.
Liz And Lilacs Nov 2014
His scaly skin slides across my tender flesh.
I never wanted this, but I asked for it.
His boney hands pull my hair
as his skeleton fingers slide across my delicate lips
and force their way inside my mouth.
"Hold your tongue, girl. Protestation will do you no good."

I close my eyes in desperation, waiting for the end.
Above me, below me, in me, I feel him.
Bruises blossom, dark beneath my ivory skin,
He feels no need to be gentle with a girl like me,
A girl who would sell her soul and body to survive.
The demon takes his pleasure and leaves his mark, ensuring his swift return, for his prey can no longer hide.
Shelby Apr 2019
death bursted into my room tonight
awakening a deep slumber
outstretching a cold boney hand
as if offering for me to go with him

I felt no fear or sadness
I have been waiting for death to greet me
I have admired him from afar
a lover who took no chance in courting me
Until he was ready to give me an embrace
That could be defined as loving and warm
but it was sinful and alluring

flickers of sparks in his eyes
ignited a fire in my soul
a passion that I had longed for
as my hand grabbed onto his
he pulled me close in the middle of the room

he began to dance to the tune
of our heartbeats synchronizing
a beautiful symphony rang love in our ears
craning his neck
he leaned in close
inhaling the shakiness of my breath
moonlight illuminated the poison dripping
from his puckering lips
as an offering to taste
what afterlife was

it held soft undertones of an earthy aftertaste
but an overpowering intoxicating sweetness left me hungry
for just one more dip
in his suicidal serenity

moving in one fluid motion
sweeping behind me
a boney hand placed on an unclothed forearm
slowly slid up my shoulder
as another arm was placed around both hips
he pressed himself tightly against me
icy breath grazed across my neck
making hairs stand up on my arms
as a moan escaped between closed lips
he whispered a seductive I love you
as he tucked hair behind my ear

the words I longed to hear
were met with a sharp knife
placed in open hands
and a crooked smile
spread across his face
it was at that moment
I came to the realization
to become his fully
my beautiful souls light
must burn out
to match his souls decayed state

no persuasion was needed
I longed for this moment
now the time was finally right
steady right hand raised
the elongated blade
"together forever..."
death breathlessly whispered
as a swift motion
punctured my abdomen
breath was taken out of my lungs
knees buckled
as death dropped me to the floor

tears of bliss flowed from my eyes
staining mascara streaks on flushed cheeks
I peer around the room to greet my lover
in another embrace with my final breaths
but im alone
left with a bloodied knife in hand
but this forbidden passion of a deaths dance
was only used to take ones soul
not give it the life it craved
laughing through the flood of tears
not even in death was I loved
Albert had an ARTHRITIC knee
which gave him curry

The core of a BOIL is oft hard
to extract

Yesterday June experienced
a server stomach CRAMP

Too much dry weather
can cause the outer DERMAL layer to peel

Never read in a poorly lit room
for you'll have EYE strain

After eating spicy pickles
dad had bad FLATULENCE

Some twenty eight years ago
my friend Helen had her GALLBLADDER removed

They say that a glass of water
will stop HICCUPS

From end to end
our INTESTINAL tract is thirty foot long

On Sunday afternoon John
broke his JAW playing football

Some people have
very boney KNUCKLES

One of my work colleagues
is prone to getting LARYNGITIS

Colin suffers terribly
with MIGRAINE headaches

Sometimes people tend
to endlessly NAVAL gaze

A woman's OVARIES need to be checked
on a regular basis for any abnormalities

The PANCREAS secrets a hormone
known as insulin

QUININE once was extensively used
in the treatment of Malaria

Since my sister has put on weight
she cannot find her RIBS

The STIRRUP bone lies
within one's ear

Dan Aykroyd the famous comic star
has webbed TOES

Should you bump your ULNA bone
it may give you reason to groan

The VARICOSE VEINS is great aunt Ruby's legs
were very pronounced

Does anyone know of a good remedy
for unsightly WARTS

At our local hospital
we have an antiquated X-RAY machine

As tiredness and weariness sets in
one YAWNS quite a lot

****** ZOSTER can make
a person constantly itch
Aztec Warrior Sep 2016
“Heaven”**

cool jazz smooths out the day
as a blue haze swirls
around the tables;
the sax played around
with your long legg’d sway
as you near’d the table
and handed me a very *****
***** martini
with a wildly wonderful
red lip’d smile.
how could I resist;
it was like the fusion
of cool, smooth melody
of Boney James’ soprano
with the hard edged notes of
Coltrane’s alto
and I was entangled
within your sensual flair.

as I pulled you closer,
my fingers playing in your hair,
I saw the universal twinkle
of shooting stars
in your eyes
and my heart beat
beat
beat
in tune with
“In A Sentimental Mood”.

the smooth jazz mellow’d
out in a gin joint haze
and we sway’d
in and out of a shifting phase
of warm lips
and a raspberry scented daze
as we moved closer
into this ****** craze
of my syncopated fingers caressing
your lemon-vanilla scented
piano flavor’d skin.
key strokes gently
ease into me
and the music of “Fallin”
eats me like air.
not in piece by piece delights,
but as a ravishingly
lustful whole.

and I find
“I’m falling in and out
of love with you”.

but helplessly, I find
I’m still in a sentimental mood
as my dream catcher
knows I love the silky,
cool jazzy feel of you.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 8.27.16
Note: there are references to several songs
and musicians in the poem. The title is a song by Boney James
found in his album “Ride”. The musicians are Boney Lames,
John Coltrane, Alicia Keys, and Dr. John.
.....thanks for reading... Eliot says I can't do 3 links... sorry... you will have to look them up yourself...
kirk Nov 2018
Fat arses are so squeezable, big bums I rather like
So amplify your cellulite, and step up to my mic
Pins may shake and quiver, if I can score a strike
A Fat **** has more stability, to park my mountain bike

You may prefer a slender girl, with a bottom that is sleek
And fatter girls are not for you, or not what you would seek
Some little arses can be cute, but I want that extra cheek
I need some chunky piece of ****, to reach my ****** peak

