Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
zebra Aug 11
diaphanous girl
a headless masquerade
her black lipstick and shivering pearls
giggle like earthquake chandeliers

festooned  buttocks
curves a lyrical hell of desire

pocket eyes
dead suns  
aloof
yield vacant split azure vault
a fetish horror  
zoomorphic and decapitated

a thrilled non compos mentis
her mouth widens
like a line turning into circle
turning into a jagged city
of twining red wet mayhem

fish head stare
and toothy kisses
on red abdomen posy hook
jutting her spine for sadistic fires
she rolls her velvet thighs
wriggling
a wrench
and twitch
a mad headless lunar sputnik
circumambulates spit tongue sputum

she is the mouth in the sky of god
her spirit impaled upon
torrential mountain libidos
impaled on a wild life park of *****

wet ******* a basket of skulls
she nestled
her depraved tilted crown
lilting onto the stained guillotine

saying come on
i can hardly wait to get started
make me the ghastly queen
goddess of the witching hour
bone blood
and black glitter dead of night
guillotine fetish
Charlie Dog Aug 2018
Light runs the edge sharp.
A glance could slice your eyes.
The blade melts through air like hot iron;
with a deadly silence it glides,
until neck exposed, a head is claimed.
And the crows sing out their mockery
Lizzy May 2015
With both of us standing
Infront of the guillotine,
Why did you take her
Instead of me?

I'm trying to find the reason.
Why did I deserve to live?
What kept me here
And took her away?

I'm not even close
To deserving half a life.
But she did nothing wrong,
Still she's the one you took.

Maybe it's survivors guilt,
And maybe i'm being stupid.
But I don't understand,
Why God would take a soul like hers
And leave me to live.
Bad Luck Jun 2014
Cheated and defeated –
                      my mistakes, themselves, repeated...
A monster made of gluttony;
                     I’ve no option but to feed it.

I saw the writing on the walls,
           But, my feeble eyes had failed to read it.
Still... I’m not convinced that this warning,
        Was chosen by my eyes, not to be heeded.

Perhaps my head was the catalyst
           A byproduct of an acid trip;
           Had split this world in two.
Some for me, and some for you.
Maybe . . . this warning wasn’t meant for me.
Maybe . . . it’s for the second half of two.

“Ye kind-hearted shall not go forth”
                              … is what I believe it said,
But I can’t be too certain.  
                              After all, I’ve lost my head.
Which brings up some emotions -
                               Or maybe, they’re allusions?
But, I can’t tell through the hallucinations
                If these are real or illusory movements.

So the fish hook pulled me deeper . . .  
                       All the while, stretching skin.

                       I knew not about the rabbit hole
                       to which I just dove in.

It seemed a lot more like an alley when I first took a glance,
Once I took a second step, I guess I chose to dance.

               Oh, what a performance it’s been!  
                And we haven’t yet hit intermission!

                 Although, I’m not sure when that is…
                            As I seem to have lost my vision.

The Queen of Hearts shouted,
                              “Off with his head!”
But without a brain to notice,
      I couldn’t hear what she had said.
She said it before the guillotine dropped…
So was my brain already gone
                      When my head hit the block?

I’m not sure where to find the pieces.
                     I didn't know I fell apart.
                     I didn’t know
I was a headless servant
                    To the heartless
                    Queen of Hearts.

Now, without a head,
                   I’m trying to piece it back together.
And I’m worried that this rabbit hole
           just may have me trapped here forever.

So, I’ll trace my steps backward, to try to find my "forward."
But as I set my pace faster, I find I'm moving slower.
Things turn upside down, when you’re this far down . . .
And the carousel just spins – around and around.

Gaining speed, with increasing malice
I hopped right on
        And chose a different path than Alice.

Here we arrive again at choice, but was it one at all?
This is when I found the Hatter – where the bounds of logic fall.
He asked me why I was there.
             He said, “My boy, have you gone mad?”
And as I searched for reason,
                                          I concluded that I had.

