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Sun BLVD Nov 2012
If I wear to choose to hide these lip stains
From the fabric of your collar
I'd choose ****
Put on some chapstick maybe
But instead I paint my mouth with the darkest of lipstick
To match with your crude taste
I want you to remember me
Every ounce of my black and burgundy
Never forget the longing you feared
And I willingly embraced
Leave my mark
So you can trace your steps back to your emptiness
I'm the girl with the dark lipstick
They'll match my lips with the imprint
That dirties your collar
Yes
I was there
Make them know how unaware eyes were
The secrets you held trapped behind your bedroom door
Words say too much
But these blacks and burgundies say just enough.
Samuel Feb 2011
An odd fellow
With an unusual pallor to his face
Contrasting purples and burgundies
Of questionable origin
A stern expression
Features set in stone but
Yielding at times to the cracks in his morality
Not a particularly striking man
Just appealing enough to open any chamber room
He should desire
Women flock to him and then
Draw away once they recognize
The corruption in his heart

As though his dreams and afflictions
Were hollowing him out

He lived
Still as the unspoken worries
Feasted on his being
Painfully aware until
The last instance
In which he permitted himself

To
Speak
Her
Name.
2011 Sam Dickinson
Julia Mar 2018
if I could propagate
begonias
bright burgundies
would    F
        I
                            L
   ­­                L              my pages
if I could seed my sages
savor flavor
in my soils’ *****

baby read my mind
out LOUD
s
  l
        i
                    p them off your
                                          lip

quick tip:
a 3” snip and d  them in d
                         i                   r
                         p               i
                                             p
                                           s
line them
in white powder
beg them to           f
                       L      O      W    
                           e        r

cake is fake so take
your time to
dnuinw

the kids will be just fine

s                               e
    m                      l
                  i
you’re
       ­                                           a
                    ­                              l
                                 ­                 l
                                              ­    r
                                                  i
       ­                                           g
                    ­                              h
                                 ­                 t

i’m lost my (chain) of thought
cost too much i bought
cheap seeds
their screaming bleeds
bright burgundy
in my bed

i said
Indigo Snow come home
to set (me) free
lay me          to sleep



           down



                             W,I
                           delet
if you don’t get it then forget it so i don’t have to fking explain it. -ldr
Carsyn Smith May 2013
The greatest temptation of a trapped body is freedom.
A freedom of the soul that leaves the body behind,
in its prison,
and releases the soul
into the autumn wind.
The body is left with the dying green;
buried in browns, burgundies, and blacks;
decorated with red ribbons, purple and blue flowers,
and a rope -- around the neck.

A rope sent by the Devil in the mind's weakest state.
It coiled itself around the neck and hissed in the ears.
It sang:
So long as the body is snared, so is the soul and mind.
Yet, the mind wonders through deserts and swims in oceans.
But the rope sank its fangs deep into the mind,
releasing a poison that brought it to the prison of the body.
It became a mind craving the same release as the soul.
That is when the Devil wins; when temptation is taken,
and the soul has died,
alone,
lost in the autumn wind.
alexa Jun 2018
you fell for me during summer
when i was in full bloom,
when i was open, loving.
ready to face the world.
you fell for me
as i was splashing in the icy waters
of the Jersey Shore,
holding onto setting suns
and tanned legs.

you first felt me fade in Fall,
my leaves crinkling, crumpling.
dying before your very eyes.
i guess you could say that’s when
you saw my true colors,
browns and burgundies and rusty siennas.
i was still warm to the touch, though,
and i reminded you of summer.

it was winter when we
cracked like ice,
those shards slicing our hearts like
Jack Frost paid our freezing love
a visit.  
i remember the cold in my heart,
the ache from the lack of warmth,
the frigid aura
surrounding anything i touched.
that’s when the yelling started;
snow falling so fast and heavy
we were up to our eyes in it
before we could even take a breath.

it is Spring now,
and i am thawing, healing.
i have planted my apologies like wildflowers,
everywhere—
but nowhere on purpose.
i promise you— soon,
i will bloom again.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
is it just me, or, do we really lie in waiting
for some... shawshank redemption
cold-shower... this: guilty until proven innocent
paradigm "shift" of the status quo:
that somehow... we're not lingering hope
that: once in old age...
once the ****** urges and impulses have
disappeared - we can find the playground:
once more... remind me!
are we expected to find playground friendships
in old age?
or are we to simply couple:
dementia riddles of ****** innuendos
of cucumbers coupled with,.. oysters?!
sniff of the ol' wildflower...
or a pair of pink infuriating the burgundies...
lesser: the burgundians...
after all: d'artagnan was a gascon...

"woke" goes "w'ham - ham m'aam:
thank you parmesan" - and broke...
for all the talk of racial inclusion...
the protagonist's whittle voice
in... some obscure background...
the race precursors of psychology;
firefighters reunited!
spandex ballet!
london's:
and the fire's raging!

they once said... belmarsh prison...
oh belmarsch prison is the, worst!
bedlam?
prison: no prison... society...
i would very much like...
to appreciate... what's cage appropriate...
and what's... leftover disney *******
maze cooking: sordid:
hi! how are y'ah?!
my name's bob - i'll be your
breathing instructor for the next
to weeks... hope you drown.

and yes: however odd the face...
it can't compensate...
esp. when the language behind it...
has horror i.q. of a down-syndrome:
balloon blower;
either narrator... or protagonist...
pun-ctu-a-tion...
even without diacritical markers...

you can... most certainly...
make... hyphen icisions...
it does require someone of a priestly status
to: "spot the cipher" of pause
and... detail...
apparently the church allowed...
a brief summary of how...
all were taught... literacy...
while some were... freed from the shackles
of slavery...
or some otherwise mentioned
piece of hag...
hog... and roadkill *******...
        
       at this point... bukowski and his
dyslexic pride doesn't help...
give me 150 years... posthumously...
not when i'm alive...
150 years after i'm dead...
bukowski can ******* with his b'aaah...
his b'aah... there's only so much pride
an educated man can take from...
what can hardly pass as being
self-taught...
i call it the stiff rubric of the unshakeable:
1 + 1 = 2... and f + u + c + k / u =
the blatant obvious!

coarse says: these words are to be somehow
distilled... made less...
oat and ore-esque...
refined like french corsets or english top hats!
well... i say refine them as blood-sausages
working on the grounds of:
only replicas of haggis welcome!

i somtimes wonder...
where does my shadow wander off to...
when i'm asleep?

— The End —