I don't want a boney lass, who wears a leather mini
A larger girl I'd rather have, than a woman that is skinny
Imagine a great big ****, bulging out from a tight pinny
Bear arses are acceptable, just look at that Pooh Winnie

Size twenty dress would be fine, but better times by four
With Something to grab hold of, that would thrill me even more
Bigger bums and fatter thighs, that take up the whole floor
Squelching fat I would enjoy, I don't want a thin girl cure

Thin sticks maybe preferable, those girls shaped like a rake
Stupid ****** I don't want, or **** that could be fake
Fat ladies have more bounce, and they will never brake
I don't mind some extra skin, that's sweating like Swan Lake

Larger woman are more fun, they have a wetter gape
There's more to love per square inch, WOW what a body shape
Smother me with all you've got, a complete body ****
I wouldn't be like Steve McQueen, and try The Great Escape

I'm interested in BIG thrills, but I don't want silk or lace
It's certainly a worthwhile trip, if it's shoved in the right place
Delving into the unknown, well I'm not sure that's the case
You know exactly what you'll get, with fat arses in your face

A nice thin *** is okay, but sometimes they're quite drab
Even if your figure's slim, I'd want more **** to grab
I'd rather have a bit more fat, which includes dimples and flab
If your offering your fat ****, call me a mini cab

Excursions during twilight hours, to avoid the daylight sun
I prefer to be in stealth, I'll be on the midnight run
It doesn't matter how large you are, even if you weight a ton
Fat arses I will always grab, now wouldn't that be fun

There's nothing wrong with pertness, so this I will announce
But doesn't a nice fat ****, have extra pounds per ounce
With more to grab and more to squeeze, and definitely more bounce
Big cats scratching for more meat, will always make me pounce

If you are not good looking, and you look like a pig
I'll forgo your outward looks, as long as you are big
Bare your *** in front of me, and give me the gig
You can reach your Top Gear, with a helmet like the Stig

With a *** like the Grand Canyon, I wouldn't want to pass
Mammoth mountains of pure fun, as i lay in the grass
A women laid across the world, with a big fat ****
I'd try extreme obesity, if it's open wide and sparse

So take advantage of me, and let your **** end loose
I'm a man who likes em big, without being too obtuse
Use your fat for basting, and I'll give your **** a goose
We could do well with a good game, according to old Bruce

You may like slimmer ladies, but come on now you gents
A bums a *** after all, so stop sitting in the fence
If you would try a fatter ****, you wouldn't be so tense
Don't be a ******* plonker, you know that it makes sense

Thinner lovers may change their mind, and not think fat is vile
It's just a different point of view, depends on your own style
For that deeper piece of crack, I'd go that extra mile
I don't think a fatter ****, is bottom of the pile

Maybe you don't share my views, but there's something I can teach
A plumper *** would be great, that is within your reach
Succulent cheeks that you can grasp, your hands could have one each
Even James gave it a go, because he had a Giant peach

The perspective of a chunky ****, an amazing smile and crack
That's the exciting view you'll get, when your stood round the back
Its great to feel you way around, when everything's pitch black
You'll find it an experience, if you are right on track

A nice *** I wouldn't mind, so come on where's your *****
Bigger cheeks I can't resist, theres no need to get me drunk
I wonder if the girl next door, has some lovely feeling chunk
Enticement is my spice of life, cos I'm not a ******* monk

To like a larger lady, well It's not classed as a sin
Shallow men may only like, a girl that's really thin
Just because our clientele, are not shaped like a pin
Fatter girls have twice to give, it's like loving the same twin

Some fellows might think I'm blind, and need a pair of glasses
You can leave the lights on, cos I don't think fat is classless
Flash your **** at the back door, and you won't get any passes
Tables and sofa's can be used, to display your great fat arses
Roc Rose Jan 2015
I lay a blanket over my head
Darkness around my bed
My soul empty
Thinking
Lurking my mind
Threw space & time
Thinking
Who am I
These words
That's just going to be kick down
The curb...
Thinking
Sleeping in my ***** jeans
With my boney knees
Thinking
Love will take turns
For a lesson to be learn
Thinking
Money is unity  
But really its nothing to be greedy
Thinking
One race one love one us.
Mix race maybe a new blood to bate in
Thinking
Not coming home until these
Dreams (devils) get bored
But I got to say.
Thinking...
Thinking...
Thinking...
Too many moons but I am one man
On my way...
Alexandra Askew May 2014
The tender warmth
Small kisses, just a taste?
Warmth begins to singe
Soft safety holds you down
Tearing at flesh
Grit, sand, dry- all overwhelm the senses
Skin peels away
Muscle burns to ash, blowing away in the wind
Skeletal contraptions, lurking.
Only one left.
Ribs cage what words could not
Concrete and cold
Nothing to Nothing.
Eh lol
Donna Bella Jul 2014
I gave in
They yell at me
They call me boney
They call me a anorexic
They tore my heart
But this toilet healed it
They knocked me down
They told me to die
They said I'm no good
But my mama tell me to eat more because honey you're getting smaller!
How can you stand tall when the world shuns you down?
Donna Mar 2018
She rocked back and forth
in her rocking chair tapping
her boney fingers

Laughter she could hear
coming from the next room , her
wrinkles smiled a smile

She looked out window
To a meadow of flowers
Sheep nibbled the grass

An old fence of knocked
down trees safely surrounded
her sweet home coming

In far background a
grey sky loomed keeping distance
As she knew the score

Pain slept in her heart
Sometimes waking in teardrops
Rolling down her cheeks

Yet happiness she
knew well as the spring sun grew
flowers in her heart

'sweet love of hers how
she misses his soft gentle
touch of loveliness'

O her heart was a
pretty garden , her veins like
ripples in ocean

Her bones colour of
daytime, her blood colour of
the fading sunset

Her old worn sandals
Full of many memories
Good ones and bad ones

Her children adults
Families of there own to
fend for..to cherish

Tiny peas on a
plate like a forest of trees
Shining through the dark

As she rocked back and
forth she knew time would stop for her aging soul

To collide back with
her love , back into his big
warm cuddly arms

Where together they
would walk off holding hands , just
like they did in life
Playing with words I really enjoy making up short stories :)
Sam Hamilton Jan 2014
I saw the smooth hands of children grow calloused,
sanded by the empty hopes
that the cold has whittled down and sharpened into crucifixion nails.  
Dragging their feet through broken glass and street waste, one shoe one sock,
I thought they were just urban children, or the ones
in malaria countries. But I see them stagger now, older, defeated
baring their bodies and chewing on their brains, teaching the little ones
how to polish shoes and hide in alleys that smell like **** and assault.
That one looks like me, his guardian about my size, so I pull my coat closer.
I recognize him from school in the smell of unwashed hair and the gurgle of
A self-digesting gut, nothing to soak up the acid that burns his throat.

