"lubricant" poems
Come see me
9 PM this Friday
In a park near you!
Come watch me eat ḋ̸̻̺̗͙̤͕̦͂̄̓̽̊̋͗i̴̡̛̙̯̗̠͇͉̼̲̻̅̊̃̍̆͞r̸͚̼̣͔̜̟̬̰͂̽̆̿̏͋̓̕͟͡͞t̄̍̈̃̆͗̕͘ by the mouthful at the swing set.
Come see me scream till your ears b̨̩̫͕̘̊͊̉̾͛̍́̀͞l̤̺̫̰̘͎͉̓̅̌͐̀͜͢ͅe̡̙͚̟̯͙͕̖̾͌̽͐̀͊̓̌̒͜ḝ̰̙̱̯̻̘̬̥̈́͗̌̀͞͞d̨̡̟̪̟̗̼͍͓̓́̈̍̊̇̿͋̅͢͞ as I slide down the biggest slides.
Enjoy my one man play reenacting the Silence of the Lambs!
(Your ķ͖̠͙̫̗̣͒̊͆̾̎̽̃̈͘ǐ̷̧̛͍̦̟̜͙̥͎̔̄̽̾͢d̡̡̮̗̜̻̱̮̼̊͒̈́̓̔̊̊͒͌͜s̴̤͉̲̜̖̻̈̆̓͗̾̓̅͢ will love that one)
Stand and applaud as I attempt dangerouse ş̵͇̲̗͒͋͐̅̚͝ͅt̸̨͙̣̰̬̩̱̥̝͒̓̀̓̏̏̓͘͠ų̷̢̨̥͓͕̉́͑̿̕͢͝ņ̸͓̱͚͈̭̣̬̘̀͑͗͊̆ͅt̶̨͇̝̻͍͉̼̎̓͟͠͝͠s̴̡̧̗̹̰̩̘͇̤̈́̽͛̊͐͟ off the jungle gym that I have only seen In Hollywood movies!
Watch me .
p̝̞̖̳̪̮̫͙̅̋̉̄͐͆̔̆̔̿ę̺͔̘̭̺̲̫̐̅̀̿̓͢͟ẽ̷̗͔͍̬͔͗̇͊͛̽̓͘͜͜ļ̟̬͎̗͙̫͎̇̔̂͗̓́͟͠͡͝ off my s̷̫̰̜̤̠̿̆̎͋̕͟͜͠k̴̢͔͔̳̬̻͗͑̀̌͂͐̔͑̊ͅi̷͓͖͉͚͚̠̝̙̝͌͊̄̀̏͊̑͝͡ͅņ̭̻͙̩̜̇̽̈́͋̄̔͡, and use my wet muscles as lubricant to make the roundabout go faster!
Watch me dunk your neighbors dogs s̴̢̨̘͎͉̪̪̦͚̄͋̃͛̊̆̀̓͘̕ȩ̧͎͈̀̀͒͋́̐͟͠v̸̦͚̠͕̏̂̎̔̀̊͆͢͝͞e̡̳̠̺̠̟͇͂͛͗͋̍͑͢ŗ̢̦͎̮͉͕͍̊̐̓̂͛̽̒̄͒͗e̗̩͚͖̫͋̄͟͡͠͞ḍ̴̢̲͔͖̣̪̾͌͗̀̒̄̄͞ head in the basketball hoop!
Have you ever seen a rat with no
f̵̢̣̘̦̱͚̟̟̱̀̏́͐́̍̄̚i̵̢̢͎̺̘͚̿͒̐̈́̀̓̌̚n̛͙̟̦̟͕̩͒̌̍͑g̢̰͕̤̝͑̏̅̆̕e̸̡̢͈̥͓͉͐̊̋͑̀r̛̩͔̻̩̮̱͆̒̽͆͋̚ṡ̸̛̛͎͕̯̳̻͙̏͘͝?