Standing on the ceiling,
            we both watched the world, twirling.
Sipping from our cups,
            between the stirs of sterling.
We chatted over tea, and while I was now content with spinning . . .
My content grew simultaneous
with the Cheshire Cat’s grinning.
He looked at me and said,
                                      “Upside down, yet, you seem alright?”
I responded with a “Hm…”
                                        and my spinning turned to flight.

I flew from the table and
       As I questioned if I was stable,
I grasped for the air.
       And for the first time . . .
                                          I was able.

Apart from the question, I now knew that I was mad,
Because I gripped a fist of air,
                             knowing full-well it can’t be grabbed.
I swung through the air…
                                    maybe I flew . . . I’m not sure.
But as I passed over ground, I surveyed it for Her.
I looked for Alice as my guide,
                              but someone took her place:
The "heartless" Queen of Hearts
                                     and her over-sized face.
Was it the face? Or just the head?
                            What’s ahead without a face?
It seems I lost the bounds of logic
                                    upon my fall from grace.

Was I flying?
Or was I falling?
It seems that orbit was my calling . . .
Where, as high as I fly,
   the paradox of orbit keeps me falling.
Maybe I’ll stay out here, where it’s quiet by the stars
And there’s no signs to read;
               no catalysts for scars.  
But did I ever escape?
                Am I still in the hole?
I found among these fragments
          the completion to my soul.

Somewhere between falling and flying,
              I told the truth while I was lying
And found my equilibrium
               between the living and the dying.
"Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction" is now available on Amazon in paperback!

Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1691941182
nadine Jul 5
i fancy
using flamboyant words.

"you make me feel like ****"
shifts into
"you have left me
in such a state of perplexity
that even i can
absolutely not comprehend."

"i am heartbroken"
turns into
"the existence of pain and longing
makes itself wont
to the confines of my heart,
making a home out of it.”

"i hate you"
morphs into
"a surfeit of sentiments
fill the pail to the brim,
i could only make sense
of abhorrence clinging onto my head."

every time
i wear my heart on my sleeve,
misery emerges
from the shadows
and torments me --
i cannot be
liberated from
the never-ending loop of misfortunes.

i yearn that these
bitter emotions
diminish into nothingness
until not even an iota of thought
could mar me.

i yearn that these
senseless cluster of letters
find their way back to you--
just as it should be.
mercury retrograde
CZ Sep 2013
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the

spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works

out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic

collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the

biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a

place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and

a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled

over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father

comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood

under his fingernails and lets you save him.  There is a place

where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where

everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for

the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty

verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through

someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie

Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you

can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your

thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:

stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still

a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea

and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are

going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and

breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to

memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard

for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going

to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going

to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going

to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire

world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are

going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and

molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and

longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your

lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn

knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save

you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight

because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are

purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your

feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling

of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight.
Qweyku Jan 2017
Despair unrequited asked of me;

where do proverbs, poems...
such wisdom's go to die?


do they expire with the ink of thought
penning themselves out of imagination?
or, simply tire of expectation?

tell me
&
i would scourge
that unenlightened grave-site,
guillotine its immoral keeper,
&
decapitate him upon
a writer’s block!

show me
&
i will breach earths bowels
wrenching words from darkness' depths
with the light verse of celebration
&
a calligrapher’s paragraph of praise.

only then should i rest in piece
from wordy passion
scribed with its, novel pleasures

&
when spent, 
upon my epitaph do write;

'she was consumed,
birthing words to life'



© Qwey.ku
Evan Stephens Oct 2018
No phone call tonight.
The sick moon
coughs a cloud -
like a gray stain
on its face -
& I watch
as the new cloud
falls through the night
like a guillotine.

Sick moon,
thin and waxing,
my chest is
a curving hurt too.
Twisted and torqued
by the old carving forks
from the Thanksgivings
where red wine
sat screaming, and
polished plates
were also moons,
hard and silent
and empty.

No phone call now,
the breakup is done.
I shed my skin and salt it.