I watched the world ******* them into hunched shoulders and boney legs
that have forgotten how to hug and run, trapping them in a constant state of shuffling
to the music of moans and cries for help. They come together in an urchin clan underneath bridges and on the exit ramps of highways.
Prophets of the future clutching at signs about war and veterans, the bad economy and the children they can’t feed.
Ten dollars to the one with the mut. Offer him a smoke.

Politicians act like clean-up crews, counting them like statistics;
This one is gone, the one on Brown street died,
We got rid of the one looking for cans in the student neighborhood.

Charity elevates them into a an opportunity—
A little money to the unfortunate is like bleach for your soul. Just enough
to get the smell of affair out of your hair, or to clean up the poison in your veins.
God helps the outcasts; five dollars ought to do it.

I shudder at our similarities. Brown hair, brown eyes, smart.
His sign ignores no rules of grammar and deserve credit for its precise calligraphy,
The dog at his side is ***** and worn like the stuffed toy
I covet from the nights in my crib—the same. He is a victim of people, I am a victim of people
Both someone’s child, both like dogs.
I watch as he turns into a younger man, and then an old man, and then a woman,
A child with no shoes and crucified hands, the boy in my class with eyes that devour.

I walk home, wondering what kind of charity will save me from myself.
And that is the problem.
midnight prague Dec 2010
speak about a girl who faced decease
after walking blistered in the woods of tall alabaster skeletons
moving they're boney jaws up and down very slowly speaking to my smallest phys- co
they stand like brute columns
taller and wiser than the willow
skinny torture chambers of sick delight
slithering words leak like snakes who hold
a richer venom in this life
they bite and leave open sores
those sores are were the orchids leak out
fluttering down her skin so softly
you can hear the pedals opening in the still calm
she closes her eyes and smiles
while giving birth to the entities
that plague the very ******* dirt under her short nails
those flowers created a whole new beauty in me
the images grasped so tightly in my mind
but never again for my compassionate eyes to see
her body a inferno
where she places gargoyles on her boney shoulders
my loved ones, beckoning to me on my white altars
they say, hush hush
we shall not speak aloud of the murders
the dispensful ones she sweats out on hot summer days
she moves on
always
but then theres days that settle like tight tunnels
almost impossible to get through
so I starve myself so that I dont suffocate within them
so that I may get to the end
the light, and the start of a new day
but I come out weak,starving,and heavy with dismay
time and time again she faces the rather
mortal creature of her responsive
yet mute sanity
figured with the parents of all her young ones
childrens memories
ebbing like purified water
cleansing everything but that ***** mind
young ***** girl
with a white heart
stuffed into this suffocated box
that she burried underneath that one tree
in front of her house when she was only 7 years old
shes heard it time and time again faintly
somewhere in the wind, blabbering the brittle words
please come find me
but she goes on with her life
not finding the time or courage
and ignores that sorrowful plea
Bill murray Jul 2015
Dig the ditch
Dig daddy bonegrave
Got grandpa to itchy itch,
Bonedaddy bonegrave.
niche of red hicky hiccup hitch
Bonedaddy bonecave
Grandpa with his hitchy hitch
Dig the big,
Bone daddy bone cave
Slight salty pinty pinch
Bonedaddy salt save,
Digging the diddy ditch
Bonebegger begbones.
dj Apr 2012
A head
A giant boney mass
Many mouths and eyes
           thoroughly babbling,
           whatever,
           etc.
Snapping and blinking
Mouths Melded together on this ultra cranium
Yapping on and on
On and on and on
Yellowed teeth and bedazzled grills
Botnet mods and crop tools

The most dastardly of all -
An infinite production of fuzzy,
Buzzing noise blobs.
And Attempts to add me
To its mass connection-collection head
Leave me offended.

"What's on your mind?"

Go away.
You ******* freakazoid.
My affections for the grande webpage~
SøułSurvivør Apr 2016
the
human mind
is like a shell
the outer form
remembered well

hard and white
with boney tips
pink and smooth
around its lip

whorled within
subconscious hides
we cannot see
the deep inside

but place the conch
to your heart's ear
be very still
and you will hear

set it there
and let it be
you will perceive
your mind's own

sea


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/8/2016
good morning/afternoon/evening
to you folks worldwide!

It's beautiful here in Southern Arizona
The bushes are adorned in
Little crystal globes
From the rain last night

The sun shining through is a
wondrous sight!

Thanks for reading!
Stroke the boney-smooth
boney smooth

Clean

The further West we go,
the further Right to the beginning

Cleansed

clenched fists
angry thoughts, centered on...

Caucasian

???

...the fluttering

shaking

Turner it around,
Merry-Go-Round

skin stretched tight
muscles, display

On the Farm with Ole MacDonald
I live

<radio>

Storm on horizon, lightning split the air,
thunder crack the night now,
'Cause we're always there.
You know Eight Owl's sittin'
stand in a council everywhere?
Forget your hopes see the future now,
Aryan teeth are bared.


I drive past a sign for Trump.
Absent Minded Apr 2010
Christian0 and Juanita

A Single Act: Three scene script by Chris Chance- April/May 2010

Prologue:

There love took place over a decades  time on the island east of Manhattan and in the valleys between the northern tip of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Tuscarora Ridge of the Southern Pennsylvania Appalachians.

He- no saint at all, felt in his heart a hero but ultimately hid behind svelte armor that protected him from a fickle and judgmental world.

She- a creature worthy of the lead lady in a classy novel- pure and once so very innocent. Statuesque and of absolute sense- commanding her world but building high walls around her red heart as she went.

The fields spoken of in this tale were accurately planted and lovingly nourished long ago and they still grow, multiplying their essence year to year. What great hope the author holds in his blue heart for their harvest. What great hopes he has for us all.

It is understood that the sins of the original garden have heft upon us, as a civilization a life of confusion, doubt and pain. It is with faith that one carries on believing in the goodness of a divine creator and master of all that you know.

Said in this story, it’s believed that he or she, the divine that is lives in two places simultaneously.

First; among the stars painted in the style of Rembrandt meeting Picasso, laughing the way Chaplin must daily at the absurd nonsesilogicalness of it all, crying like the poor ******* who’s let his whole future slip through his foolish little fingers.

And the Divine, the great source of energy in the universe also lives in a certain part- or nook - or cranny- of all things that breathe and/or return with the spring.

It is the voice you hear right now in your boney skull. It's the feeling you get when you forgive. It is the obligation you have to reach up and hold steady your fellow man.

As the author of this tale drops to his knees seeking guidance from that hidden, divine and breathy spiritualness he silently cries out in his pain.

A pain he never knew existed. He’ll silently ask to be prayed for now
and at the hour of his death.


Act I Scene I:

She could snare me in a trap by my ***** and hang me to the cherry tree. Yet my love for her wild flower remains – growing stronger- gathering and harboring the strength of welded tycoon steel.

This love you see- is no ordinary love.

It’s a love of passion and flame but one that culminates with no possible conclusion.

This love does not merely flow - but in actuality rages deep and wide- flowing so deep and so wide that the queen herself could traverse it in comfort.

And now alas, her love.

The love of ours- alone, no longer vast enough in its capacity: to carry on.

And it shall be furthermore, that I now- and I alone: will carry the weight of our time spent as one.

Our time spent as one such as the sand and the sea- Spent as one just as the mountain and valley.

Spent as one the way the very soul itself: on its own palate- feels and tastes true, sweet-sweet love.

This love I feel built around me like a velvet dream, a love now burning footsteps in my ears and setting fire to the nether regions of my soul has been banished and broken. But against better judgment still beats in my senseless and tortured eyes.

And in my anguish, I berate myself with guilt and deeply scour avenues of the past- for better directions we might have chosen.

Alas and in the end- amidst tears of fallen dreams: all roads lead to you and where your heart began and where- your heart ended.

So I ask you, all of you that bear witness before me. Whose heart is it- that still beats true and free? And whose heart is it that beats dark as the stormy cloud.

Whose heart I ask?

Or better yet- a different conundrum of a similar variety.

Can any heart be free?

Free to consume its desire- whether the sun shines or not? Free to love and never to be forgotten. Free to breathe without the threat of mortality?

I challenge you my friends to define this- and to thoroughly answer my questions.

To see into my future: regardless of what must be seen and help me- please make me believe again. Make me in all my shattered and tired bones and aging skin truly, truly believe again.

To teach my sons that it is safe to love in this hard and ruthless world.
To see my love as better,  more pure- unscathed by the devilish nature of the standard human ego.  

To once and for all see love and all life- as hopeful and not bereft of commonality and truth. To see her again- my fair love.  Smiling the notion of a better tomorrow.

Act I: Scene II

Our sins derail us its true. Over time and a plethora of vanishing precepts we wash along the rocks liked laundry.

Shall we neatly and quietly burro underground in the neighbor’s green space, with fleeting air- void of light and color?

Should we swing by our necks from the orange groves it would be in vain as life is so precious and out there lays undeniable hope that there is more of life’s holiness to drink in with each passing storm?

Impossible. That is not who I am. This is not who I was. That is not who I will be.

So vanquished cries muffle in the night against vicious and angry winds and the low weeping moan is constant as I look ahead while looking backwards.

Wondering how from my grasp it ever slipped so far?

It all, each and every golden ounce slipped from my tongue in sorrow in truth I must say.  Unfiltered neurosis and faltering fear are guides that  will fail to bring you home safely.

Nefarious tides of anxiety and reflection blinded me- blinded me from the sun.

But yet still she knows or understands that the bird song of redemption is an actual place where hearts once emptied , now gather to refill that same heart with love again and again.

It is the wound of her life open, crying out and bleeding through her lonely eyes and ears. It is with shame that I admit my long standing ignorance and tardiness to the cause of her heart.

Now with the backing of angels I see the landscape and all its divine nature but yet I am unable to enter. Unable to rejoin the garden and fight a snake who speaks my unholy name off split tongue and evil notions.

Where, where my love is it that I should go from here after having come from there? Where shall I drink my clean water, where shall I rest my weary head?

And oh, the head of a sleepless and love sick man. Heavy with burden brought on by his own lack of mastery regarding the most important issue and god given task of them all, but as once ailed Mercutio in his quest for and of allegiance to Romeo. Time is of the essence.

When I lay my head it is in sorrow and the pain of real passion. Passion for remaining one as a quarter  that makes up a whole- such as the corners of the cross and the earth, air, water and fire itself in a single beating heart.

For  one hundred and eighty ****** and arrogant days and their resident risings of the sun I've been reborn- sworn to never let evil destroy good in my heart.

As you must do- you will do.  

But the tides that flow in my veins do not flow from you they flow from the divine, a divine that will protect me and forgive my trespasses as he’s surely forgiven me of mine on others.

It’s only the growing fields of our past love that concern me now. How will we harvest the wheat which together we’ve sewn? How will we slaughter and eat the meat of the heard. When will any of us drink the wine from the grapes we have grown?

The entities I’ve stated are my future and will remain  my future until arc angels guide me from this earthly tomb. The blood of our fields will reign supreme.

The harvest of our youth will produce.  Standing together or behind our backs- as we run from it. The bloom of our responsibilities as care taker of these lands will be upon us in time.

So as your heart sails to foreign shores I awake from my rage and see the sun, feel the air, breathe and seek guidance for my purpose. To continue to plow the field and fish the harbor while I settle for meager tastes.

May the work I’ve done. May the work we’ve done be a strong enough foundation for both fields to nurture, endure and produce.

