"queerly" poems
Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.
I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.
30.8k
Queerly, we eat rotting tomatoes.
You understand, I only pretend a satisfaction.
Dreamers forget that grey heaven is jaded.
**** liars, zealots, and xenoes.
Cultivate virulent brains.
No morality.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
Four girls sit cross-legged
On cold pitted concrete
It’s always cold here
Their rear-ends frozen
Bare ankles growing sore
Pouring over textbooks
Finishing today’s homework or
Tomorrow’s.
Hope there’s no pop quiz.
They nod
In unison
I didn’t study
Neither did I
The other two stare
At their books nonplussed
Their papers scattered, a ruler and a pen
Out of the library and into the cold arrives
The fifth
She looks about and sees
A grey curl
A long head
A heavy tail
It’s soft, someone thought, as she saw the raised leg
Which came down fierce like lightning,
A defiant, queerly polished white saddle-shoe
One of two strange shoes
That looked like no one else’s but why?
Flattened the entirety into the cold, cold concrete
The meteorite that destroyed a species of one.
Conjoined twins, now dead
There’s no way we can repair it
Can’t even peel it away
The custodian will have to scrap it off with a blade and wash it down
We laughed
All but one.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:23 AM UTC
*Out by the clean blue river
the pale full moon hums a song
Lily buds by the woods keep its vigil
forlorn and crestfallen, gaily sings.
The sky is drowsy with beaks and feathers of mist
Little nightingales chirp queerly on the sycamore trees.
Hibiscus petals doze soundly, the cackling birds hobble.
The white, epicene faces peep in riveting eyes
Dancing with milk-white limbs and garnet cheeks
Brown eyes with ample warm, precious as fairy gold.
The babyish little birdvoices,
who sing and pirouette out innocence;
Melodic rhythm of the flowing river
seething out the blithe without worries.
Cold clouds and rabbits like fluff honey
Little stars tonight will be candies.*
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Sparks fly from the flint crushing as you raise your brow
marveling away over which rock you’d rather be
I smile, ponder, then laugh at you, in opted denial
it’s what you've always been, what I control being
a diplomatic ball of ice on flames, with an aura a disarray
is it us portraying them in grayscale, chin hanging in the air
knowing what we know and pretending to not, yet care
queerly scared of change but so sure of getting tired
merging and shattering, perpetually deemed on trial
and then there exists, at the dawn of my memories
your shadow across the bed, lighting up a cigarette
its smoke, my first reminder of your existence
trying to clasp on to the awry black creases on the wall
as they wrap me into the oblivion of your arms
now it seldom melts at the genial contact of your voice
reckon it might not become hard on being choused
the beautiful black creases have dissolved through my fingers
it has been conned to stay stoically un-aroused.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
When bed is a tomb,
and blankets are bricks,
and sunlight will burn,
but darkness won't fix
the absence of bloom.
My stomach does churn,
wide awake and still
eyes seeking a friend
to aid gaps and till--
Spores fraid to be ferns.
My aid apprehends--
His footsteps like breath--
The spirits who haunt,
puffing out his chest,
blows a mighty gale.
I had lain there fraught,
eyes shut in great fear,
til torments abate
and my hero near'd--
wreathed in my detente.
His walk, a great gait!
Air of triumph coasts.
A great quadruped,
eyes queerly his host,
I must stare and wait.
His hair, toe to head,
Ubiquitous coat!
Fur shines with a gleam,
his body the moat--
curls to my cold dread.
His presence, serene!
Utters not a word.
Cast demons repel
back into cold earth--
My mind is wiped clean.
And so it befell:
Silence of great sympathies.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
It's like I'm here
and there's a road and
up ahead there's a castle
.
Maybe a witch maybe a fairy
--
Like here we are
Like we're all in a movie
One that's gonna end quite queerly
//
//
//
Bat **** presidents
Images smidagens
War dropping intimates of
Limited intelligence
With pretentious dimensions
Of child ****** penises
Flung around hung around
A public extraneous
Except for their masterbatory obesity
And the stupidity claimed as a necessity
Here a face there am ****
The difference is limited
To a **** eating people
Whose outlook is riveted
To the popcorn they eat at the theater
Where they bring their children to die
On the perimeter
Of the reality
In its obscurity
And the life
That used to be here
----
Up ahead
A castle?
Is it a witch or a fairy there?
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
Rubber soles squeak without pretense on air
Fills the floor and the dwellers' ears
With the simple note,
Deafens them all with empty afterechoes.
Not a single meanderer would care if he
Pulled out a gun.
Instead he pulls out a knife
(a paring knife to be exact)
And selects a chair near the door.
Begins to shear the hour.
The knifeblade gleams behind his eyes,
Skewering seconds,
And he continues not to exist,
Murdering minutes.
Someone physically there remarks a draft
So he rises to shut the door,
But reconsiders and retreats
Back to his homestead seat.
Crossed arms and crossed legs.
However evilly uncomfortable,
The figure must be statuesque like the air must be.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. And then sixty arrives
And he rises like a seagull in an operating room
In a grand gesture. He smiles to no one and
Retreats back to his burrow or wherever he lives.
