"proxy" poems
This is how it goes
your hands will be proxy for mine
my hands will be proxy for yours
your fingers my fingers
and my fingers yours
what I describe, you enact
told in detail so exact
Just to begin
I squeeze your *******
knead and pinch
tweak a ******
give it a tug
Stroke your tummy
work over your thighs
move up the inner
where skin is smooth
circle around, moving in
till soft contours are caressed
through pants that burn
to be removed
that pain you to wear
and I see in my mind
as you describe
the spreading, darkening patch
that fills the gusset
Now they're pulled down
removed quickly, completely
and you are revealed
spread, opened, shameless
Gentle fingertips tease
dance in circles, barely touching
yet the fire within grows
back and forth, round and round
dance the fingertips
as both reciprocate
with growing pace
and firmer touch
I hear you gasp down the line
and your breathing quickens
as you hear mine
as your excitement fuels mine
as mine fuels yours
in our feedback loop of lust
And I tell you how
my fingertip would give way
to tonguetip if I could
that I can taste you
in my imagination
fragrant, salty sweetness
with musky undertones
the tip of my tongue now circling
then flicking back and forth
beating out the rhythm
that you best harmonise with
bringing forth your moans
Then darting down, back
between wet, glistening folds
exploring each ridge and valley
working remorselessly
Breathing faster now
with animal grunts and moans
directions of pleasure gasped
breathless down the phone
As fingers again
take the lead
find the opening
slip readily within
probe, explore, ****
find that place
on your front wall
yes, just that spot
that's a little rougher
and feels sooo goood
Add a second finger
working and *******
licking and rubbing
moaning and gasping
barely intelligible now
...yess...more...yess...ohhh
are all that have meaning
Finger three joins one and two
then the pressure builds
demanding release
and shaking and thrusting
grows to shuddering
and...yes...yesss...sooo clooose
******* faster furiously
till we both explode
hearing each other's
voicing of our ecstasy
in language intelligible
only in this one context
Brains and voices return
as we bask in the afterglow
and what passes between us then
in those moments
is the deepest intimacy of all
Cynthia Pauline Jones 01/02/2014
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
tiny glowing squares
penetrate my retinas
and spike into my brain
quick-fix pleasure migraine
[a drug, almost]
six-inch screen turned shrine
temple television:
be my proxy
mother
father
friend
and
lover
digital aura glow
comfort and sedate me:
tell me i'm beautiful
tell me i'm right
tell me you love me
tell me you'll never leave my side
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
Having defied gravity
(not me personally
but by proxy
namely through
a dog, monkey and Soyuz
and fruit flies and bullfrogs
and lately through NASA)
I defy humility
I brave it, I challenge it
for there’s too much hypocrisy
in humility
For humility is such
that it never speaks its name
For when it speaks of Humility
it is Sans Humility
Take me
for example -
you hardly hear me
mention myself as Saint Humility, do you?
But that’s what I am, my other name: Humility
But people keep insisting on calling me Saint Humility
But I defy Humility
POSTSCRIPT
I also defy repetition
and over-emphasis
and contradiction, paradox
But, it must not be left unsaid -
in defying humility,
I think I’ve also
quite inadvertently
defined humility: Saint Me
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC
relax, this is the future;
this subtle bludgeon,
this assault in tenderness
where we choose our own execution
relax, this is absolution;
this aloof intimacy,
this touching by proxy
where we cleanse our original sin
relax, this is heaven;
this calm tempest,
this dancing static
where we live through television
relax, this is experience;
this blind vision,
this attraction by opposites
where we dissolve ourselves in another
relax, this is understanding;
this shy exhibition,
this knowledge through innocence
where we swallow defeat
where i am a warrior,
and you are a priest
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 3:03 PM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
We haven’t spoken like we did,
Words feel like discarded currency;
Useless now, and inconsequential in hindsight.
Query into the why,
I respond with what,
Like a dam of unspokeness has burst,
And words flow past;
Powerful, but inevitably more destructive than I hoped,
Pushing away the life preserver I am offered,
I can do it alone, because that’s what it will come down to,
Dismissive of pessimism, you make claims of happy endings, so I refute:
“Babe, we’re fighting a cold war,
No one can win when there’s everything to lose.
Lines are drawn, allegiance implicit.
Unspoken resentment.
Vocal frustration.
A couple’s quarrel that never was,
Like Frankenstein’s monster,
The rearranged parts of our whole,
Pieces of fiction,
Light folly with cruel consequences,
Denial sets in,
My road to hell will always be paved with your best intentions.”
