Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Seldom do we wonder
At our own defenses
When lies are spreading
You run for cover of your fences
Underneath roofs and ceilings
You speak of the One
Who knows all your secret dealings
In the fire and the snow
The rainbow often turns yellow
Our ancestors dance on the edge of a needle
Blessing the fragments of your incarcerated heart
Imprisoned impermanence
Life is a lesson
Drunk on gypsum and water
You repeat this guttural embargo
Can we dance
Or do we follow
Grief is the missing piece in your puzzle
Saltwater runs down your face
I erase the razor’s path
Hundreds of fireflies insist you are their lover
In the diamond’s eye you become another
Sultry siren
Tumultuous teenagers breathe light and fire
Listen to the river going underneath your houses
Remove your clothes and wander in your underwear
With lungs of fire
You tread toward the tower
If we are stubborn we will one day get turned over
JB Jul 2018
I never asked for this, you know,
I just let it happen.

A whole,
altogether,
totally different, thing, than,
you know,
-asking for it-



a whole other story.


I didn’t
mean for it
to get this far
I only
allowed it to happen——
I only
held my arms

split open from
the rotten heat
of

March:
**** Month of
Guttural Resurfacings

still the furnace on
,cranking, nauseating,

iron, leaden, air,
bulging, gray,
in the room we shared,

I only sometimes
(said no)
when you didn’t listen

...


((I never put my heart to fighting it))
(((I was complicit)))
Anthony Perry Jul 2018
There is something violent about how I see the skin on your body
Its so rich and smooth, almost decadent and unlike you

This observation turns into a premeditation when you touch my cheek
Its almost like i can feel the heat melting off your bones

As I laid you down and slipped a knife underneath your sternum
You whispered something hidden in painful tones like a sharp breath piercing the guttural moans

But I dont need to hear words to know the searing desire steaming from your guts as I replaced them with hot stones

The blood on your finger tips remind me of fresh water on leaves after a storm and your severed head looks like its been through famine, disease, and a damaged city plagued and war torn

Yet there is still beauty in the decayed decadence that is your mutilated corpse

The moonlight drowns in the canal of blood begging for remorse while the insects march and sing a song of things that can only get worse
©anthonyasylum
This is a poem about the need for closeness between two people
Mouthpiece Jun 2018
keep secret
the crimson wakes
illicitly
ebbed on your
surfaces
screaming out
against
your steaming sands
when you’re bound
in twitching chains
helpless,
surrendered
drenched in the dead night
blindfolded
and gagged
and choking in
my bare hands
with a wide smile

we can’t speak of
your rattling bones
our scorched friction
and our guttural
undertones
carved into you
with my teeth,
cutting into you
like my embedded fingerprints do,
pulled out
by my mouth,
forced out
by my invasion

we **** like
endangered animals
goners
in our own
private
dimmed corner
dogged and primal
shrouded in
evaporating sweat
and salivating libidos
with which we’ll
paint your room

nobody can ever know
how we cast shadows
on your cave
we take it
bound and crushed
to the grave
love is only ever blind by choice, not by nature. love is blindfolded. anything that doesn't fit perfectly into our own tiny little ideal box is dismissed as worthless. it must end.

will probably end up rewriting this.
Natalie Sep 2018
At the edge of morning--broad sky fine
And soft as peach skin--
The sun, a round, sweet skinless half--
Rilling water washes through gullied gorge,
Cresting fig root and tongue of cobbled stone,
Lazing into lacquered lake or placid pond;
Squat and pooch-bellied on flatly floating leaf,
The idle toad croaks his great guttural,
Glutted belch.
First Draft
Natalie Mar 2018
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.

I mustn't tell fully what they say.

They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.

There is death in this tumult of words.

