Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions

Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******

And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies

Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside

And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.

Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia

Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny

Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?  
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.

Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.

Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.

The steamship was caught in hellish breakers and about to ground ashore. The storm not noticed until it enveloped the craft in tossing gales of ripping rains and tearing lighting. The pirates had been stranded so long Lizzie had given birth. It wasn’t Quick’s, as the twins had red hair and the lone redhead among the crew was first mate Lance; no one paying any mind, she and Lance openly cuckolding the irascible Captain, who had other matters on his mind. He’d lost Bonny whom he’d paid good money for. In his mind the ***** was a runaway slave and that would only up the price. A feisty strong-willed slave was well worth the pursuit. The missionaries making it ashore on a raft of lifeboats genteelly disembarked at the shore’s edge. Captain Quick getting to his feet raising his pistol and forewarning the others.
“Ay! Looks like we’ve got company, laddies,” he said. “Pilgrims.”
Esmeralda had also given birth; to Remy’s child, the mad genius coming from his much expanded hovel; he and the pirates making a culture for themselves using shells for currency and as ornaments. “Ay what is it, Quick?”
The silent pilgrims drew closer. Quick held his pistol to ready. “They be ghosts I say.”
The tallest vampyr approached them. His lips dry and white speaking without moving. “We seek the Oracle.”
“I’ve got your oracle,” snapped Quick and fired.
The male pilgrims drawing pistols fired on the pirates who jumped to their feet pistol and sword at the go. Ball shot and blood broke out across the beach. Remy at the mercy of the Nosferatu's claws until Quick put a bullet through the vampyr’s head. Remy dashing back into his hovel turned a mushroom cap that emitted sympathetic mists of spores from the overhanging tendrils; microscopic creatures eating into the vampyr’s sandy flesh. The pirates continuing to flail on the withering pilgrims, firing useless ***** until the Nosferatu men were collectively defeated leaving only the female undead standing.
“Alright, you lassies, line up over here,” commanded Captain Quick, “And get those clothes off! Remy! Ya got those irons made of claws?”
“Yes, I have them right here,” said the genius coming from his home carrying an armful of unbreakable restraints.
“Fasten ‘em together. These wenches’ll be fetchin’ a good price. Dare say they ain’t virgins. Godforsaken Puritans they be,” said Quick and spit. “I said get them black rags off!” he raged but the women didn’t move their stiff arms from at their sides. “Okay, boys, have at ‘em!” he shouted and all at once the pirates pounced.
Tearing the austere garments off the backs of the demuring pilgrim women the pirates groped and fondled the wan figures with brusque brutality, pushing them to ground and forcibly parting their rigid limbs. Taking turns ****** every woman old, young and in between, the pirates found themselves growing sick, their skins blanching green and purple.
The blonde child much older than her appearance took one bearded scurv and bit deep into his jugular slurping up the profuse red liquid. Each woman never making a sound taking firm hold of the seafaring hoodlum atop of them, writhing in serpentine gyrations the pirates mistook for arousal, grinding the brittle hips and ******* the pus laden lips; the women’s bones breaking apart due to decomposition all the same sinking their fangs into the lustful wild men; blood spewing in every direction over the white sand.
Now it was the pirates that were vampyrs with only Quick, Remy, Lance, Lizzie and Esmeralda and their three children mortal. Quick, seeing the advantages of an undead crew set about thinking how best to use them.

These things belong on a shelf
Like a bottle of tears that looks like a stuffed animal
And a pillow case that became a great transport of rage,
Amidst the dust and clutter
Runs my subconscious animal seeking blood, meat,
Retribution and the slightest gain
Through the wires of the human body
Cut and casually rearranged.

These things are purposed
As notches in a Grecian urn
Cold reminders of a worthwhile mistake
Taken astride and antiqued
For me, for you, betokened at my expense
Because I need to eat, occasionally oddly,
And when the stomach can’t trust the hands
Your clothing stays close to your body.

These things are like dresses on a library,
Dressing the dirt underneath
As life preservers full of water, full of wine
But these are situational traumas
And never lacking their angel wings
Defective and cuckolding self-esteems next to me
Hold hands at the bottom of the ebb and flow
Of human misery or ecstasy,

Just maybe it’ll hurt too much this time,
As revenge for my laughing at its brothers.

I love writing poetry
Some of it is okay
Like a windy ****
Or a roll in the hay
Some of it isn't
I self berate
But little, or none of it
Is particularly great
If i were a great poet
The expectations
Would be to high
To maintain
That castle
In the sky
So, like a dog
I shall remain
A pauper analogue
And also like a dog
I am a bit barking
Which doesn't rhyme
Don't blame me
Tis my pen
That writes the poetry
Like a cuckolding hen
Typical analogy
A bad workperson
Blaming their tools
Although i'm nobodies fool
Then must be the ink
So i'd like to think
A caper, on paper
A pie, in the sky
Or politics, or religion
And just a smidgeon
Of Moon dust

by Jemia