I will not hear, I will not see.
Willful disability,
Crippled with envy.
I am a monster with emeralds in her eyes,
Seeing the universe through glass tinted green instead of rose,
I am the monster who is thin and jagged,
Unable to produce my own warmth,
Cutting everyone near.
I am the monster who plays house,
The monster who wants it to be home,
The vicious beast with a place to rest its head,
It’s easy to be alone, but somehow less satisfying.
"My road to hell will always be paved with your best intentions.”
Our destruction is mutually assured,
No move is left unanalysed,
Hyperawareness.
Things we side aside before are the objects of argument;
Proxy wars.
I am a giraffe racing a gazelle,
Long strides mean nothing;
Beauty is the crowd favourite,
Tripping over my own limbs,
Tendons severed by chasing wildcats,
Falling, devoured, as beauty reaches the finish line.
Détente.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
The light of the television
dimly lit two
lovers,
but not really.
He stunk of wine
from the lips and
mauve teeth,
she stunk of wine
by proxy.
her legs, only slightly
unshaven, he stroked
gently, which they
both enjoyed, but
not really.
***** pots, plates, and
cutlery lay placid
in the sink.
They'll be washed
sometime soon,
and put away in
cabinets of wasted
white wood, very soon,
but not really.
The floor, like them,
began growing clothing
like wild moss or ivy,
and claimed the room
& claimed them too.
The movie, he'd recall,
but, then, she would
not.
He watched the blood,
and conflict,
and at times laughed,
and she saw him,
and conflict,
and didn't laugh at all,
which he knew was strange,
but not really.
On the dim, small, screen,
The lean and hungry man had his
Nemesis on the
sepia-tone ground,
and finished it all,
with rage and mercy,
with a stomp
to the
heart.
They watched, her eyes wide,
for she knew this was
them, her on the ground,
and him in the air, and she gripped
him a bit tighter,
which he noticed,
but not really,
which she noticed,
but not really.
In the dimly lit room,
they could not see
they were alone,
and it was true,
only Bruce Lee & He,
and She.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
Symmetry is what kills me
Everyday
Proxy and poking
All day all day all day
Symmetry is what kills me
Proxy and poking
What kills a lady
With a shuffling heart
Heart beats a pitter patter across a blood stream
Angles and ages
America, isn't the symmetry of my veins that carry my oxygen enough?
Why does the flesh
My mounted flesh
Purpose was to sheath me from the cold
Purpose is now askew
Mixed and messy
Even my perception is far from Symmetrical.
I apologize for my odd lips
Minor and minute
My DD faces
Is that not what the true face is?
The pink heads splayed across a globed smile and frown
Lopsided and all that matters
My true face is covered
But my true face is the object of obsession
My silly, silly old lips
My flappy *****
My rings of curly tresses galore
Symmetry still kills me, everyday.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
your "friends" that we meet,
i forget their names,
my calloused palms are greased,
by their squeezing hands
i remember one's a banker,
or he could have said a thief,
his ******** words were flanked,
by my misbelief
i was held hostage,
you were a smiling drone,
i remember when i lost
to Stockholm Syndrome
their Heirloom Suffix changes,
on tuxedos and trust funds,
my rental wears just fine,
i'm not the danger
shorting stocks on tuesday,
while playing ball in hand,
what a shame to lose me,
busted seams this man
I am not a banker,
I am not a saint,
I cannot to be trusted,
I won't place the blame.
I am not a proxy,
I am an astronaut,
But this distant world you live on,
Is far from my plot
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
staying the night
up high
in rainclouds
& I feel safe now
when I look down
the wide world
is so small.
we are all
tiny specimen
divinely dissected
subdivided into
lively sections
by wants by fires
by greed by needs
& secret desires;
one nation
under god’s feet
tired slaves perspire
unnecessarily
for possession
& obsess over
what they each acquire.
it is you, it is I,
and we are
frighteningly alike.
my attention’s quite untidy
all the time
my mind gets redirected
it walks like hell
& talks like heaven.
I am not well
I never have been.
but this hex is a blessing,
it’s too **** precious.
we are spilling
into the ocean
over the edges.
The Land is dead and
has been, days now.
I find it kinda pleasant &
I wonder if
they’ll ever
get around to
disinfecting the nest
of decaying flesh,
before it infests the rest,
y’know, the ones that got left.
rot is a pox
spread by proxy
& is not bonded
by neither
lock nor key; that’s like,
**** what you got
**** what you be
**** what you thought
what you think
what you see.’