Let it not take me.
Julian Oct 2016
Afflatus screams in mellifluous moonlight by a placid pond
Disturbed slightly by a miracle on ice deloused at a heavy price
Pantechnicons swarm as ghosts maraud around the outskirts of the forest
Suddenly the resurrected memories of renegades become conscientious
Angels swarm with fluttered wings invisible to the albatross of opprobrium
They concert themselves with chirpy dreams, itinerant crumples of amnesia creams
Marigolds are miracles at the most opportune time to be called a hysteria
Asserting the divinity of trinkets applauded that litter history with euphoria
Flinch my core, drunk on the travesty of stodgy moralism unfurled zero kelvin cold
But Salt Lake City towers above my contemplations and UFOs make themselves known
Every city this big is well in eternity and maternity very well known
Shelter not from husbandry, for Babylon is no longer idolatry
Stemwinders and poltroons with prisons crooned
Tyrannosaurus Rex still terrorizes aliens and humans alike on a stranded dark side of the moon
Pink is the ****** of Mayweather and Mayflower, so rigid in rock-a-by-baby tunes
Now is "Never" but TV time "When The Music’s Over" is Bang Bane rather than Boom
Hostage tickets of English hecklers proclaiming my royalty serenade the forest green
I hear their laments of the rumors ballyhoo obscene
Imagine a forest bright, trepidation of unlikely marauders of Viking spite
Spates of jinx own the tanks, sharks (jaws of these aliens in time "Thriller") evanesce as fluttered cameras blink
Marigolds are really miracles as euphoria that plangent has never been so bold
It owned the night and owed nothing of fright to hear aliens chirp ******* penetrated so tight
To hear the orchestra of God’s minions applaud my albatross receding in plight
The swiftest musketeer aims his gun at an AIMed pun
The renegade blackmail is the rut of a guttural wedding of a none and a nun
How sad that she waits, as a ragamuffin of eternal wraiths
That speak to her dreams specifically as a barnacle waif
Genius eludes the moment of sinking eternity and Van Gogh alpenglow
Cracked screens reap grime and grim preachers that reap what they sow
Accentuated stature of imposture clutters legends urbane with glowing silt
Rigmarole of laughingstock circus with the strangest 25-year old days of a dead man Wilt
It was the steward of a day too strange to forget
It was the Newark of a Jersey of Gretzky #99, a hard-won bet
Histrionic of history, an underappreciated music is a well-worn divinity
The best music ever is the best music of time-traveled complicity
Sadly lost on inferior ears is the plangent flow of sonorous pantheons
Lost on an island of good taste in a world that prizes prosaic mellow eons
Rather than delicate paeans with hummingbird simplicity
I resent how rare my taste is in an olfactory of waste
How rare a smell is that yegg harder to lambaste
Don’t gibber the jibe of jive-talking stalk
The scarecrow in Back to the Future is a ******* heckler hawk
Rarefied abduction of stolen keys of NYPD sprees
To drivel the wharf of piedmont rifts in Heaven’s eternal leaves
Time to step back from the sidewinder missive
Time to ***** the gravy epistle so dismissive
Non-linear experiments in time and memory crave recognition
Finally I learn that house arrest is a Home Alone good enough for a virtual reality prison
bulletcookie Jan 2018
In arid hills on haunches sitting clown
crazy, or not crazy enough, it howls
or is that a laugh or post-prank giggle
a guttural belly shake and wiggle?

It shapes and it shifts on the choices we make
must we choose between right eye or left to see?
Oh, such turns that we take as we follow in wake
as mischief leads us in its circles of glee

Now this Jack-of-All-Tales of canis myth wit
likes to trick and befuddle, roll snake into stick
with hide and seek fortunes it peppers its day
causing people to sneeze their hit-o-miss ways

Then we danced in the plaza with colors and tunes
their stood our guide masker, comic alien sans tragic
telling of great deeds, surprises, ancient fabled magic
'till we woke near a dawn, past shadows of moon

