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Cindy Long Aug 2017
I look at my purple and yellow flesh.
Smile at the memory of where you have been.
The harsh and heavy marks of our love.
I bite my bottom lip and press my thighs tight.
Stifle moans from the ache it brings.
Explosions raddle my brain and i wish to be with you again.
I trace the indention of rope along my wrists.
The thin line between pain and pleasure.
How we crossed it; played hop-scotch with it.
I giggle to the excitement of my battered soul.
The snap and crack of a flogger on my back.
Spiders crawl down my spine with the words,
"You are mine."
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
For
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
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.
Johnny Noiπ Aug 23
ever notice how the prettiest pretty girls always
have that one glaring, insignificant imperfection;                  I love that
I look down at the crevass’d, shape-shifting, transmogrified ruin that is mate’s pelvis, peppered with poppy fields, and I do not believe it is possible to obtain inner peace when incessantly interrogative of the world on the coast where large grasshoppers penetrate deep the wet, wet earth like planted candy-canes in hemispheric snow; through Winnie and Paradise Island we vaccuum the PM2.5 for the N/E in lung — the spool shopboys.
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