Would you l̨̛̦̟͎͇̲̼̦̱̠̓̀́̇̏̀į̧͎̭̫͓̮̫̮̌͆̎̐̀̽̎͌̚k̴̭̼̥̱͖̃̽̎͒͋̅́͠e̹̟͖̩̱̰̬̯͆͑̅̅͌͗̀̀͟͠ to?!
I
Would.
Come one come all,
to something, entirely new!
Enjoy something.... .
.
R̴̛͕̺̝̜͔̈́͋͑͒̎͆̏̓̒͜Ā͙̻͚̗͌́̃͂̊̈͗̚͞ͅW̶̙̻̰͙̹̲̗̆͋̈̇̓͜
.
.!
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
eye lids move slowly
over the eyeballs
in an effort to garner
sleep to a worn out
body to restore the
metabolism to normality
yet sleep eludes
the slight movement
of the eyelids never felt before
is sensed as the brine tear
a lubricant between the interface
where surface tension dominates
all other forces of physics
what force dominates my heart?
I know not
and sleep eludes me
Unconstrained emotions flow
around like unsettled dust
particles glowing in the sunlight
that escapes in through a ventilator hole
sedatives themselves are sedated
and sleep eludes me
I still have five more days I foresee
before hallucinations and delusions
take over me
before that oh sleep like gandalf
arriving at helms deep
please come back to me
but not at the breaking of the dawn
not when light is bright
but in silence of the mysterious night
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
And I sit here once more,
Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift
Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle
Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose
Invading smell has long since passed.
On the shore I sit, a shore made of
Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different
From the eruption of water that juts out
Of the center of the lake,
The ripples seeming to roll over themselves,
As if they are trampling over each other to
Reach me, and looking away from the metallic
Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders,
It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake,
Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and
Geese dismounting their current of air,
Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface,
Like a mirror smeared with lubricant,
For the reflections this lake cast cannot
Easily be told apart.
Dark beckons the lights' full departure,
And with it the warm is swept solemnly from
The land, and my bare hands burn like the
Approaching summer's heat.
I thankfully clutch my leather coat against
Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing
Its limited stretch could further.
As I trace my eyes across its
Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat
Coughs roughly and spits in the water,
As if it's beauty must be destroyed along
With that miserable soul of hers.
The willow tree I sit under,
Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark
Digging through my jacket and on the verge
Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it.
Its vines hang down wearily,
Like an old man, reaching to grasp the
Water, leaning so close, its reflection can
Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines,
Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer.
I shall not, of course, for it needs to
Grow on its own, and needs to rid of
Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve
Its reward.
This, somewhat reminds me of myself,
But, this is only yet another wonder,
Collection of thoughts,
From under the willow tree.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
The machine
Has taken on
A life of it's own
It has become purpose
Without reason
Purpose alone
It is wired
With rules and regulations
Written for compliance
For blind obedience
For it's own perpetuation
The cold machinations
Have no desire
No meaning
Other than purpose
To survive and grow
And we, we are
The lubricant
Crushed between
The gnashing gears
To aid the machine
And make it
Run smoothly
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
#
You are in there, I am certain of it--
Behind the gear's finely-honed,
precision fit gear..
in to gear
in to gear
into gear..
And I wonder.. do you want out?
The machine on the outside, self-repairs
Any attempt towards dismantle from
the external, is futile..
But the internal, beautiful girl..
"I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'"
She is apprehensive, those beautiful
brown eyes, looking up at me..
"Look down, sweet girl"
Her thighs, fully parted, as I slide
in to her.. those amazing hips,
moving so perfectly with mine, extracting..
Milking from me, my warm pulsing *****
a deeply-penetrating lubricant, pulsed
deeply into the machine
As if to lubricate its gears..
As if..
But penetrating so deeply, as to now
permeate the insides of the
mechanization's innerworkings--
turning from lubricant, to that
of a corrosive nature..
Fully coating now, the inner you..
as it turns back now, into that
of a healing balm
Bringing to you a moment of Light
and internal clarity--
long enough for you to see
That the machine is made vulnerable
by the ever-changing qualities of
Love that found its way through
As the awakened parts within you, for the
first time.. understand
the machine's love-blocking, nature
And you begin to choose, mid-orgasm
the machine's dismantle, from the inside--
*'Little by little..