-cec
Tricksters
zebra Jan 19
a carnival of hords in withering grass

the high priestess tongues the beast

wet mandible
on a dragging
death gowned doll
like a cyclone coils paradise

trans mutative
prismatic unfurling's
passed bones of confusion

passed scorched refuse
of radiating spiraled phantoms

the more gods, the more demons
battle angel symmetries
in Taoist jaws  

  galactic lurking's
into parametric infinities
escalating war like cloud light
rush glittering arms of affliction

exhalations like upleaping sail fish
drizzle sooty rain
shellacking tinsel rhinos
on hieroglyphs of the barbarous

a transfixed guttural prana;
apostasy
between advances and retreats
in chimeras earth quake palace  

death: an origin story.
I bring my facilities to mix upon a dream, the concrete, and the thunders of spirit

An exploration of duality, fragmentary existence, creative destruction , and spiritual healing through the ascent of life force
George Anthony Dec 2018
is it that you desire
to stuff your tongue
down my throat, playing
“loves me, loves me not”
to the melody
of my choking, guttural
pleas of “no more”
no more lies, no more
deceit spun off the tip of your
***** tongue.

take your tastebuds back;
i’ll ******* own truths.
i don’t like this
tonsillitis, i can’t
soothe it
like kids do.
lactose intolerant, and
struggling to tolerate
the way your eyes shimmer
like you’re enjoying this
zebra Feb 9
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
with food tubes or road ****

is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
voodoo dummies

monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain

and a ****;
impaling her

the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like screaming hyenas

my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m

a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
******* z o o

i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac

gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e

*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac
tentacles of night
she turns me on
Max didn't even want to be there.  His coworkers had invited him, and he hadn't had an excuse handy.  

In truth, Max's coworkers didn't want him to be there, either.  They had secretly hoped that he wouldn't come.  Everyone else was going, though, so they felt bad not asking.  Now they wished they hadn't

Here he was, though, sitting around a table in a seedy local pub, waiting for "The great Garbo: Magician and Hypnotist".  Probably just another hack who was filling time between kiddy birthday parties.  The show was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, but hadn't, and now Max was being forced to socialize with people who he spent a great deal of effort trying to avoid most of the time.  It was ****, and he wasn't happy about it.

In truth, Max was very unhappy in general, but in a way that his brain was unable to put into concrete words.  He'd been unhappy for so long, in fact, that he didn't even recognize that he was unhappy.  He had just long ago come to the conclusion that the world was unpleasant, and he was the only person who understood that.  Everyone else was a foolish prat who could barely keep from being distracted long enough by the next shiny toy to notice.

He regarded his mostly empty beer that he had been nursing.  He heard his co-workers talking about some new superhero movie when the lights finally dimmed and a man walked onto the beer-stained stage and threw his cape (the **** had a cape!) dramatically over his shoulder.  "Good evening, my fine ladies and gentlemen!  I, the Great Garbo, welcome you.  You may have seen so called 'magic' before, but I promise you that when you leave here tonight, you will be filled with awe and wonder!"

Max yawned, rather loudly, to glares from his co-workers, as Garbo continued his spiel.  He looked lazily around the room, hoping to catch the eye of the waiter for another drink.  If he was going to be forced to watch this swill, he was going to at least be liquored up.

By the time Max looked back towards the stage, Garbo had wrapped up, and was starting.  He began with a number of standard tricks with rings and never-ending handkerchiefs.  Each time, Max would mumble something under his breath.

"...Obviously had it up his sleeve"
"Trick ring, there's clearly some sort of mechanism there"
"...had that deck set up before"

Meanwhile, his co-workers shushed him as they attempted, in vain, to enjoy the show.

Soon, though, the magician got more creative, juggling a set of ***** that turned into doves, which then flew back into his hands as ***** again.  Then he turned his entire coat from dingy black to a brilliant  red with a wave of his hand.  Max remained steadfast in his desire to remain unimpressed.  Surely this was some sort of electronic trickery.  He stifled another yawn, then decided to go to the restroom.

