It doesn't have to be healthy,
Only street corner poison;
Teeth marks,
Maybe something broken.
It's not about what it is,
But what it leaves.
The quiet skin beneath your sleeve,
The fire that sings me to sleep.
Danielle L Cook Jul 2017
you branded me
angry red marks soiling soft skin
my body now a cage to the wild soul within

and like a stallion, i love you more when i'm broken
English Jam Apr 12
Sitting in some car in a forgotten parking lot
Grey marks the skies
Lush green plants peeping in
The wildlife of concrete and paint makes the perfect background
Little balls of liquid heaven falling on my windscreen
And some music to complete the scene
Each guitar line synchronises with each raindrop
Each blast of power thunder hits hard like heavy metal
But the soft clouds, the gentle ebb and flow lull me to sleep
Whispering, persuading me to dream
But I really don't want to miss this shard of time
I never want to lose little moments like these

A silver raindrop is born by landing on my car
Crash landing, rather
The bubbling pocket of mystery travels down
Swerving and slamming into other fellow pockets in crime
It's life cycle completes when it reaches the bottom
It races to it's death, unable to stop gravity's plan for it
Each drop morphs into another, making a wave
The rain weaves an intricate web of waves
All strutting their sparkly magic before me
I sense a metaphor for humanity creeping in
Millions of crescendos growing about
Too concerned with their internal politics to worry about others
But I stay focused on the beauty all around

I wonder if heaven has rainy days
If so, this must be one of them
I couldn't come up with a title for this one so...
Keith Faherty Oct 2016
weight of the world sitting dumbly on
those fructose eyelids.

They, in turn.      melt into the mummified  

laying in the corner forever like a
ruined in the wash.
Every other stripe on you is stained pink
some cheap volunteer tee that fucked              up
The whole load.

Each ray from the blinds
Takes some life away.

Searing past you- into the floorboards
quiet fury.

Time passes_
It shoves us down into compact spaces.
I thought of you
In a shoplifter's prayer.

(There is something left that evaporates out in the form of you)

I imagined you
But growing
Crystal salts
Crusting up the pores of the earth.

Vapors fumbling upwards to rehydrate
My dry fingers_

We make decisions . that stick around.

We break off blisters. Rip little things that hang off our lips.
We take breaks before we need them.
Take too long to say
Fuck this.


Somewhere out there, they are screaming loud.

Somebody either cares or

The marks on the carpet know better than
How to last forever
English Jam May 12

A delicately placed glove upon a hand, mock-gentle and pale
Marks his return
Emerging from the shell of feedback and tortured sounds

Carelessly shattering the eyes of doubters, until they softly thrash for mercy, wailing in an unearthly manner

Taking violent pleasure in crumbling love to a rubble, making the remains march to his fascist regime, his sexualised abuse, his blistering dictatorship

His tongue is dry, his jawline jagged like a strip of fresh metal, his fingers slender and spidery
He strides silently, yet none can miss it, seizing attention in a
heil-ish fascion

His iron grip dredges my thoughts, infecting my hopes with his overflowing venom

He thrusts his black ink that peppers my skin with thousands upon thousands of dots, encasing my body, filling my mouth, prohibiting my free will

Twisting me to spiral downwards into his imagination
I descend into the darkness

The darkness ripped from my most volatile, filthy nightmares

The darkness that laces the web of black holes, that decimates any shred of light it can find, deliberately, harshly

My centre of gravity follows him to the sewers of the abyss, a cesspool of pain and stylised sexuality undiscovered by light

Everything starts swirling around him, revolving as though he is a star and all else is the merest of planets that are his to command

I'm going down now
I'm going down
I'm going dow-
James Khan May 6
God is the Kool-Aid

And Satan's the straws

And Jesus the janitor,

Mopping the floors,

Madrassas the mistresses,

Churches the whores,

The succubi sympathy

Steeped through your pores,

The marks of the martyr,

The weals and sores,

Cathartic stigmata,

The holy fucking intercourse,

Avarice, violence, compliance

To biased laws,

We all fall down and bow

To our barren cause,

'In receivership',

The sign on Heaven's doors,

Baillifs are in

And they're closing down stores,

The assets are stripped and then sold

To ambassadors,

Egotists with a list,

An amendment, a clause,

Struck blind

By the holy fucking metaphors,

Wheel it in, that gift

Of a Trojan Horse,

Open it up and admit

The insurgent force,

Prophet for profit

As ethics divorce,

Fresh blood washed up on the shores

Of Paradise-fields

Where angels kneeled in remorse,

The cold womb

Of the faith that never thaws,

Full of the guile

Of infertile menopause,

Sharpen your claws and a round

Of overzealous applause

For the uproar-soiree,

This grim foray

Like a painting by Doré,

You still want it your way?

Well, stand the fuck up

And step into the doorway,

We'll say you're au fait

With the games that the Lord plays,

Pray to discord

And we'll sing 'That's Amore'.
Happiness just dots upon the slate
wandering life for marks of chalk
for true happiness we wait
whether we run or we walk

We stress and my god do we worry
over matters both large and small
our joy coming in flurries
anticipating the times when it calls

All of our lives seen as lines
with all it's skip marks and fears
measured in bliss for those times
holding each other so dear

Grasp them whether their old or new
and etch the marks in your mind
rare and precious and few
hoarding every one that you find
It reminds me that there are fewer times of joy in life, than there are toils and pain. So I'll remember the signs, and relish the joy, that remains.
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