Line, upon line..
Block, upon block..
Precept, upon precept..'*
Until we have the chance, once again..
to do it all again
#
Aug 15, 2021
Aug 15, 2021 at 11:38 AM UTC
I aligned my pace to the crowd.
I fit in.
It seemed like I had finally found the right lubricant to squeeze into the system I was previously unaware of.
It calmed me, being part of the tide, I rippled and swayed with them.
I would live by them now.
Die by them.
Yet no matter where I went I always had an itching.
An itching that I would lose them.
So I lost me.
So I could keep them.
Soon I was them, and they were me.
The placid rooftop they provided was nice.
The support they gave was good.
The foundation I had laid my very soul upon was well intended.
Not grand, nor regal.
But nice.
Not beyond, or captivating.
But good.
Not lovely, or awe inspiring.
But well intended.
Not what I would like.
But who was I?
I was them.
And they liked it.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 4:23 AM UTC
She calls Him her boyfriend
But to Him, She is nothing but a Body to ****
Good girls go to heaven but
Bad girls with big ****
are everywhere looking for ***** to ****
Looking for loaded ****** to ****
l have been [Patient] for too long,
l think lm [sick]
Sick of these ****** Pretending to love when all
they after is *****
Sick of these ******* Pretending to love when
all they after
is taste of Pipi
Sick of ******* who cant see they is play
ground
and ****** is rolling ***** like is ball
They tell you is Hot even when you is not
you open ***** Hole,
Sperms and STDs float inside the Vigeegee
now you is sick, if only you had been patient
if only you was Patience
Im sick of ****** pretending that girls *******
are padlocks
and them ***** keys going around unlocking
as if they are good looking
****** dont make love they are UNLOCKING
*******
Bitchesfancy that his Tongue licks the
Vigeegee
chill, that's just LUBRICANT to make it slippery
when He operates you
Fingers you to make sure you ready for it
Figures you want it, makes you **** it like lolly
pop. then He makes your ***** swallow it
Unlocks the *****
Kisses you, making you drink the alcoholic
poison from His lips
then you get drunk in love
then your blood gets drunk in ***
then your **** gets drunk in *****
then you skip your periods you call Him he
picks up drunk telling you to **** off then you
realise late that you were a Padlock and He
was to unlock you
and you realise late that You Were just a BODY
TO ****
He lost nothing, but your
Innocence, dignity and virginity
perished.
But then you smile coz you played with His
**** too......
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
Struggling inhaling
A swelling, current
Mix of malaise and
Iridescent rays
Whipping within my 6th
To 2nd -
Is this normal
It’s not
Meditation shouldn’t be
This ***** filling
Royalling current of **** -
God, what happened to the bliss?
The breathing in until peace
Amidst a storm
External;
What did I do to deserve this
Everything -
It’s all spread in;
Sins, loves, memories
The currents of the past
Slamming against my dammed
For too long
Now spring 4th
Only by being
Here;
May I come to
Know these pieces
Long repressed
In armors rusted shut;
This is spiritual lubricant
It’s ******* me hard
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
Three children sit behind a dumpster
outside of the Pier Pizza Parlor
unaware that they are children
Seven years later walking past Bridge Square
a girl remembers
**** we're out of cigarettes
and my mom's fucken car is locked. man.
and joints rolled with single ply toilet paper
burning through precious *** in the seaside woods where Indians
used to die
She, curling hands,
flattens a photograph of three kids in swimsuits and baseball caps
crouched under the rainy eaves of a waterslide
lighting a one hitter and gazing at their tiny dying world
now like a centerfold
it's covered in lubricant sweat and spittle
after too much time under the wrong beds
She sits on this small fountain
wistfully blinking and ******* down the cigarettes she wishes she could lock back up
kneading her dead legs and wondering
if it's better to have a past smudged by erasers
or mottled with bruises
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 10:58 PM UTC
Women Stereotypes
10w40
This is so popular, proven to have high performance even if it is synthetic. That does not make any sense realistically. It strokes engines brilliantly. The most expensive even on sale. It does not deter dirt.