And as you for my fleeting love: may the beans of your coffee be rich and plentiful, may your heart find its way back to where it once was- where ever that may be.

Between here and now, let the days shine upon you like spring light. Bathing you until your soul feels safe and fresh. Keeping you where you need to be to feel free.

But alas leave knowing that the flame I still hold- as I have from day one. For the mystic and mysterious love brought upon us by the three so many, many years ago.

How long that can burn, I know not: but as the skies bolster the heaven- my heart once black, has returned to life. To love you is all that there is. I will share my heart and tormented soul and every last breath I breathe until graying and dying days. For you and only you exist.

Act I Scene III:

The sun came out after a snowy and emotional winter but the air never seemed to warm through the long days of April.

And so in the absence of all that is left , we set off.  You, in the direction that I lived in for years and me in the direction that you lived for years.

Two lovers, one point, two stories. Proverbial ships in the night is what we are- and the passing simply destiny.

Oh but for how I will remember thee. The raven hair and olive skin, deep eyes batting only in such a way as to swell my heart, that equisite eyebrow raised in point, the witty acronyms of our secret family language.

The warmth of your parent’s hearth and the surrounding family. A safe and wonderful place to even a man such as I, who took it sorely for granted along with the other neighboring fields planted and stamped with our communication, our love, our example.

Time is a tempting and vicious confidant, one that will surely lead you astray and bring mischief and havoc to your very door step.

Tread lightly if you dare to tread at all in love. Hear the heart you rest against, listen to the subtle tick tock of its rhythm. Hold a stone as it were a diamond, train the mutt as a pure bred champion, shape your mud as if it were the finest of all clays from the earth.

The whistling train only passes through the station once. Get on get off, make up your mind – change your mind – ignore your mind. Look into your heart and soul then move forth.

To where it is you should be.

Where it is you’ll be forgiven and nurtured even more revered than ever before. A place so familiar you might even call it home.  A bed so all knowing that it could only be ours. A life so new it could never be as it was.

Know this before you part my love, know that I am true: as I say- is as I pray. But your choice is your choice and yours alone: to rise or recede.

My heart pines like the losing persona in an old film. For I see the sun rising. Shining and setting in your eyes.

I see the fields as they grow under watchful eyes, I hear the wind begging us to move but I stand grounded upon all that is pure and sanctimoniously holy. Definitively tattered- but braced firmly at the center of the storm.

Waiting for the love we loved, Once. The love that we may squander if we have yet to do so already.  A love that can be repaired and grow larger and more consuming then ever imagined.

A love never to slip from my grasp again.

Narrative Ending:

So the fella in this case is condemned to be a shepherd without his flock. Sending signals by smoke along the telephone wire to complete the rendering of the fields. With mercy on his side- may he succeed in the light of the world relentlessly embittered in the dark?

Or will all in life just as after a close death, quietly move on?

Completing revolutions of the sun: that fiery ball of light, wider than the distance from here to Mars and back, with us random like ebbing and flowing on the tides lengthy pull of the moon?

Or is the strength to muster what one wants, really possible?

Can he climb the highest mountain? Could his faith be tested in lava like pits of hell? Can his heart be branded clean after so much life?

And what of her beating heart?

What of her search to dissolve the fears of her own making? How has her beauty helped or failed her. How will she look herself in the eye?
How long must I day dream of meandering through a sweet and enjoyable song with her one last time.

Unknown answers-

More unknown then I, as the player in this drama, would care or dare to admit, but hopeful ever more like the humming bird buzzing summer honeysuckle in rainy times- I shall remain.

I shall see the sparkle of her soul rent the eyes- if only for a time.
Taking both yonder to another space and time, where she’d admit she lied in vain fear and exasperation when she said:  surely she could find no love true and could simply offer no more.

When my flesh gives way to bone cover me in roses. Walk me out in the morning of your mind as a man who loved without knowing how to love.

A male clearly guilty to the highest degree, in any court, of any land: of being careless with a precious gift.

And sadly for the ones who have loved and lost- in the end  life offers only so many windows into the soul of a lover.
Christiano and Juanita a one act: three scene script by Chris Chance- April/May 2010
Scottie Green Apr 2013
In the midst of my carefree, self-indulgent weekend, pushing down smoke with every breath, and searching concrete floors for something to lift me gently from ground, I met a guy at Emo's yearly "stoners holiday" concert hosting a number of Dj's and a half performance from Devin tha Dude.
Standing at the bar, and pushing back elbows to try and get a chaser for the half bottle of whiskey I had left, two young men appeared in front of me. One with curly, sweaty, brown hair, an angled face at every edge, and dark begging eyes- like a child's eyes as they ask to have ten more minutes before bed. The next guy came up behind his friend's right shoulder. His presences was lighter, but I noticed his sun-blonde military haircut looking as soft as it probably felt. His eyes were a shy green, matching his tattered skater v neck, and his small smile.
Before the sweating, curly headed man standing in front of me could get any words out the blonde boy, with the light presence said that he wanted to show me something. With no time to respond, he pulled his hands from behind his back.

His left hand was missing his index finger, and the four remaining seemed disproportionally long. Like the legs of a tarantula became his boney fingers.
His right looked swollen. In my daze I don't remember if he had three, four, or five fingers on his right hand.
His thumb and pointer were swollen huge; his palm was convex it lifted upward and took to the sole of my hand when I shook it--like a hug.

I, regrettably, had let out a small yelp when I first saw them.

His right reminded me of the large Mickey Mouse gloves that kids purchase from small stands at Disney World, and I didn't at first think it was real.
It was the softest hand I've ever felt.

He said it didn't hurt, he was born that way with 1% of his DNA amiss, and he could write and do everything else.

He put his hands away--folded them back up underneath his arms against his chest.

We kept catching each other's eyes briefly before I let mine flutter to lose his gaze.
And I didn't know what to say as his friend spoke in the background of my thoughts to my best friend.

I had so much trouble looking at him the rest of the time. After seeing his dimly lit eyes looking like they were seeping with some need for reassurance.
It wasn't that I thought his hands were ugly, and I didn't have the normal flight feeling; wanting to get away from a random guy I met at 1 am.
I even thought he was cute; his surfer necklace, soft smile and his seemingly huggable personality.
I was scared that if I looked at him he would see the, most likely unwanted, pity seeping from my eyes too.

I wanted to apologize for my initial reaction, but didn't know how. I was so stuck in my thought process. I can't, for the life of me, remember his name.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/             conversation over a bbq dinner
being given the information
over a new M.I. movie..
i really think tom cruise
should have won an oscar for -
        born on the 4th of july...
without bias,
   but given the oscar award for
the grunting and heaving,
and minimal dialogue / monologue
of leonardo's the revenant?
the world is a cul de sac...
  and what remains of it...
is a shitshow worth, of a congested street
with nothing but, paupers /
            window-shoppers to be lined up;
mannequins coming alive
     and taking to disco dancing
the hell out of having donned
       a boney m afro;
                 drunk, squinty eyed...
   looking around, surmising my
                    thought with...            huh?!
it's a good thing i'm this good at
drinking, never having dropped acid.
Dianna Mar 2014
I feel
as if I am
a broken doll
in need of

repair and parts
Waiting for someone
to wind me up

Look at the many stitches
of my body
that keeps me together

Am I not Beautiful ?

My parched lips
Acheing
Each time I try to
smile

just look at my rib cage
and boney arms

That reach for you
And my starving heart

this empty hole
in my chest
I keep covered 

That craves
freedom

Will you fix me ?
Or at least
Try To

Help me

Do I mean anything
to you ?
At all Or am I

Simply just
entertainment

That's right
now that my music
has stop playing 

you toss me
back in to the box 
Along
with the other
forgotten toys 

That have been
long gone

Where my loneliness
plagues me 

And I sit in tears
Numb

With these
shadows 
hanging over me

watching
Pointing
&
Laughing

Until you decide
to take me out
again
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
a loop of spume immune to fumes of eastern tombs
a burnin‭'; ‬ a  mad flash of candied wrath
and junebug randy newman‭; ‬
what rumbles jest in vestments yet
to loom a knit or pearl two...‭ ‬a ****** crest
of ***** wrecks and rubber necks‭
to view you...‭
‬a nop of lopsy,‭ ‬
fever pitched in thicket rich begonia‭;
‬and roman roads
too golden
kicks
from hydro
in
your hedge
row.

a droop of noon in cool remove
from gypsum dim sum laude.‭
‬a drowning witch on boney creeks
of needles and salami.‭ ‬
untongued.‭ ‬a pool of fringe
rhymes with orange,‭ ‬
yes a door-hinge,‭ ‬
off it's moorings...‭ ‬
off it's Meds

death beds
for trampolines
in petrified forests...‭
a nop of lopsy,‭ ‬frogging Gatsby,‭
‬greatly famished to the Nines‭;
‬an olden toll of wish fits‭
then nothing
comes.

and that's
Life.
Lucky Queue Jan 2013
Beautiful piranha
Bare your teeth in a scheming grin
Pull back your harsh red lips
Flash your blue-green-gold coat of scales
Blood thirst blinding your eyes
White boney razor teeth gnashing,
Biting on empty space
Dart around your territory
With your cliques of similarly minded
Similarly equipped predators
Your body specifically designed
To be irresistible
To let you spot your victim,
****** them,
And go for the jugular
A little bag of bones and ***** skin crawls lackadaisically,
Looking every inch like a moving mass of biltong,
With one arm weakly clasped on the protruding belly,
Looks for somewhere to lie,
Some water tank explodes from inside of her,
Writhes in unimaginable agony,
Screams the screams of death,
Spreads her bony legs sickly,
Out comes an object,
Yes, a baby is born,
In extreme poverty,
It cries and cries,
The shallow cries of a newcomer,
It cries the cries of not being well,
It opens its tiny eyes to a new world,
A world extensively pregnant of poverty,
It dies in the weak sickly mother’s arms,
Veins-wrapped boney powerless arms,
The death of a missed call desperately wanted,
Ended before it even started,
In extreme poverty, it dies,
Just like it was born,
It is eaten by starving dogs,
Dogs in extreme poverty,
Perfunctorily torn apart like a rag doll,
As the mother helplessly watches,
Too weak to do anything,
Born and died in poverty.
R E Sadowski Feb 2013
My elbows feel damp today like they’ve been sitting in
Small pails of oil and someone forgot to tell me.
They feel drenched
Where if someone tried their very hardest to pinch the skin
I would feel no pain.
My only moment of invincibility.

My elbows are boney-
From my mothers side of the family
Like my toes are shaped like my fathers
And no amount of brightly colored nail polish will distract from that fact.
My hair is all my own and my eyes, a cinnamon mix
Caught between browns, yellows, and
Gluey waves of molasses.

But my elbows feel damp today
Even though its fall and skin likes to crack and break and shutter in the wind’s blue outrages.
But skin is only skin
And I didn’t die from scraping my knee on that branch hidden in the big vulnerable pile of leaves…

It’s fall. And leaves are caught struggling with
Conformity and peer pressure.
Their newly painted toenails scream out insecurity;  
Caught between greens, yellows, and
Cinnamon mixes.
Like gluey waves of molasses.

I bet some of those leaves have damp elbows too…
Loxlei Blaire Nov 2012
Knowing you, I am like a girl
                                  who willfully touches hemlock to her tongue.
For among the boney noose of pearls
                   strung up my spine,
                                 you, with hands that can hold
        both knives and violin bows
                                                leak a piece of air into the streams of my back
And I let you—I
                      let it fever its way around stringy tethers,
       up to the oven of blood in my head
                                                        whil­e you lick your lips (the moon pours out)
and I do not watch this
                                 because now I cannot even trample
         across floors of lemongrass  
                                or brace the line of my jaw for a tender fist.
The earth simply throws a plump tomato at my chest
                                               smirks simmering in its oceans  
                           but all I can do is fall there
                                                lay near  
                                                         ­   lose years
                                                                ­      expire here—
(the sodden match)
(the hot scoop of iced cream)
                               while the froth of my heart grows cold and colder.

So I can’t even smash your head                   (a skull I love)
                        into the wooden wall until it is as  
                                                            ­   soft as a boiled pomegranate.
          For my own flesh is a puddle of sputters on the kitchen table
                                                 ready for you to eat *(dine, my darling, dine!)
Tammy Cusick Jul 2013
I am not normal,
Therefore I shall never be right,
Every breath is a struggle
Every laugh is a fight,
The hand that feeds is the one I bite!

Maybe I finally snapped....maybe, just maybe I've already proceeded to die,
Lose my hope,
Disgraced my faith,
And began to lie 6 feet under.

Maybe, just Maybe that's why I did dope?
The way the needle played in my skin as it was held together by a rope?
I enject the poison I let loose,
Dangling with my first love above a noose.

As I shake the limestone from my gown,
The nurse with a couple of pills obstaining the paralyzed frown,
The walls are peach and the air smells like bleach,
How long was I on this path?
Who can I reach?!
I claw the walls with my boney nubs,
They peer and smerk in the tiny double plated window, to own its each and to each its own,
My lost child you are not alone.
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Standing on my beached heartland,
a few hundred thousand bleached granules of sand
trickle through thick slits in my hourglass hands.

The dry-stream sands my fingers to periosteum as
my head walks the neural gallows,
last lines on the tip of the tongue.

He was a runaway circus animal,
the theme I hunted in vain.
He was my solar eclipse, my waning moon, the coastline;
he was a garden, a sculptor, an elaborate stone trellis;
he was frightened, he was in love, a philosopher without a cause;
he was Michelangelo, Camus, Akhmatova, Kant, Blake and Crane;
he’s the executioner, the brief reflection of a solitary grain
sliding down the boney hourglass
as the blindfold does the same.
Jon Tobias Apr 2012
1
If unicorns were real
I can’t imagine much would change

I might own one
Get high on the finely chopped fibers of fur
Collected from his grooming

And when girls ask me how I came to be so sweet
I’d tell them how I was ***** once by my unicorn

How some sorts of sticky sweetness haunt your soul forever

2
In the second grade
I swore I had dinosaurs living in my backyard

This is after I swore that I actually had a backyard

Never mind the hand-me-down t-shirts
So big I often exposed a boney shoulder

I had the strangest tan lines then

3
Under my bed was a cave
Where the boogeyman taught me
I should be more afraid of my father’s feet at the entrance
And less afraid of things I could not see

In the shifting dark I could have been anywhere

Anywhere was somewhere
My father’s claws could still not get me

4
For the longest time I thought my grandmother’s ghost
Haunted me
I’d often wake to the smell of her musty home
Mixed with her perfume
and the sweet scent of the soft earth she often tended

Until one day I didn’t notice her anymore

Ghosts are the parts of the people we miss
When our stupid brains are still learning how to deal with loss

I’d like to say that once I finally stopped missing her
She was free to leave earth for heaven

I don’t believe in heaven

5
If god were real
And I could live forever by his side

I would still break everything
From bones to hearts

Because I can’t live for tomorrow
I need to live for today

6
As a man
I still tell stories in order to get people to like me

So
When my unicorn finally dies
Or majestically sacrifices himself
For my sake

I will grind him down to glitter
And unicorn glue
(Which is very strong)

I’ll make a sign so big you can see it sparkle from space

I was here *******

And this is how I will live forever
First line donated by Karen Morrison.
Graff1980 Nov 2014
“There is a bitter sting to reality, an unfairness to it all.” These words echo in the young boys ears. Holding what is left of his sanity, he traces the damage; rubbing the now forming bump on his forehead. Fingers circle the discolored flesh then press hard against it till he winces in a jagged remembrance.

He still feels the full force of her bible belt beating down upon him. Open hands smacking him with the made up words of her own book of revelations.

“And the dead shall rise. To feast upon the unclean. “She ranted.

Now, the yellow superhero tee comes off slowly enough. She has stretched the neck of his favorite shirt. Of course he is partly to blame. He never should have had a favorite shirt. He tries to swallow, but his nerves force him to take two swallows for one. The first one descends halfway down his throat.  Catching his anxious breath the second swallow finally goes all the way, followed by a trickle of blood.

“It is what it is.” He thinks.

With soft poet hands he pulls a different shirt from the closet. His brown hair slides messily from the neck hole as the red wool rolls gently over is sore skin providing a small degree of comfort. Then he put his long goofy looking brown and darker brown jacket on.

“I’m done” he mumbles to himself, as he stuffs his journal, sketchpad, the book he is currently reading, and an extra set of cloths in his black back pack.

The white window pane vibrates with October winds. He slides it open, shimmying over and out into the frigid autumn night. A shiver crosses his skin. Then he closes the window as quietly as possible to avoid any more drama. His sad eyes scan the night trying to decide which direction is the right way for him to run away in. With no indication of which way will work best for him he turns left and starts walking.

A mile down the road he stumbles upon the remains of a partly chewed up possum. Empty eyes point deeply into the pine forest. The moist matted fur almost matches the road’s color perfectly.  Dark dry stains mark the grey road. Chunks of slimy viscera lay displayed from the flayed features of the decomposing creature.

In the distance he hears the howls of teenage boys.
“A bunch of screaming fools ******* around,’ he thinks. “I don’t need this ****.”

So, he turns off the road and heads into the trees. Brown pine needles break under his feet. The soft forest bed gives slightly beneath his treads leaving little footprints. As he scans the ground he notices that the earth is swimming with strange footprints.

With a little daylight left he finds the perfect spot to stop. A tree plays backboard to his tense and tired frame as he sits down to rest.

His mind turns to dreams of love. A female figure fills his thoughts. She is dark and lights. Pale skin, leather jacket, with raven black hair that shimmers in the night sparkling with the energy of infinity. She moves with all the destructive grace of Kali. She is a frozen skin scythe less death; Hopes and wonders mixed in with nightmare prophecies. Doom pervades his soul. He feels perfectly alone with no hope.

Which means it is the perfect time to write a poem. One line flits past then the next till almost the whole page is filled. Then he rewrites copying and improving. Till two pages later he is finally fixing the finished draft.

With the last bits of daylight he completes the poem’s final lines. Shivering and exhausted he decides it is time to find a place to sleep. He packs his backpack with all the finesse of a ninety year ******* boy and heads out into the night.

Suddenly he senses something moving behind him. A shadow crosses his path. Panic seizes him. Shady black tendrils run across the ground followed by the sounds of strangers moaning. He runs. The moonlight flickers fast behind the fading pines as he quickens his pace.
He stumbles into a clearing where the ground is punctuated by broken stones and white marble dust. Small monuments stand marking the past. Somewhere slightly off to the side a Sepulcher sits as a testament to a hundred years of death.

“How perfectly macabre, I’m in a cemetery at night in the bitter cold.” He thinks

The earth shifts and swirls beneath his feet like quicksand. Losing his footing he falls backwards. The contents of his backpack scatter haphazardly across the disturbed dirt.

A thin hand pierces the brown ground. Then an arm makes its way writhing from the soil searching for something. Boney fingers feel around until they fall upon a pen and paper. The pen scratches furiously on the pad.

The young man stutters trying to make out the horrible handwriting.

“g-g-get of-f-f m-m-y head.”

The earth tremors beneath his feet, causing him to jump back in fear. Then a skull ascends. Empty sockets stare menacingly at him. More of its body rises, until the full corpse form is free. The wind whistles through the rotten frame. The monstrosity turns his head and heads away. Shambling off into the night to frighten someone else.

A sigh of relief escapes the young man’s lips. His heart slows to a normal rhythm. The blank October sky fills his eyes. He laughs in gratitude, deciding to find a better spot to settle for the night.

Then a jaw chomps down on his skull. Rotten teeth shatter but the bony mouth still pierces his noggin. Red droplets drip soaking the journal pages. The poet screams. His voice fades slowly away, as he struggles. Dying in agony he becomes a feast for the undead horde. The red splattered page reads---




The Graveyard Poet
He walks without sleep
Restless and awake burning inside
With all of the secrets he keeps
His pen and his paper
Lay softly on broken ground
The dead are his keepers
Their stones stand scattered all around
So he put his pen to paper
Ink is turned to flesh
The words bleed into
Each other and start to mesh
Thus the graveyard poet is born
He writes with passion
His mind becomes a storm
His body begins to feel numb
But his heart is so warm
On and on from dusk till dawn
Words erupt from the poets pen
Still the cold bites bitterly
He stops only to turn the page and write again
Hours come and go in a blur
Until he can’t move his arm
Even he is unsure
Of what is wrong
His eyelids grow heavy
And soon he is asleep
Rest peacefully young poet
Now your secrets are mine to keep
Bailey Kreutzer Dec 2012
A small slow creak and a shadow peeks,
Behind an unexpecting corner.
You close your eyes, but to your surprise when you open,
The shadow is gone,
But a presence you can sence around every turn,
The conditions right in the dead of night with a
fierce howling wind,
And soon you realize through sloppy tears the danger is swiftly drawing closer!
Creak.. Creak... Creak!
The lump in your gut, seemed to force you out of your frozen rut.
The edrenelin took over then!
Relying on touch for your eyes were usless from crying too much.
The beat of your heart stretched from your ears to your feet.
Your arms flailed and your feet flew,
But still you felt the hot breath on your neck it was
the end you just knew.
A nervous tremor in your leg threw you forward right onto your back.
Instantly your eyes traveled to the onyx bulbs of death that stared you down,
Cloaked completely in black.
As he reached a boney hand around your throat,
It didn't matter you couldn't breath either way,
Just when you could see the light of savior...
It spoke...
The most sinister slither slid out of his covered lips "I'll see you in hell." A small smile was then visible through his mask.
From sheer fright I gasped my last breath of air, and out of the strangest things to cross my mind all I could think is 'goodnight.'
This is sort of a kinda rhymey short story but ohh well This was sort of an edited dream I had I Troyes to make it as close as possible but I had to make some stuff up because I forgot so yeah goodnight haha!
Arlo Disarray May 2015
I always write about my past, or my present
But I never write about what's yet to come
So I'm going to attempt to write my future
And about what I may be or might become*

The year is now 2025
Somehow, I am still here, alive
Africa is where I now reside
No longer worried about ego or pride

Working with the lions on the land
Feeding them, and losing both my hands
Still I continue on and feed
As the lions wait around and watch me bleed

And even as a corpse, I feel important
Because my favorite friends get to enjoy my meat
And I'm glad that I could provide my lovely lions
With a five star meal that they all get to eat

And as I fade away from my boney pile
I disappear at the age of 35
And the lions show off their proud crimson smiles
As their thank you for me keeping them alive
Being male, I wander
Mom dares not wonder
What kind of monsters she birthed
She brought her own equipment
I was aggressive but shy

Her womb is the most magnificent
Temple I’ve ever visited
There is nowhere else I want to be
Sister insisted
I stiffened then gave in

Children tease, squeal, scamper
Adults know unspeakable reality
Dizziness of first love
Mayhem, ******
Solemn whisper of infinity

After an uncertain age,
No one wants you anymore
Old women bond
Confer their anger
Old men tread alone

She knew from moment he laid eyes on her, she had him. She wore no make-up, anemic complexion, chin and jawline slightly broken out with red spots, cobalt blue irises, aquiline nose, hair dyed dark, fuzz-balled scarf, light blue fluffy sweater, big buttons, canvas shoulder bag, skinny jeans, leather boots, little boney black dog with ashen appointments. Instantly he fell in love. He confessed, “Your Chinese Crested pup stole my heart.”

In ******* position, neither lover sees other’s face. The top sees backside. The bottom sees what? He didn’t know.

She unlocks the door. He enters room. She tells him what to do, making demands. He follows her orders. She questions, “Why do we dance to these tunes?” He answers, “I want to smell your smells, ****, drink your darkest juices.” She articulates, “Stay,” then kisses him goodbye. She wakes wearing his ring, around her neck. They are each other’s slaves. Ceiling leaks, floor creaks, light beams through window as they waltz arm in arm.

She demands, “I want roast rack of lamb, or thinly sliced Serrano ham on buttered toast for dinner. And then I want to go home alone. I need some down time, away from you. I don’t belong to you, god-****-it!” Deep in financial debt, he hands the waiter his debit card.

— The End —