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eatmorewords Jan 2013
Signposts at the crossroads point in all directions

like skeletal fingers

like ghosts moving across a tundra of white

like thin skin that you see through

like rice paper held against the sun

like your hand that shows veins that run like tributaries

into the delta on your metacarpus

flecked with freckles

where small hairs stand on end.
ArianaRusso May 2014
The sounds of the city

she was so young
only sixteen
walking in solitude til hell freezes over
Always, always a cigarette hanging out out of her mouth
sweet smoke just a poke

Promenading me and my shadow
Offbeat gazes
brusque antiphon

vague tracks of paces left from penitence foot prints

She wants to stupefy
she wants to feel without a hitch Numb

Emerging out of the pavements of south philadelphia a metacarpus grasps onto her oxford
Dragging her to the subways of the city

Underfoot, underground

Who’s the conductor?
Who’s driving the train of anarchy

At a screaming halt, the train stopped
the metacarpus flings her off
fall

she scrapes her knee to see she’s remaining at the same locus
Unaltered

Where’d  she go, she dont’ know
Arise!
She continued to linger through the streets

Julliet wanted romeo but romeo wanted another
Lifes a toy
she desired just a boy, maybe then life would be a joy

tooth for a tooth
bleed for me
a desire to conspire, a must for a bit of lust
Tiffany Bourlet Feb 2011
On a night of fate,
a celestial being manifested,
a set of golden optics,
Shared a moment with a set of blue.

Shaking metacarpus,
soft against an elated visage.
two minds, two bodies.
two souls, two mates.

Breaths of desperation,
words wrapped around a vascular piece,
Forcing them to stay,
not to say. No; never to say.

the stars are crossed,
a with held fate,
Forbidden to love,
a censored verse, a poet corraled.

Began a word of truth,
Hold it dear to our souls,
and letting go will never be,
on a night of fate.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.

You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.

But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.

This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!

Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...

Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.
No need to correct me, I'm well aware the Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton duel was with pistols, not swords. Just thought I would take a little poetic license.
Vikshipta Jun 2017
These frail mane still smells of coffin nail.
Hands..Struggling with metacarpus to trade the manus ..
stretch. scratch. Twirl.
Orbs: wide and wrathful:
Fluctuating the pupils
left and right
| Mad mad |
Concerntating on these screams..
screams into le noir lughole .
THERE!
I grasp your fluttering wings.
Oh you flutterer !
fluttering on C.
Fluttering hushed ..
Fluttering hasten..
fluttering to strive for nooks and blood.
Oh you flutterer!
erroneous target thee choosed.
Smash. Squeeze.
Alas!
now ease into mine ichor palms.
Death is inevitable. But somes, they are meant for it...THE EXTIRPATION
Seranaea Jones Mar 2021
-

on the Sea of Tranquility sits
evidence of alien visitors
to this world ;

underneath one of the footings lie
the crushed remains of an indigenous
being who was delivering a message

inside a six-fingered metacarpus
entanglement is a wrinkled sheet
of aluminum with the following
etched in broken Earthling—

"we never sent invitations
and we never asked you
for anything–

Please,
               go home..."



s jones
2021

.

— The End —