3 in 1
The lubricant can be trusted the fact that it dries quicker, penetrating the stuck locks as well preventing further corrosion.
Exotic Graphite
As exotic as graphite is, it does a good job by providing a long lasting lubrication. It repels water too! It’s cheaper that the rest and it extends life. It makes a proper logic economically. You pay less but get more!
Lubricant Affordability
3in1 and graphite deter dust and are cheaper than 10W40.
Does that make you more ambivalent?... ;0)
Anticlimax lubricant ambivalence has reached it’s ******
Armed downhill by the rusted adjusted shielded knight.
Pasted in exquisite oil, no distaste or aftertaste.
Dunked in abluent..........Dented but affluent!
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
First commercially successful
Video game technology
Pong arcade video game
Made by Atari
Loved by millions instantly
Started an 80 billion dollar industry
Pong -no Ping-
Just Pong
Simplistic graphics still astound
Mesmerized by the sound
Blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Pong, blip
PONG!!!
Hah! Point made
In the shade!
First to eleven
In Pong heaven
Blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Pong, blip
PONG!!!
A social lubricant it became
Relationships formed
Playing the game-
Rocking to our favorite songs
Staying awake all night long
Taking turns playing Pong
Pong -no Ping-
Just Pong
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 9:09 PM UTC
Conversation watching cricket flows
Between corporate strangers who
Work together but know nothing of
The others’ lives outside the office
Where work-life balance is a myth
The bowlers bowl and the batsmen bat.
Not much happens between innings
On the field, but the action is in the
Stands, as wickets fall, the barriers
Between spectators vanish, and new
Understandings develop, all because
The bowlers bowl and the batsmen bat.
Wine that universal lubricant, moves
From polite engagement to introspective
Intent to solve all our corporate problems
The laser-like focus as new friends grow
Closer than that 22 yards seem as the
The bowlers bowl and the batsmen bat.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
No use for a bigger screen that my mind can't accommodate. I hear voices in the dark and paint pictures of one color in the corner of my clouded imagination. My thoughts consist of questions. The answers come in the form of blank print plates with damaged lettering.
My smile cracks the moment between naïveté and contempt.
Can't take a break while breaking. I'm alive somewhere in between, walking on one side of survival and falling apart completely.
I pray to something outside myself while bleeding from the inside out to echoing laughter - colorful lubricant for the slow death of plastic bags and cellophane.
Hear me now where I feel nothing and meet me where the pain screams out for safety.
I don't have an ending that is worthy of what is left.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
With brain bashing into head cavity,
the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out
to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs
to evacuate before drowning.
"Quit clowning around in there and
save yourselves!"
The moody mistress creates her own hells:
congratulations!
Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed,
she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head
with taffy, thick like molasses,
cooking sugar in the kitchen with
the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth.
Dried up *** stains litter her couch
as she wakes up to turn the cushions
and search for loose change
to fill up her coin pouch.
"Ouch! Ouch!"
She calls out, clean
sheets on a new day,
his fingers firing in a frenzy
and introducing the fusion of
pleasure and pain.
He smells of benzene and
she's afraid of burning,
stomach churning and
using gasoline as lubricant.
He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss.
She misses him at her day job
when she runs around town
robbing banks and
picking up handkerchiefs
that grandmothers drop on the ground.
He would pound
his manhood into a brick wall
if it moved like her,
but the skin-and-bones combo
woos him to coo at her
as swarms of sparrows
nest in her ***** hair.
Spit shined shoes and
riding leaves blown on the air,
she dreams of him awake,
listless eyes alive and pulsing
behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus.
She makes magic potions out of the scents
left over on one of her
mismatching pillow cases.
He tastes like roasted red peppers
and lingering mace:
her eyes water as she
chokes back ***** daintily,
like a queen.
His eyes gleam mean as
he steals her breath to
add it to his bursting bank account,
releasing her to give her back only gasps,
the 2% interest.
