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Got Guanxi Feb 2016
I am the key to the lock in your house

You burned a hole in my heart
Where the arteries flow.
And the veins are
blocked
like gutter drains,
No one can pass -
through the Red Sea,
A no go area.
A hairline fracture into a million capillaries,
Split arteries to take each feeling individual to the tips of my skin.
Still covered beautiful
but a nails cuticles,
Impaled on a cross resembling a torso.
Hollow bones that play like xylophones
In the tombs of hidden organs that echo
&
resonate through the decay of a necrophiliacs playground.
Dislocated limbs swing round a rib cage,
Splinters shatter the skin revealing the droplets of blood that pour like rain and tears combined.
Twist past as they gloop through a cutlets spine.
Always on my mind,
always on my mind.
Cobwebs of memories,
Embedded in a decayed gut,
Dug up like skeletons in cemeteries to find the remedy or medicine to plug the bullet shaped holes you made in my heart.
Part of a six piece series I'm considering posting  over the following weeks inspired by the song climbing up the walls by Radiohead - a feeling that never left me.
Rachel Elizabeth Mar 2013
You carefully destroyed me

Uncovered the most tender parts of my core with detective kit compliments

Places where I never let anyone feed.

You gnawed on the clitoral soul that I thought I buried years ago

Until I lay sprawled beneath you, no pulse.

Necrophiliacs like us best when we cannot match their heaving breaths

Or reach out to wipe the sweat off their brow, induced from fear of poor performance.

How unfortunate for you that I am an empty casket.

Accustomed to cremation, I turned to ashes upon your final assault.

Try to grasp me again, I’ll slip through your fingers.

There isn’t an urn strong enough to keep a woman condensed
A work in progress.
A walking corpse, undead amongst a society of necrophiliacs.
Simon Soane Jun 2016
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs  miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.
Emily Hobza Feb 2014
Humans are ****** up.
We search and search for the approval of others.
     We coordinate clothes in order to get "that image."
     We make our music selections based on what everyone else is listening to.
     We don't shower because hygiene is so uncool.
     We starve our selves to get concaving clavicles.
     We boast of the ***** and drug abuse in order to appear "hard."
Why?
     Who cares what he/she is wearing if it makes them feel good?
     Why give two ***** if they don't know that band, it doesn't make them inferior or you superior?
     ******* shower, if you don't shower for own personal enjoyment then power to you but because "greasy hair is in" isn't acceptable because I can tell you, it's not.
     Collarbones aren't hot or romantic, the only thing deep about them is the depth, very few people like to cuddle skeletons, maybe necrophiliacs but if you want to cuddle a necrophiliac then good luck to you.
     Being a heavyweight, smoking ****, cigarettes, hard drugs aren't ******* cool. If you do them then do it for yourself and not because you want other people to know you do them.
Riddle me this,
     If we accepted ourselves for the clothes we wear, the choices we choose, the body we've been bestowed, and everything we are, then would we need others' approval?
    Is having an image all that great? Think about it, your image in the mirror, you dissect it until you want to change almost everything about yourself.
    I understand that I am the worst hypocrite of them all because I have yet to approve of myself but that's me. I accept that. Can you?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
hacking _ cutting #6
really, it's all about rhyming?!
if it rhymes it's this
art form?
        really? if it rhymes,
it qualifies?
no wonder this "art form" is
currently on life-support
machines,
turning into necrophiliacs;
i can't believe that rhyming
is all that defines poetics,
esp. given the current vein
of journalistic endeavour...
last time i heard,
poetry was both beside
crafting rhymes,
as it was beside crafting novels,
it was one of the things,
in that cartesian / heraclitaen
mixology of an up-kept
continuum of thought:
a sudden pause / a sudden
breath...
  i still can't believe poetry is
rhyme-centric...
      as if poetry really needed to
be easily identifiable...
which it is, when rhymed...
well, **** me, should it also become
grecian, and thereby prosaic to boot!
or perhaps it was just that,
to begin with?
      perhaps this "science"
of writing, was never to be
limited by rubrics of "identifiable
constraints";
it's almost no wonder that
people enjoy poetics,
english teachers killed it,
   telling people to aspire
to a broken arm castes of rigid
insurance of observable technicalities,
rhyme over spontaneity!
rhyme over spontaneity!
      poetry is disgusting these days,
because it settled into
a pose of being "scientific" -
in fact poetry is overly scientific,
which is written, without
any scientific terms, such as noun,
pronoun, verb...
   whereas poetry ought to be a free arm
venture, it's nothing more than
an arm within a caste...
apparently it's only when sentences
rhyme, that there's an identifiable
poetics being presented...
what a horrid scenario to undertake.
of course i'm *******! i went out to scout into the world! on the high street some new supposed fools: what were once the Europeans are not the Africans with their manic street preachings... and i only saw one supposed Christian: and he was unluckily me... and i felt so **** about it that made me feel slow and mollusk-esque... and i didn't like the idea of the fathomability of reducing my thinking to the schematic of religion... i felt like a woman i hoped to ignore and more inclined to sort out dust from sand with... glorious burp: i wait for the night: and who would have thought... the gatekeepers would absolve the parallels of the dynamics of the new age of the printing press: yes, thank you, no thank you... we don't need you being our gatekeepers...  you... are... excused... no one gave you the memo? oh... well... i do this **** for free! i'm sort of half-joking about it... ha ha!