No phone call now,
only vagrant silence.
The sick moon breathes
a scrape of cloud
down the quiet
spine of night.
My modernday Morgan Le Fay
used to make love on graves,
now she sleeps all day.
She's a zomballerina in a zombikini.
masking her feelings with mirtazapini.
Dr.Fangoria prescribe the Torah!
Dr. Creepshow prescribe the Gospel!
O baby, do you still believe in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't Anne Boleyn.
Chub roll stump for a neck,
how do I sing?
Hole in my head
too whole to scream
'Verminend' to vulture teens,
smells like trick or treat.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.

Sabrina the teenage selfharmer
went to the witch doctors of big pharma.
Me, I swear by traditional eye of newt
- dontcha know Old Cloots is in cahoots with Boots?
Sepulchral ***,
Edgar Allan ***** on your meds.
But baby do you still believe
in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't met Madam Guillotine
for a ****** valentine,
1789.
Play chicken with depression,
you might lose your head
on swingers' ouija weekend
with the Livinghyphendeads.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.
bythesea Oct 2018
time; can you hold slowly for me,
i find that i can't unravel myself
these days.


all i can think of is my old home by the river,
on the stone-lined hill
by the church


(i've spent three years here with you,
from that first breath and then dive right in to you.
but i was not ready, and it never felt the same)

and i only crave a time when i savoured everything.
a slow time
alone
in my old apartment.
with her wood floors
and high ceilings
and a window that opened like a guillotine
onto the balcony
with my white cast iron furniture
where the rain would collect
and the sun would hit me in the morning,
and i'd wake to it.
and september would be my favourite month,
because of the leaves, not because of your birthday.
and coffee would be my ritual
and i didn't have tv
and i had my records
and places for things
and my plants would sit by my window
and i'd draw there
and sing
and cook
i wouldn't order food, i'd walk to the grocers
i'd work out in my living room
watch movies on my terribly old tv, on a dvd player
i'd watch tv shows on repeat
and i loved it


and i was alone.
and i loved it.
Steve May 30
Drinking away the cold reality,
sipping away at the truth,
smell of revolution in the air,
the township rebellion weeps,
radically violent love,
surpressing undignified hate,
**** the cop in yourself, stomp the ghosts in your head,
destroy your masters,
Sweet negation, oh sweet negation!,
Burn down the walls of infinite discontent,
Live your life,
Live for yourself,
The forever insurrection,
The creative nothing,
We are the unique,
Guillotine your captures,
Free your mind, free your body, free your beautiful life!
Julian Jul 2016
Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though **** unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream
Life, Love and No Mathematics to God and Gain
Ray Suarez Aug 2018
Vomiting in vulture circles
Waiting for a separate self,
A true you,
That you don't know you're
Ignoring
To jam dumb grunts and howls
Into your false face
So that you can be acknowledged
By the others
Picking the meat off rotting carcasses


I can't be like you.
Dance drunk smile
Screaming words
About things outside yourself
That are described by
Tombstone languages
Meaning nothing to what truly is
Ignoring the guillotine gleam
Of past pain and present agony
That make up the true coward within


I can't be like you.
Wandering mindlessly
Unpurposeful purpose
Pretending there is a plan
And a meaning
Thinking about
Kids
Cars
Work
Vacations
Upset by trivial inconvenience
Never pondering the finite mirror fool
That you will have to abandon
Or the immortality of Infinite
Thought bursts
That might actually be thought of
By a blue skinned 4 armed Lord
Living vicariously through the
Useless you

I can't be like you.
You aren't even real...
Blade Maiden Oct 2018

This ripe darkness
this mourning dream
a wrenching weakness
fit for the guillotine

An arrangement made
sheer comfort prepared
the end of fate
and, oh, how I dared

This dry paper
this cold pit
an agonising vapor
that smells of blood and spit

'Tis my mind
my wicked flesh
a soul pined
peeled off and fresh

Dressed soft tongued
I raised Cain
being shunned
silenced I remain

This dawning fright
this nightly echo
here comes the blight
light, don't let go
Torits Melody Sep 22
The Morning in America is dark and cold,
But I’m no regular New York Soul,
Yet recently I’ve hit an All Time Low,
Things might get better, Maybe I Don’t Know,
But last night I Woke the F**K Up,
The Good in Me is stirring up,
The Weight of the World is Overwhelming,
I’ll just be a Robot, like the 80s Film,
I see the Guillotine dropping fast,
The Hand of God saved me at last,
He Is Still the Same, I finally found that out.
I begin to truly grasp the Human condition,
Why we all want, why we all need Fashion.
Coined From One The most prodigious Album Of all Time
Andrew Rueter Mar 2018
One day I met a titular telepath
That made me do social math
After I took a brief bubble bath
Underneath his heavy hovercraft
That submerged my brain
Allowing no sign of refrain
Only the pain
Of the stain
Of his Rorschach test
Filling inside my crest

You cast a spell of thought on me
When you walk by so haughtily
I can't think
Only drink
Your Kool-Aid
Of a fool's blade

It should be considered a crime
The way you control my mind
I feel so pointlessly paranoid
And it's not the ****
You travel to an abysmal void
I just follow your lead

I live in a world of mass media
But you cut off my streaming
So I guess I won't be seeing them
And I can focus on dreaming
Of an amazing life starring you
And introducing happiness
I don't care how it's reviewed
The critics negate sappiness

I'm so afraid you will get rid of me
While I sit under your guillotine
That can't reach me in your grasp
But if I ever leave it'll be in half
I'm trapped in a precarious position
That I fear will carry us to collision
I put my ear to the ground and listen
For an approaching stampede
That will steal my cognition
Will those wildebeest thieves
Make a deadly incision?
Andrew Rueter Jul 2018
We were equally matched
Until a plan was hatched
You became the subtle aggressor
By making appearances lesser
Using your passion aggression
To steer a passive direction

You perform a vanishing act
By canvassing flak
Balancing black
Against a sky so blue
Teaching me that which is true
Is different from what I knew
So my anxiety naturally grew

You launch a resistance
By remaining silent
On this plane of existence
Where you're the pilot
Not taking the right angle
Into the Bermuda Triangle
That is your social sphere
Where you disappear
From committal fear
Of love being near

So I throw a search party
But your presence is tardy
Because you're departing
On the journey you're starting
Without me
Slouching
From my submission
To your anti-admission
Splitting our position
Like nuclear fission

The air has become radioactive
Through light that is refractive
Through ways which are retractive
Living this **** way to live
Sharpening my shiv
To escape this cell of decay
Where flowers bloom and fray
But can't see the light of day
Not one ray

Stuck in the marked moor
Of this dark war
I use parkour
To avoid aggressor attacks
Never cutting me any slack
Bringing pain back
Until I crack

Lost in your blank expression
I make a grave concession
Enslaved to your impression
Yet afraid of your aggression
Caught between
Taking heed
And fulfilling needs
Born from greed
I'll only impede

You scream aggressively
Like you're ******* me
Just by addressing me
After making a mess of me
With deafening quiet
You attack with a diet
Of a steady riot
And I won't buy it

You left when you were here
But stayed once you weren't near
You switched to a guillotine gear
Based on how you wanted to appear
Striking me from the equation
By utilizing deflation
For a sinister elation
You removed our relation
C James Mar 7
"Hide in here."

I shut the shelter,
securing my sister

within the hanging
fabric shells,

shrouding her
in my protection.

The first bomb erupts,
shattering peace into pieces

of cheap glass,
coating the floor

like ice on a bridge. Danger,
bridge freezes before road.

Mom begins to wail,
but the siren signals too late

to escape the collision:
His words—Her heart.

And I will never fear
Sticks and Stones.

Instead, I will fear
Words. Disgustful

syllables strung together
to guillotine my mind.

I wish it had been me
sealed inside the shelter.

"Dad is home."
Feedback always appreciated, whether public or private.
Next page