**** you,
**** me,
**** everyone,
**** everything.
it’s lovely, it’s lovely.
I even think it’s kinda funny,
I laugh at nothing.
Oh, the irony
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
All birds
All birds should make noises
On tree branches with full choice
Loud or small but with nice melody
Naturally attention drawn at them by everybody
Of late I have lost little hope
The revenge and bloodshed doesn’t stop
In every street there is violence
Life has become hell since then
The change is must and welcome
Let it be blown from any direction and come
It must be encouraging with enthusiasm
There may appear some improvement with mechanism
We hear disturbing news
Worst affected countries may be hardly few
Yet it has witnessed lots of carnage
Blot on humanity and painted as dark page
It could have been avoided
Little concession would have been given or granted
What were they holing back and asking in return?
Little peace to live in and prosperity in turn
Who can be trusted upon?
Law protector or merely lip actors?
Honest military rulers or civilian representatives?
All are corrupt and wants to rule by proxy or relatives
Power is such a greed no one may want to leave
It has to be imposed on them forcefully to relieve
They want mass concentration of wealth and power
Rule over millions, keep them starved and poor
I wish no god may shower them with blessings
They have to flee the land and face the worst chase
No place for them to stay peacefully and alive
Alas! They could have earned blessings to survive
There can be no end to any kind of lust
Even animals may want or have it as must
We are human and should know about the result
Why not then it come peacefully without curse and insults?
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 8:34 AM UTC
Though I'm not in jail it all just feels the same
Waking up depressed told just not to complain
A shotgun to my head i feel like Curt Cobain
Not a literal sense, but the context sustains
I don't want money, success, not even some fame
I just want to learn to play this game
Each day it gets hard i just keep breathing
Wondering how the **** this happened, it feels like treason
From a comical skeptic to a reliable source
I question the water that was gave to the horse
Viewed as a sinner but always in doubt
"Read from the scripture and figure it out"
Nightmares keeping me awake like a proxy
SO many bad thoughts I wish I could get off me
Do your 12 steps Bob, everything is kosher
Yet I wake every night screaming still sober
A stranger does the same, and everyone wants to know her
A technicality set, a glimpse for closure
Different from most but related to some
I feel alone but second to none
Shaking again always be the **** up
"drinkings a sin" Always press my luck up
Some things I will never understand
But if it doesn't change I will be ******
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
damp roads at night pushing and pulsing light
whip soiled water onto pack and *** from back bicycle wheels rotating furiously out of purgatory out of bleary eyes of incandescence and towards the same eyes lit by patriotism or in another sense incarceration
wheels spinning straight and directionless
sore legs denying illusion of purpose purported by a between eyebrows headache only achieved through a blindfolded walk down memory lane keys jingling from a carabiner and a misplaced confidence self corrected before it was too late to realize that reality is difficult to handle with all 5 senses and a distinction between right and wrong and being left handed but not leftist because the only thing worse that being dumb is being spineless invertebrate vampires killing sheep in the prairie and funding proxy wars while fighting for who?
wheels spinning round and round keep insisting on idealism
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Yes, you out there wherever you may be
You try to steal our souls in poems
We know you, to the tee
What twisted motives to be us, by proxy, what cowardess you be
What an empty vessel posses you, such sadness, such despair
You pick our hard imagined fruit and not from your own tree
You clone our minds, like leaches on our skin
You wish us harm, you thieving ***
You wormy monster, a slug, next to kin
I curse you
I loath you
I hate you
You stealers of our youth
Betrayers of our written souls
What lacks is pride, and owners of the truth
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
For every leaf in Autumn’s fall
A child is lost without recall,
For every song that’s sung for love
A child is whipped by callous glove.
For every latte shared in joy
There’s *** abuse to some small boy,
Each million dollar haul of art
Starvation stills a child’s young heart.
When tears of joy cascade in breeze
A thousand homeless children freeze,
For every morning sunbeam clear
The cloud descends on some child’s fear.
For every excess we consume
Mass underprivelaged children loom,
Blond beauties all attired in red
Unwanted babies left for dead.
Massive plenty for the few
Dispossessed small children *******
Privelaged cold concience clear
Little feet bequeathed the fear.
Global sympathy won’t change
‘Till effete thinking rearranged,
Sanity shall not transform
‘Till WOMAN leaders are the norm.