He got up, and tapped one of his co-workers on the shoulder.  Was it Reed?  Or James.  His co-worker looked at him warily.  "Hey James, I need to take a ****.  Need to get through".  He looked annoyed.  Must've been Reed.  "Can't you wait until the act is over?".  Max rolled his eyes, and then mustered up as much sarcasm as he could (which was quite a lot). "I'm sure the 'Great Garbo' won't miss me.  I'll just be a minute".  Reed (yes, definitely Reed) sighed and got up to pull his chair back so Max could get out.  Max picked his way through the surprisingly large crowd towards the bathrooms, not apologizing on the way, when he heard a voice.  "You sir, you would like to volunteer, would you  not?"

Max turned, and Garbo was looking at him expectantly.  He hadn't heard what Garbo had been talking about. He recovered his wits and responded "Nah, I'm sure one of these simpletons would love to, though".  From the crowd where he had left he heard someone yell "Oh come on, Max, maybe he can hypnotize you into having a sense of ******* humor".  Max gave the finger in the general direction of the voice, earning him a few boos from the crowd.  Garbo put his hand up to calm the crowd.  "Come now...Max, is it?  Surely you've been impressed with some of the show tonight?".  Max scoffed.  "I'm impressed that you're able to make a living off of parlor tricks", he said, before turning back towards the bathroom.

"Max, I think you need to come up here"

Max suddenly stopped.  He felt like he had been going somewhere else...but that couldn't be the case, he was supposed to be going onto the stage.  He turned and amiably made his way up the few stairs

"Now Max seems to be unimpressed with the show.  Shall I show him some real magic?"

The crowd clapped

Max wondered how he'd gotten on stage.  He had been going towards the bathroom....he needed to...

"Max, you seem unhappy to be here.  I think I know what'll cheer you up, though."

Garbo reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small rubber ball.  

Max suddenly came back to himself.  "I don't know what drugs you gave me to convince me to get up here, but this show is over and I'm leaving.  I'll be sure to let the police know that your show relies on your audience being high"

Garbo grinned a toothy grin as Max walked away, and then spoke right before Max got down the first step, dragging each word out carefully.

"Who's...a...good....boy"

Max stopped and considered this.  I mean...he certainly wasn't bad.  There was certainly room for improvement, for sure, but he wasn't bad, so he must be good.  He slowly turned and stared at Garbo, and was surprised as his mouth started moving.

"I am."

Wait. What?  Max's mind reeled and his eyes widened in fear, but he did not run.  His legs didn't want to move.  His eyes seemed to be locked onto the ball.  That looked like a really nice ball.  He wanted it.

Garbo took a step forward.

"Who's a good boy"

This time Max answered more confidently.  "I am.  I'm a good boy"

The crowd clapped and whistled, though they weren't sure what they were seeing.

Garbo moved the ball back and forth, and Max watched it intently.  
He wished Garbo would throw the ball.

"Who's a good boy!"

"Me! I'm a good boy!"

"Whosagoodboy!"

"I am!  I am!  I'm a good boy!"

Max had fallen down on all fours at this point, though he barely noticed.  Everything seemed to be growing in size.

"Who's a good boy!"

I am!  

"Who's a good boy!"

(I am!)
Woof!

"Do you want the ball?!"

(Yes! Yes, throw the ball!)
(Oh god, what's happening?!)
Woof! Woof!

"Do you want it?!"

(Make it stop!)
(Yes! Throw it!)

Max could smell so many things, now.  He smelled the beer, he smelled Reed's aftershave.  He smelled the strangeness that Garbo reeked of.  Garbo scared him, but Garbo also had a ball.

Garbo finally relented and threw the ball, and a yellow streak flashed by him as an excitable Golden Retriever ran to intercept it.

Max picked up the ball in his mouth and stood proudly.  There was still something scratching at his brain, though, and he couldn't figure out what it w--what had happened?  Everything was wrong.  He couldn't stand up.  Max wanted to yell for help, but to do that he would need to drop the...

...ball!  He had the ball!  The man who threw it was calling for him.  He ran back towards the man, who pointed at the ball.  The man wanted the ball, but Max didn't want to give it back.  It was his ball.  Suddenly, the man had a treat.  Max dropped the ball and took the treat.  He heard a loud sound and he turned to see...

..the crowd.  The crowd was up on their feet cheering.  His mind filled with fear again as he realized that something was terribly wrong.  He felt wrong, everything looked and sounded and smelled wrong.  He was a....

"Good boy, Max.  Good boy!"

Max received a pat on the head, and the scratching at the back of his head faded a little.  "Crate, Max", said the man, pointing to a small crate at the edge of the stage that several people in the audience could have sworn wasn't there at the start of the show.  Max ran to the crate, where he found a bone and a squeak toy, which he bit into to hear the satisfying noise that it made.  Laughter echoed from the outside of the crate as the man closed the door.

"Everyone, a round of applause for my assistant Max!"

Suddenly Max resurfaced.  He was acutely aware now that he was in a cage.  Fear gripped him.  Surely his co-workers had noticed!  He strained to look through the bars of the crate.  He spotted them, and they were applauding excitedly.  He saw, with trepidation, that his coat was no longer on the chair where he'd left it.  He had been erased from their memories.  A guttural terror crept up through his stomach which became a frightened whimper as the sound was forced through his new snout.  No one seemed to hear him.

Max lost track of time, but eventually the show ended and everyone left.  They wouldn't remember what happened, only that they were left with a feeling of awe and wonder upon leaving.  They wouldn't remember Max.  At this point, Max was curled up in the back corner of the crate, unwilling to move even as Garbo opened it, reached in, and started scratching his head.  

Suddenly, as if the final structural support of a dam had been breached, the endorphins from the scratch overwhelmed what remained of Max.  He was filled with the warmth of something he had been unable to feel his whole life.  His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he started panting excitedly.

Max was happy.
This one popped into my head a few nights ago.  I don't fashion myself a horror writer, but this one creeped me out as I was writing it, and I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.
smc Feb 9
Brilliant pops of color...radiant sparkle...
sunshine prints...happy sprays of polka dots
A facade. Armor. Escape?
She was surviving
In secret.
No one knows;
No human has the right to judge
Another human,
For sometimes, one’s appearance is created
by expensive eye elixirs and glimmering powder
Applied Again, at the commencement of another excruciating string of 24 hours,
To magically deflate today’s evidence of the gut-wrenching, guttural sob of a wounded animal in fetal position
On the mockingly luminous shine of the granite floor at the bottom of a gilded shower.
A sick joke of surviving through this **** of a hollowed voice from the broken record
That. Never. Stops.
And the scratch only grows deeper.
Today, a handmade, Silk Dupioni dress in Shimmering Sunburst will serve to create an illusion that—please, God, today—might dampen the deafening, silent screams that taint what might have been joy...in someone else’s Life.
A crayon box of colors stream across a $500.00 scarf, in an attempt to ***** out the bony fingers of smoke that snake from white-hot, searing embers
of unspeakable Pain.
A diamond-encrusted spray of rubies and emeralds defy the blackness that seethes and creeps, stealthily, inside the microscopic crevices of a soul
As it fades, and widens: ice expanding in concrete.
And trudging across the marble floor, past the gorgeous draperies she effortlessly designed herself, underneath one pearly-white, twelve-foot arch after another,
She dabs at the heavy tears that are no threat to waterproof mascara and 18-hour eyeliner...
Reaching for the antiquated glass doorknob of her front door, with fingers made of lead.
Stepping out into the miserable myriad of moments of One. More. Day.
Then, with a shudder, she conjures up a plastic smile,
Squeezes her eyes shut,
And prays that again, today, like a thousand yesterdays before, she can push down the Day’s Demons
As they Claw and Cackle inside her private ****.

God Bless Your Tortured Soul, Kate. May He bring you Rest, now. ❤️
“If you judge people, you have no time to love them.” - Mother Teresa

— The End —