She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps,
but he sees her as a phantom,
creeping through the floorboards,
a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
It's a thunderstorm when the both of us are together
It'd probably be easier if we were birds of a feather
Sparks flew off the first time we met
It wasn't much of a story, it started off as a bet
We both know it's wrong but we can't stay apart
Pulling the trigger will only take us to the start
No lubricant in the world can ease the friction in between
If I'm the king babe you're the queen
It's suicidal, it's catastrophic; that's all that is in store
These frantic moments of kamikaze love is what I live for...
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
scrawled on public lav wall
expression of desire
meet for cockfun
bring own lubricant
hateful avarice
petty meanness
**** OFF FATFACE
Good, innit?
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
Smoking is a working class disease
They said; he smiled at this.
Lean in body and broad of mind
With shirtsleeves rolled,
A modern man's philosopher
Who stuttered over the words
Like his fingers did over her chassis
Detroit rolling iron beneath his palms
Grease and lubricant under the nails.
The cigarette cherry glows in the dark
Giving him a hard edge aura
The gloaming settling into the lines
Of his work-worn face
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
A bustling of noses and wind blown hair
gloating over goats which bleed
calculable blood.
One pence, two pence, three
and there’s a crowd surrounding
a tunic at the top of the stairs.
Oil was discovered, covered
by a man in a tunic
sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming
in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding
lubricant beneath stands and markets,
and marketing water.
Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper,
prop her against the boards
and rest the nail against her temple,
temple where a man in tunic
flipped markets like gear-grinds
unearthing oil in fire
exploding jelly purple dye,
dying is the goat upon
the stage
on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
The stench of battery acid in the morning
The slippery lubricant of littered snakeskin on the floor
Trash that once found liberation, salvation in the motion of its use
Now limp, lifeless, devoid
Abandoned without muscle.
The shadow of our wicked forms, braced against the balcony edge
Nerves alight, take fire. The steepest bet, a wager of the deranged sense
And that smell. It hangs in the air, still
Engulfs you as the animal sense is heightened. Without reason, all is pleasure,
All is primitive.
Out on the veranda, Diana dances. Part impulse, part stimulant. Her dimples stretching wider, farther apart as continents. Her hips convulsing
Man with the long hair, "You burn you burn"
Oh mother, we were created equally. Together in one cruel, carbonate mass of malcontent motives, of wicked intent. Selfishness attracts selfishness.
We are but a refrigerator door full of strange magnets, gleaming. Your southern fingers,
Dancing a slow tango down my spine. Your grip, lowering, sweaty and deliberate
Oh viper.
The texture of freshly cut grass and ***** crusted over bare toes. All smells of peppermint,
Bitter citrus flower.
Woke up in the morning, dowsed in kerosene
Rose petals sticking to the roof of my mouth
"There is no heaven, no hell," he said. Only us.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 1:27 PM UTC
That lonesome crater
can never be filled
with anything but
settling dust.
I let my orbit speak for me
in a complex elliptical pace
always alternating closer
and then farther away.
No one ever goes out there
and that’s exactly why
the bombs are tested where
empty golden sand and white snow
can be painted by the incandescent
glow of a quadrillion campfires
and antiseptic Christian innocence
won’t sphincter-pinch the
fusion out of my audience
with its extra organs
providing their intoxicating vitamins.
How I don’t need lubricant!
I need hubris-can’t!
I need lubri – can!
How I don’t need wine!?!
I need wherene!?!
I need howne!?!
I am tired of ******* the last leg of this race.
I want to exchange my passioff for something…
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
C'est oui, paste away, we make do, duty calls
Le Bourgeois gentilhomme
(French pronunciation: [lə buʁʒwa ʒɑ̃tijɔm],
From the troves of our public domain,
what did you wish you had known,
when you had that chance
at Jeopardy, one chance,
if a wish were truly wished,
we occur to some as riverwise twisted
fibers from longer ago than local time science
allows, you suppose allowing belief with reason,
cause of pain is pain relief, loser role attained,
proof of past trauma drama as collect sets. Points.
Scoring. Exact.