no, i can't fathom numbers as indistinguishable from
letters after all
it is letters that gave birth to numbers
and there's testimony from the ancient world
whereby VI IV          is X
and somehow modernity allowed numbers
to be disguised from their origins of
surds...
however many tantrums of mutation
an iota is 1 I
3 is E 2 is Z 5
and perhaps that's just how it was supposed
to morph...

       yes... religion is to women what philosophy
is to men:
i mean men... i don't mean:
feminists and opportunistic normancy necrophiliacs
with fears of the schizoid-bilingual experience
saying this
i was walking on my first proper weekend
off trying to get dollars for a trip
to Hawaii via San Frisky
$700 in $20s, $10s, $5s and $50 worth in $1 dollar
bills because
i'm catching up to the the tipping culture
what a load of *******:
why aren't you people tipping the supermarket
cashiers
why is it only certain jobs that get tipping
what a load of ******* i don't get this
added tax!

m'eh m'eh blah blah
i'm missing a Welsh comeback in the 6 Nations
and that means what? the Irish will not win the grand-slam
but more important: the Calccuta cup...
and O my knee cup my knee...
my back aches
am i going to marry Christ's *****:
fair enough
but i'm not going to be Christ's *******
i'll just ******* that crucifix while
he was even then hanging and refused
the centurion imploring him:
have some wine...
funny how at the zenith the wine wasn't turned
into magic wonder dust...

because my aversion to ******* his intellect
off stems from my childhood and it was
inbuilt from the start and it was nothing to do
with the weakness of Christian civilization
esp now because that supposed Alpha Omega
and Beta and Sigma male gave what purpose
to starting a family life?!

oh but the Muslims are not off the mark...
the males **** suckling on Muhammad's preaching
on the high street with people engaged
in cannibalism and the daily routine of not arguing
about the price of eggs...
persuading me to understand Islam...
i was almost asked...
but if they asked me
i would have replied:
my former girlfriend was almost killed
in the 7/7 bombings... she missed the bus
that exploded...
you want me to convince me,
make me understand... "something"?
true story... i just hide it... because why bother
with the past when we're all strangers
and trying to get along
as farmers, police officers, postmen
and ******?!

well... if women need religion so much
then men need philosophy:
unless they are these weird takes on masculinity
and like the adherents of Islam
can't see the powergrab of the women
in Niqabs... how they can Ninja their way
out of any responsibility...
or anything...
            almost a shame of not seeing them
overflowing glutton of the western canon
and shameless
just this hidden truth of the lost enigma
of the ****** and the unfreezing of niggz and eggs...
just a little flow just a little dance
but i distrust men who have religion
as their crutch
and that mantra blah blah
the crows are speaking more intelligence
but only crow their cra-cra-croak-and-creaking
unoiled doors to a reality of the Ancients...

so the afternoon: prior to night goes...
i'm still finding it funny to
be given a stone and two birds to hit...
a lover almost my mother in terms of how
time works...
and a daughter that is mine that isn't mine
when what's called biographical ownership
of the deed... ha ha...         completely missing!
way way ahead of any future oops!
or ****(s).

— The End —