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Autumn Briarhart Jul 2016
I have flowers in my throat.
The rich and fertile caverns of my chest support a ebullient host nematocera, of which, breed in my abdomen, gnawing at my innards.

Swarms of adults congragate in my mind, the competition is fierce.

Attitudes of altrusim: a moist mire, slowing my step.

Try to say, anything, but that.

I'd rather attract the nausa of rhopalocera.
Their light hearted and short-lived whimsy. A far cry from this violent mob. Oh but the sob of emptiness when they all die at once.

A welcome boon, that, maybe we'll come to bloom. Clumsy and crooked, I was never able to make a play when all I'm pitched is a doorsa.
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
I took a line from a book and twisted it around my brain hoping to clarify these obscure sequences that have no order that just congragate under the soil of your nails fabricating a forgotten plot to freedom, a plight in the hour of celebration under the nights sun. Bathe my sweet in the oils of desire, join the frayed ends of life's consequences, of times forgotten song whispered in tomorrow's breeze. Forget reality and her breeding in the basements of America, forget reason, embrace the sanity of the insane. Come to the new grass and lay bleeding for time, for the Lost eyes of instinct. Gather the creatures of yesterday and slaughter the heros of today in a ritualistic offering to no one. Bring the gods they all so cherish, let them speak their defense to the defenseless, let them plea bargain their right to rule my will, my sight, my freedom in the universal sorrow of weeping souls bleeding slow deaths in our sheltered concubine.

— The End —