Past out act/ Bam/slap play slips into Chris Hart,
o we all recall him, he did that slapping body music,
and did not comb his hair for a year or so,
-not him, the kid from Orm, the dean's kid.
so in your reader mind, you have a few clues, times
and seasons seen from distant bubbles still,
- Reagan's daughter attended Orm. Datafact.
time slips, mental lubricant for safe letting.
All forms go out be come standard, it is the object.
Like that, or this, to ways to sense make and so
many more point from which one may choose to see.
McLuhan bolted, as I learned the ropes and gears
years ago, a kind of ******** in and out,
with pressing walls, closing in and teeny, tiny holes,
shine so bright as day explodes camera obscura,
on the inner wall on the backside of our eyes,
mindtimespace stirred into a foam,
the old saying, put a head on it, meant something
to sailors in the beer commercials.
I got advice from Ziggy's therapist {that's amindscrew}
in the funny papers, we all saw the truth freeing
knowledge that everyone knows,
nobody is as happy as people in beer commercials.
Mar 26, 2023
Mar 26, 2023 at 5:48 PM UTC
The early morning bounced through hallucinations
A rope of insanity hangs by the joker’s throat,
The room began to close inside my realm
I looked up and the barrel was poignant,
A dream hidden between the moon and the stars.
The force of reality, common man hold on to the pill of fear
Crawled the streets of jubilee, indulge a conversation with white pages,
Empty formalism beneath the walls of a theater,
Too much to unravel in the world of a crying love
Pealing before my eyes, one at the time, the novelty of the breeze
Life e is too short for regrets, the heart broken dance inside a bottle
All is above the pain, the lubricant of a vineyard, driven carefully by the lost
Gather the brave sitting inside the front lines,
My ink drowning inside an ice cube
The nakedness of a ballerina working through satin ropes
Strangest reality of loneliness,
Nearly routine of plunging underneath honesty
The excavation of words left me breathless,
A peaceful ride encounters the nobility of a human heart,
The honey love goes though gates, the water of life, lift a notion of cruelty
A gatekeeper silently whispers to rain forcing
The promised of God to intervene for the sake of salvation
Atonement commence inside a brain wave of devastation
Heavy lost of hands under a clear path ideology…
Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC
***** suckin the devils ****
feels like **** with no lubricant,
so stick it in im used it.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
And he sleeps
Amongst the fisherman,
And the cab drivers,
And he's with me at midnight
Where the devil's hour draws
Closer to the lone sidewalk
And we are all ghosts
And I'm on the edge
Of a proverbial cliff and he's
There with me.
And he is no longer
Jesus of the Chapel
But of the slum dwellers,
Of the motocycle bikers,
Of the sodomites mentioned in
Howl and thought to
Roam the nights unsatiated.
That God.
The one I'm looking for.
The savior with an armsling
And an extensive knowledge
Of ***********
Every position every crack
Every twist and turn.
That God
Who baptized needles pinned
Freshly to tattoos
And made theologians
Out of tax collectors
And Jesus
Whose nails
Were used to tattoo
The words "King" grisly
On his forehead
And he was chiseled
On a cross,
Not hung.
Spurs on his feet licked
Like lapdogs by tongues
Hungry still for love,
Laying at the foot of the
Memory Jesus,
Crying,
All adulterers and profaners
And cheaters and liars all,
Who laugh
And sneer and snipe
In disbelief at his memory.
Ours.
At his clean, pierced hand
Slowly turning to ash
At the weight of our
Ink, face turning to bulletholes
As the chests decay
Into some kind of
Gang war amalgamation,
Tongues swollen,
Organs numb,
***** pierced with rose thorns
And rubbed with alcohol
And lubricant and
Sharp fingernails.
And we weep
As we are transfigured in return,
Each wound a closing scar.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
the devil, It asked me too, and
I obliged with great charisma
A welcoming gesture:
Dinner
Drinks
Dancing
Laughter
Each minute lubricant tempting
anticipation in impatient people
Because why not?
The house is so quiet without the cries.
My head, so empty without the dreams.
The bed so still.
Still, I don't know you.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC