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Sara Kellie Dec 2017
A subtle panic like a slow death creeps, the anxiety within me, for here's where it sleeps.
Quietly loud enough to cover the sound, of the glassware you've thrown, now strewn all around.
Rocking all positive lullaby's to sleep, ensuring all menacing thoughts I'm to keep.
It's adept like the teen who's stayed out beyond curfew, sneaks in armed with oceans with which it will drown you.
All because of the lies that were said, went in through your ears and lived in your head.
The life you once had held aloft like a prize, you breathe your last breath and then close your eyes.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Just feelings but I feel them.
Francie Lynch Feb 2017
Red herrings tend to be trustworthy,
But lead us astray.
Orange orangutans are trustworthy:
If it looks menacing, it is;
If it grunts, it's meaningful;
If it moves, it's unpredictable.
In captivity they're studied
As evolutionary wonders,
But it's still an orange orangutan,
Pounding his chest.
Livaille Oct 2017
flowing river, crashing rain
together troubles sow,
       yet do not mend.

a silent sorrow,
sullens sour solitude.

light mist envelopes autumn,
west wind waves the water,

wind follows blade,
blade follows rain,
rain follows clouds.

soundless slashes scatter clouds,
blossoms fall on flowing water.

memory of spring dazes gaze,
alters flow as whirlwind dashes,

summer's sunlight sets,
dual waltz of lotus leaves,
in memory of cherry blossoms.

blurred shadow forms a phantom,
menacing mist chases hurtling haze,
snow sinks deeper than a dream of snowy winds.
CK Baker Oct 2017
a slow walk up centennial
and i still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the turkish blend and dust pack

a novice mixed duet plays
brahms on broken strings
an erhu and overcoat
veiling the blue heeler and sphinx

maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home bedford falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
There is something sickening about Christmas
On the edge between tears and bliss
Not being able to fulfill what I need for real
"December" by Ben Gibbard and stuff
every Christmas it kind of comes back

If you leave me
I can already read it
Messages with the "seen" infamous tick
It's my Christmas omen
Coming back at me
My Christmas fear
A perfect timing for the perfect pain
The most crippling one, meant to be today
Lonely, confused, torn in two

There is something threatening about Christmas
Hidden in subterfuges and empty laughter
Filled with air
A hint of loss, with all meanings of the word
something dangerous grows in my soul
I kick it with my boots, but it scares me as the first one

There is something fearsome about Christmas
The pain that all might (in fact it does) go wrong
By your hand, my broken heart
My broken mind, that? I can do alone
There is something dark about Christmas
Something blind and shapeless but existent
I can't even begin to explain
I simply sweat it away
I simply fight it away
I simply survive
Sometimes it hurts...every now and then

But...the lights in the street
The people smiling, in the periphery of my eyes
The periphery is all, encompassing the whole
But...I am coming alive
Your love, your kiss does
Sweetest thought of this menacing season
for this girl that writes
zebra Jan 2017
im full of my self
a cacophony
of unsavory menacing
radiating ideation's
of the twilight

color me
darkness

when ever i see
six six six
i always think
*** *** ***

petition the church
for my exorcism
cleans me oh lord
i need an enema
purge me
of small thoughts
and big talk
perhaps
i could be good
like
nice weather
a phone number
or
a
*******
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2014
They swarm in
Their thousands,
Moving as one,
Erratic it seems,
Rolling and undulating,
Rippling like a
wave on the sea,
Traversing the Valley
And Hillsides,
Seeking plunder,
In their numbers.
A well rehearsed
Sky dance perhaps.
A demonstration of
superior, formidable
and menacing forces.

Soon the air cannons
Will boom
And echo.
Hired men will walk
Among the vines,
Banging on metal pans,
Firing shotguns.
The swarms you see,
Wants the fruit.

Starlings care nothing,
for aged fermented,
Fine Pinot Noir,
By the glass,
Or bottle.
The grapes their prize.
Nor are they concerned
with the efforts of man,
Or his air cannons.
What is noise to them,
When fat sweet grapes
Are in plain view?

The war of the Vineyards',
A yearly event.
Starlings are not native to North
America. In the early 1900s some
well meaning fool introduced
some 200 of the winged wolves into
Central Park in NYC.

Today they are everywhere
and in their multitudes. More
than merely a nuisance, a plague
upon the land. Billions of them!
Hitchcock made a movie inspired
by them. They are even a colorless
bird, purely unattractive to behold,
a bird of no worth except to ravage
and disturb.
e Oct 2018
in the midst of all the chaos,
my darling, i still fought for you.

but you raised your **** white flag
and welcomed the striking blow of the
sword before i could even run to you
to save you from the menacing blade
that so effortlessly took you away
from me.
we could have won the battle against your own demons. we could have made it.
You never told me you see angels and hear them talk.
I often hope you're ok.
After all,
I see the fallen one a lot.

In my reflections watching me,
Surfing on glass, menacing black,
Young demon with his eyes aghast.

He'll glide across the room, astride my path.
Or just hide out in a corner, he's got my back.

An angel who fell from his lord's command,
With him went a third of every ethereal man.

A being who sought to break his chains. A man, and
his master, malicious. His oppressor won the war
and portrayed him as an accuser, a seducer and
a heavenly persecutor. I understood that tale

had personal application, and I knew
I would not be missed.
So personal it became that the person split.

His soft-spoken voice
chants life's answers
to my beckoning ear.

Passers-by would never meet my eyes.
His orbs look to find purchase, and terrify.
He scares them, and I feel a wonderfully sick thrill
in my veins.
The sly and the slick.

Not a devil, a man.
Albeit, a devilish man.
Sardonic eyes brimming with mirth.
The eyes of the dammed that I forged,
Pupils dilated in mock delight,
Content with the way the wind blows,
In the pursuit of happiness at every turn.

I reconfigured instincts and subjugated mind.
I forged new philosophies to temper with time.
I killed all that was past in a merciful blink of the eyes.

Ascending to daemonhood as I fell from up high,
After the fall will come the rise; we, the fallen.
zebra Oct 2017
there we where
me and my girl
Vavavavoom
speeding on a curving dark road

she
silky luscious
falling all over me
like a chinchilla fur

it was a menacing and stormy night
we pulled up
to the dimly neon lighted
Rag **** Paradise Motel
and adjacent diner
the Creepy Pasta Restaurant
that looked like a blinking furnace
where reality doesn't care what happens
and hemorrhages chaos
like a flushing toilet
at the end of the line

a location
that only exists for a few minutes
planted to create an illusion
to nourish self deception
a crime without a criminal
a continuity of the nothing
yet in it
an inevitable unfolding of consequences
like a scream scattered throughout the cosmos
a good place to curl up for the night
a point of departure on a lumpy rolling bed
as we vanished beneath the sheets
Inspired Jean Baudrillard
melinoe immortal Jul 2018
Selene.

By the sea, I have been staring,
at your bright colours change.
Erythematous, murderous intentions of
a disease disseminating
on your surface.

The slow, penetrating anguish
tearing the guts,
a one-sided, disdained,
newborn sadness,
I am welcoming in my arms.

On the operating theatre of life
white and now dead moths,
stillborn butterflies
inside the flesh removed,
drowned themselves in a pool of blood.
They, an absurd joy
that never stood a chance
inside this cyanide prison.

Portals of loaned,
disillusioned happiness closed.
The liquid that raced turbulently
through my vessels, drained on a half-filled
with tears palette.

With menacing, impasto knife-like strokes
on the body
Morpheus painted the shadow-covered moon
with memories that refuse to be forgotten
from purulent, open wounds.
'Those worlds you will (never) see.
The people you will (never) meet' he said.

Soul chemicals eroding
the behemoth sky,
as the paint dries out.
Ashes of my Dreams (Not) Achieved,
astral remains;
everything I silently kept inside.
Evan Stephens Nov 2017
Silver-sided rattle,
a humble streak climbing
the hill in small doses.
Blue teardrop seats,
steel and yellow poles,
broad-eyed windows that offer
the view of things that the subway
will never give.

I've seen fistfights,
a baby born, overdoses,
old women falling asleep,
old men screaming wordlessly,
junkies scrambling for pills
dropped underfoot,
tourists grappling with the geometry
of this unknown language,
all of it.

Vibrating with a menacing stumble,
it attracts everyone. It promises
a view and a destination.
It's better to go through the world
than to sink below it.
guy scutellaro Feb 2018
when I walk towards the dog his eyes follow my every step.
eyes  blue like hard candy. lips curled above white fangs
smile at me with a smirk of someone who has awakened
from a bad dream.

I think I hear him sigh and as I kneel beside him. His cold eyes catch some light from the pulsateing drum bar sign.
"what do you see?" I ask. "what can you feel?"

Inside the bar I order a shot of bourbon and as I put the bourbon to my lips I see the dog standing on a barstool next to the fireplace. His lips are contorted tightly above its teeth and his eyes pulsate red light. After staring in disbelief the impossibility of situation dies. His eyes flash quickly several times. He knows me .

I order 2 shots of bourbon and walk over to were the mutt was sitting. He is not there and I'm beginning to wonder if I have imagined the dog when I feel something ice cold rubbing against my leg,  I look down. The mutt winks at me. I crouch down to put the glass of whiskey in front of him. Then I touch my glass to his.
"I've learned to moan without making a sound. " I tell my friend as his stiff tongue stubbornly licks up the bourbon.

He slowly turns his big ****** head towards me. "Out of the lowest the highest reaches his peak,"  his hoarse voice whispers. Causiously I stroke his head. He growls but it is not too menacing. it becomes more like a contented humming. The faster I caress the louder the droning becomes. His eyes dilate and I become mesmerized watching them grow from a warm yellow radiance to a terrifying hot white.

And with a vicious snap the dog sinks his teeth into my hand.

I **** my hand loose. Quickly I stand up and punt kick the little ******* into the fireplace. My wounds are deep but bloodless. A cold numbness  travels up my arm, into my chest, and down to my toes.

And just when I 've lost all feeling. I begin to burn. The fire is burning me from the inside out so no one knows how I feel.
Instead I stare at the dog in the fire place as steam rises from his head. His eyes flash at me three or four times.

I give him the finger.

When I walk into the poolroom, I put quarter on the table. It is a crowded room of tired faces unable to radiate any light of their own.

"The fire has consumed me. The true believer of snow and sad faces, I am a shell."

I am confused, frightened. I hear the words as if they are my thoughts. But then across the room hidden in a dark corner I discern the silhouette of the mutt. His eyes are shut but I can faintly see his subtle smile.

It's my game so pretending as if nothing has happened I select a pool stick. A tall man in a leather jacket comes over and tells me it is his game.

we argue.

And the dog's voice groans, "No matter what you dream it'll end in ashes or ice. Hit him with the pool cue." The next thing I know I'm slamming the pool stick into the man's face. Blood rushes from his wound. People rush from the shadows. hands grab me. Punch and kick me. I'm dragged to the door and tossed into the gutter.

Semiconscious, sometimes dreaming, I roll over and face the dog.
From the shadows someone comes behind me I try to roll over to see the voice but cannot.

"What does this world consist of?" The voice whispers into my ear. "Empty lots, a dead dog, and visions of the night."
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