Marshalg
For the lost legions in our midst.
20 July 2011
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 4:41 PM UTC
you have a death grip
on dignity
More not needed.
Not now, not ever.
Let the rage course,
The tears, coarse,
Fall free,
When no ones looking.
The panic attack,
The body all a-wrack,
The fury unleashed,
The sobbing secret,
When no ones there.
I know, I know.
Small consolation.
Worse, no one to share,
Worse, the one to share,
Is the one making life unfair.
But all this pales by compare,
When the words out loud you speak,
The lodestar, the key phrase.
I hear them, though by proxy.
I read them, though far by mile,
I am comforted in the knowing,
That anyone who can write those words
Is stronger than most.
You
Have
A death grip
On dignity.
No more needed.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Trying to figure out why a ***** tried to stunt on me.
While my homie fronts on me.
Triggered lie’s blasting out like bullets into your chest, golly!
Vigor dying whilst family crying that left me locked up now in a little celly.
Why did I pour out my heart to that ***** named shelly?
**** got me melancholy, casting out poxy curses.
My proxy is dropping down which got me feeling worthless.
Growing up in projects where one survives by snatching purses and killing snitches.
While society bides their time by tying nooses.
Rigged games yet we are told to give no excuses.
So, a minority got no choice but to role with the punches.
But with darker skin colour most don’t or won’t notice the bruises.
Vile nobility just loves hunting gooses.
Stark contrast idly confides and resides Inside institutionalized nuances.
Some people can be such nuisances.
Got me feeling like tony roaming through the different cosmoses.
Lonely sinking feeling, with my hope which was once flickering but is now slowly fleeting.
Reciprocal tensions pokes through my barriers like an unwelcomed greeting.
Typical tropes of under-achieving maybe it’s time I let God start intervening?
However, I’m doubtful on whether spirituality is real or nothing more than Kris Kringle.
Jingling jester choirs who always be harping on my people.
Which makes me ponder whether or not God’s supposed love is fickle.
Or if supposed believer’s have actually ever read the bible?
Religious pharisee’s not seeing the irony of praying to their falsified idols.
With their heads so far up their own *** That they don’t even realize that they’ve actually been worshipping the devil.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
let me introduce you to my old friend
Jax (Jackson) Hate
ladies and gentlemen
tell 'em about yourself
why don't you, you're the writer
I've known Jax for as long as I can remember
UK to US
kids to teen to?
*to a sentimental ***
He's an ******* but he's my *******
He kept me safe
kept me laughing
when I was lost he found me
stop you're making me wet
I love him
really - I do
I'd love me too
The scruffy, scatter brained, *** crazed, sarcastic sociopath is more than blood to me
My imaginary friend who leaped straight from somebody else's nightmare to rescue me
You looked so pathetic, let's be honest, I didn't really have a choice.
He was the one who went straight for the cricket bat in playground scraps
taught me everything I know about manipulating women
You'd still just be loving your right hand every night if we never met
Yeah, but I'd still be in college
*Yeah? Rotting away with the other soon to be bovine corpses? Stellar plan my man. ******* A*
No, now we rot alone
Smells more like waiting for the legend to take hold. We'll own this world by proxy.
Me, I'm a kid who writes
Jax?
He's a murderer at heart
the hurricane to my calm, rippling koi pond
You forget I'm a misogynist.
I don't know if he's here to stay
I don't know if I ever want him to leave me
no longer mutually parasitic
*the ******* end*
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Love too strong for
those who bear it
is a curse invoked
by a deficit of worth.
It is not enough to
seek validation through
a proxy designated
Heaven on Earth.
With no center of gravity,
no anchor in character,
obsession is the limit
of the capacity to love;
Projecting impossible
desires and untenable
expectations amounts
to blasphemy of.
True love may not be
forever or easy;
parting may never
be pleasant to bear;
Love is not merely
what's pleasing or comfortable;
love is a crucible;
love is not fair.
Those fleeting failures
and moments of error
are chances at triumph,
a challenge to change.
Breaking our boundaries,
ballooning outward:
love is inevitably
savage and strange.
Unbefitting to cling
to the bridge that enables
a star in its wand'ring
to cross the abyss;
To carry the ballast
of vast insecurity
over that chasm,
untenable risk;
Or swallow the poison
of foolish dependence
on whimsical paramours,
obesiance thereof,
To be hung from the neck
by detestable premises,
weak and debased
by untenable love.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC