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Third Eye Candy Jun 2012
it was raining on the sun.
it was raining on the sun
this sun had 13 moons

it was raining on the sun
at 3 am.
the sun had lost it's way
only to find it's Madness
13 moons. 13 oceans
13 oceans of god knows what ?
13 dead gods on 13 dead lawns
the sky had gone where skys get very, very lost
where dead worlds sing
in the sick pink *******
of a host of slaughtered angels
typhoons of awful
like clots of mindless rage
fed only violence and dominion
only sacred cows and baby teeth
and darkling blasphemy
come from the ruptured lungs
of Agony and Thorns

Only you.

only you would.

Only You

could.

**** a Unicorn.
Lara Volkova Jul 2015
I may not be a ghost or a saint
to know the place you keep within is by the trees striking midnight at the most.
Trying to intertwine my fingers with your pallid hands comes against the law of your vicious past.
Your complexion broken in accumulated clots of despair in which you've hidden dearly
But your veins are intact and lungs in place, it is far too early to misplace the walls you have built.
The hollowness in between your guilt and creation
does not home what's left of your deceptions.

I may not be a ghost or a saint
to know the place you keep within
is at the palm of my trembling hands for me to break
Paul Marfil Aug 2018
The moment my hands come
                                      to meet in prayer

     know that I am holding
        two broken fists             held together 

                    by lola's rosary beads            
       so tight against my skin        
                                             
you will mistake them
                          for blood clots.

                                 It is difficult to pray
  inside an unfinished church:

       A welder goes about
                              joining iron

                                 the way one gathers
his ironies before prayer.

  The sound he makes becomes too
           shredded it could be the sound of

metal screaming for mercy. At the back
             a woman stretches her hand

like a five o' clock shadow. Something
           holy stands frozen in time. Say pray

for us. She lights a candle.
                      When the fire went out, she is

pressed back into the dark. The last time
                         I was asked to write

            something for the Lord, I ended up
worshipping my own silence.

                           There is a sin a knee
          could no longer carry. I am sorry.

     Forgiveness is a room
                         with a door left ajar.

                                                    You are
         inside that room.

                   I know my chances will expand
          like an earthy bough, I know

one of them will break
                at the welcome of confession.

           You are...     

Perhaps hell is for those
               who used the wrong adjectives.

                A churchman opens a window,
   pours out a summer's worth of light—

    see it fall between the pews like sand
                 between one's fingers. Here

            where there is no light, anything
that shines will feel like a judgement.

Tell me how can one hold a prayer
          the way an empty hand can hold

     so much waiting. Tell me how can one
not weep in the shadow of a gospel

and see the light where it is aimed at.
              Somewhere down here

                    there is a worn down piano
            that never doubts

         the hand that plays it.
                                  It could be me.

     Perhaps at the worst end
                            of having a choice

          is the consequence of guilt. Perhaps
this is how things should have ended: us

        raising an amen
                                      
                     ­                         to our lips.
Srijani Sarkar Aug 2018
i want you to beat me up
real bad
please please let me bleed completely
before infancy clots at the back of my mind
don't wait for me to be tired
break me all at once
grind my feelings into a powdery mess
so that when someone enters our bedroom they slip on the floor and see a stretch mark-ed ceiling
to not know pain but just how ironical numbness is
                      and then hug me
like you would a voodoo soft toy
with the scratched leather wings
of a bewitched witch who has seen it all sober
but still can't tell a sheep's wool from snakeskin
caress my dilapidated knees
without once telling me to stand up on my own or for myself
all i want from you is
to **** me at dawn
i'll know that i was loved
enough or.... at least.
Philipp K J Jan 5
Clean of blots
and residue clots
Love overflows the moats.
Ripples weft dimple nets
Emit smiling drifts
Doling out thrills
This flowing rarity
Flows and flows
Rolling infinity
Falls on solid rocks
And flings out and flocks
On spontaneous little wings
flights of life butterflies.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
zebra Jul 2018
i have no words for emptiness
i'm a bulwark of clots and knots

death is a *****
in a party mask
her seduction a cruel bite
we have always lived for

nakedness on a pyre
makes the man

the bodyless are toasting at a college breakfast party
in the netherworld
of new birthed astral lights
the dead living
somersaulting like fantasmal flux

while we the living dead
gimp through labyrinths time-space
marking spired hands of a clock
that *****  
like a black glove
 towards endless white-knuckle struggles
no matter our destiny
in a dream of forms
like run on *****

a truth only the dead know
If you're looking for a reason not to **** yourself tonight, this can be it.

Sometimes, we feel as if nothing matters.
We all do.
So i made a list of a few of my own reasons,
13 Reasons Why
I'm still alive.
And hopefully you'll change your mind.
Those moments you feel happy, and nothing but lucky.
And you wish nothing will ever change.
I will try my best.

Reason 2. Paper Planes.
It sounds very weird; paper planes, but let me explain. Think about the times when you're walkin in a hallway on your way to a test, and you see a friend from a different class who already took it. You look at them and they immediately shout what you have to read, and you shout back the answer from the homework's last question. Or when you're in class, writing a disstrack about the teacher and annoying the **** out of them because the whole class just knew without telling we had to annoy the teacher. So you fold boats, make hats and trow clots of paper. When you have slack lay in class. When you trow paper planes and when everyone gets a F on the math test. When two of your friends want to sit next to you so you finally have a group of 12 people and don't do a **** during class. That feeling of luck, of happiness, of friendship and the feeling of stomach pain from laughing. Like you belong here. That feeling when you just have to smile. It's hard to explain but i hope you get it.
Where neurons readjust straps over Memory
My flesh shivers, breathes
Time boils planets for the
Soul I scrape hitting pavement,
Reshaping rock knocked off the knees
Ionizing clots cauterizing Dream
When gravity lies flat, beneath the sheets;
She,
Breathing nearby, our selves clinging
to Earth, to the perch,
Before Hurt pulls us by our Fingertips
RJP Aug 2018
I look up to see seagulls in the sky.
Darting through the blue like dolphins through tides.
Saling round my head
Like blood clots in my eyes.
Khoi-San Aug 2018
Subliminal pest
Wailing wall of ****** clots
Mosquito swat plaques
Pestilence at night lol
Zeyea Jul 2018
sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.

(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)

she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.
Lara Mari Jun 18
The old man lived in a cabin
At the end of the woods.
The logs are cracked and decayed,
They slant like branches would.

The door is ajar,
Leaving a dark cavity
To show me what’s inside
It will soon be no mystery.

Stepping in I hear the clock
Ticking like an unstopped heart.
I hear the loose papers ruffling restlessly
The papers with the blue-red ink clots.

The dusty typewriter assumes its position
On the shaking table edge,
The corners of the books are bent
Prostrate, on the window ledge.

A glass, stained with the ****** residue
Of stale, musky wine left on a chair
Reminds me of the chilling fate
That, to me, never really seemed fair.

This assemblage of antiquities
Stand here, as a memory, like a shrine
We all leave an indelible mark here
What marks will be mine?
Sophia I Oct 2018
Her love spills out like scarlet seeds,
and red wine rolled on jealous tongues,
and gold leaves nestled in her hair.
It feathers during secret deeds

whilst breath is passed between two lungs.
Rubies cluster at her throat
like blood clots that her flesh forgot.
She draws him to her, limb in limb,
a desperate love dressed up in quilts.

The seeds that bloomed begin to rot,
and candles die, and lust grows dim,
hence never shall he gasp her name,
or she wish to be close to him.
This is for a school project which decides an important grade - any feedback, positive or otherwise, is greatly appreciated in the comments or via a thumbs up/ down. Please let me know what needs working on!
RJP May 7
Dawn a constant drunk, waves modernity on,
Nights in purple doze, while head in rags’ sat,
Mind pats window pane, sky occupied, flat
Hangs the figures that push plague, condensation
Outside is hugged in damaged and breathless car park clots.

Close the arriving scenes depress, far and close by,
Screaming seagulls sing dreams scattered wide,
Cuts the closing of now yesterday’s hope
Soul-bruise rates sit low tonight.

Danger plays path fields bedsheets house
Graceful clock plays dropped fate in loft
Echos hand by hand  between beams
Downstairs door lock snapped atoms ring
Floorboards creak quake trepidatious
Eyelids meet strange death amusements
Waiting gun hyped howls air tight
Rail, tracks, interrupted delight.
Metrical rework of earlier poem
If we may stop you,
Are we alone when we die?
And are we easily shot out of the night
Like billowing butterflies?
Battered and shot
Bruised and bought
By our headmasters

All this fear of the stronger
Are we not like mites?
And will we easily blame our fright
When we burn from the light?
Holding our clots
Proud, all for nought
As time grows faster

In the dawn’s old hue,
Will we sigh when we sleep?
Or is there no rest after the leap
Beyond the deep?
There is nothing to hold
For rust and gold
Are all the same in the rapture

Must we run much longer
Away from the keep?
If time keeps us under its sweep,
Is living terribly cheap?
We’ll burn to spite the cold
Despite not being told
Beneath the ice, was a pasture

With trees holding the fruit
Of our untold labours
Now, dried from the pursuit
Of the trunk's ashen paper
Wendy Oct 25
It was just a normal, boring history class.
My group was just about to present a presentation about the typical topic.
I was ready.
I knew what I had to say and do.
My team depended on me.
This was the 7th grade.
I got up to start my lecture on how wonderful castles where.
Then I felt something splatter on my new blouse.
The blood came pretty fast.
I just had a fever the other day.
And thanks to science, I know that because of the fever my blood clots were not normal.
As I was slowly concluding that my nose was bleeding it was too late. I walked up there and it came out.
Just as I lifted my hand to cover the bleeding it already was splattered everywhere.
I ran to the tissues and bolted out the door.
I ran into the bathroom, my hands shaking.
I looked in the mirror.
Who was that?
Who was I?
The girl that looked back at me as someone that had blood everywhere on her face and looked like she was just about to cry.
I couldn’t cry.
I wouldn’t.
I-I shouldn’t.
I am.
I was supposed to be tough but it came.
It burst out and turned into sobs.
Heaving and hacking at my lungs.
The tissues couldn’t hold all of the bleeding.
It began to seep through and onto my fingers.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t feel.
I would’ve stayed there until someone found my skeleton.
But thankfully, that didn’t happen.
As luck would have it, a teacher was in one of the stalls.
She came out into the main bathroom area and gasped.
She eyed me and shook her head.
She grabbed me by my arm.
My mind was muddled due to the loss of blood.
I stared at her numbly. She spoke, “Now, now dear let me take you to the office. We can get you ice and your mom.”
Her voice was light and maternally.
She cared about me.
We walked, arms linked with my hand over my nose clogged with tissues.
I shivered thinking what my mom would do.
I had missed the biggest presentation of the year.
Hopefully, she would understand.
I entered the office with head held high.
Not making eye contact with anyone.
The main lady at the desk questioned, “Did someone beat you up?”
I didn’t take offense to this because I was bleary-eyed and looked disheveled. The secretary shook her head and said, “No fight. I found her like this.”
The lady smiled in my direction and handed me the phone.
I dialed my mom’s phone number, hands shaking, terrified of what was to come next.
Randy Nov 2018
The Doctor will tell you so you can Heal. The blood clots and closes the Wound. It brings Life to build new skin.

Depression has a way of making Us focus on the Bleeding. And not on the Clotting and Closing of the Wound.
So We can focus on our new Life.
s v e n Aug 2018
Say you have these
Intense
Painful
Flutters of
Thin and small scissors
That are repeatedly
Cutting away at your heart and viens.
And no it's not bleeding out
Cold spiteful blood.
More along the lines of
Warm gooey
Clots of tiny beating hearts
That just keeps on pouring out
Until
You are frozen
With a chilling realization
That makes you dumbfounded
At the fact that you
Are indeed

Falling in love.
Sorry for the great detail... buttt it works..
Ryan O'Leary Mar 31
Jour de Poisson
en France.
In the UK they
say, fools day!

He-Haws, is
how they are
often described
by the media.

Bankers, Accountants,
MP's Mep’s, PM’s Royals
Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen
Peers, Toffs, Tossers.


Cabog's, gobshites,
ignoramuses, mug's,
clowns, jerks, clots,
muggins, cuckoos.

But imagine, The British
only dedicate one solitary
day in every year to all
of these ****** eejits.

— The End —