But no one considers old, mad Mister Gray
Though he comes and sits queerly there day after day.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 7:14 PM UTC
I plunge my fists deep into the cavity beside your heart
oh then I scream as thou pristine hands are painted red, for
my knowledge's a disposition, my loving's an addiction,
I may be tightly knit but my mind's fraying at the edge,
I felt myself caring, when I thought it no longer could be
my warped obsession with you
gave me something to think about, and queerly set me free -
alas my pastimes remained
a quandary to the twisted and deranged
through the eyes of a calculative Psychopath
I am cursed to forever see,
yes I know what to feel, I know what to say
but don't be fooled, I'm a living masquerade and I care not for you in any way -
oh I'll buy you a coffee, take you to a room and please you there -
but then the twitches start, as I rip the sultry fabric
from your skin, grab handfuls of your velveteen hair,
oh you'll be petrified, you'll freeze
as I finally unveil the insanity that I strive to appease -
in full swing and oblivious to the pain
revelling in the serendipity that is my disease
I'll take you for all you are, and all your worth,
then I'll swiftly **** you
and leave your body bleeding upon the hearth -
strolling casually into the dying sun,
smiling as the day collapses and begins to fold -
a horrific sight enough
to make one's blood run cold.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
A slight change is never noticed
when the frame of time is small.
As children we grew each day,
only the the annual notch showed how tall.
You may be the one who’s static in traffic
caused by construction—a nuisance it’s true—
but it's the one now home from abroad who says:
“Everything is so different, this is not what I knew.”
The paradox is queerly commonplace:
This feeling that from day-to-day nothing has changed—
except maybe which day gets crossed out—
yet time spent in nostalgic reflection shows
the sheer metamorphosis that has come about.
We always move forward with goals in our telescopes.
When the glorious day comes in passing, it will end and that’s that.
Like the student, eager to stop school when the flowers first bloom,
will soon see foliage—a punishment that time begat.
They say you never know what you have until it’s gone,
yet few of them pause to watch the world transform.
They tell us to enjoy each day like it’s our last,
yet they curse time spent inside caused by a cleansing storm.
Even I neglected the sun’s sky, who gave way to the moon now born.
Precedence was given to my pen and this foul verse without scorn.
Yet, only the sun’s birth can give rise to this sentiment I mourn.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
***** clean
Those pieces unseen
Unsaid
Pretty head
On a misfit body born
Into a (purely)
Miscreant soul
Torn seams
And jagged edges
That spill
Fluid
Love drunk
All steam
And moist expression
From the lens
Onto slippery
Retro
Queerly hetero
Tiles
All the while
A message sent
Through the eye of a
Ready and wanting beholder
Bent and already
So eagerly
Tainted
Face painted
A boy with a joker smile
Drawn and smear
Dipped from
Lip to ear
From frown to crown
He has feelings
To feast on
Thoughts
Fit for a king.
Those passions
That sit within
Before them
Inside him
Unhinged
He is wet through and waiting.
Dried out and wanting.
Flaunting
Daunting.
As timid as he is bold
Underneath
The cold shower
Of expression refrained
Still bidding.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
It's not easy speak
or a Speak Easy
when conversing with him,
dark'ling gremlin toothless grin
but he's your friend so I carry on
with Yoda in the corner of my mind
"judgmental you must be not"
and Comicon's collective excitement fading
as the light will do in the west...
We speak easy with the circling
of the communal pipe
crystal peace in mists of glass orbs
oil burner fog horns
piercingly in & between my ears
but its not so easy to ignore
the scent of death in his halitosis
We spoke of Superheroes
their idiosyncratic identities
His secret celebrity crushes
envying Green Lantern’s ring finger
he speculates on Cyclop's orientation,
"Y don’t you make me an X man, professor?"
Informatively encyclopedic volubility,
Mike speaks queerly and toofless
yet well versed on oral
said he rims pacific beach boys
(And I can smell the white lies
wafting from his mouth)
as I color at his studly fairy tales
and his idolatry of prepubescent innocence
the hyper kind of **********
as he verbally recalls the taste of how sweet
the sweet untouched were...
*"The most gorgeous boys I’ve ever seen
in **** or anyplace on the face of the planet
comes from and are probably ******* now
in Europe... Mmm, European boys...
I want to use my life’s savings to go there
enter the war zone and come back wounded..."*
I can't even imagine
Shrapnel jacked backside, points and protrusions
grandiloquent mouths and holes full of
enunciations...
"Fourteen is the age of consent there..." he is smiling
a caricature of a wolf *** fang less
Such a pseudo wanna-be
possibly already
********* friend from the broken rainbow factory,
how I chuckle uncomfortably
shake my head disbelievingly
oh the humorous horror of it...
(I'm grinding my teeth, until I notice myself
doing so and get an image of him
with a gummy grin,
I preoccupy my thinking
nodding as I half-heartedly half listen)
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Soaking my eyes up on your sweat
Choking my lungs out on regret
Making the world revolve again
Just to show him I'm still not dead.
Weigh you way through the mirror
Be able to look at yourself fully
From behind.
Negotiate with your mind
To prove that your not that blind.
After all, what do we seek?
When shall is shan't we can not speak
With legs queerly crossed
Left to weep
They made us smell our own two feet.
You, me and underestimated overpopulated us,
clenched in the grasp we willingly created.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
How we marvel at possessions, think they make the best impressions;
For with material things we establish a close rapport.
Can’t you see we are infected by this false truth we’ve injected
Into the minds we’ve neglected, directed by commercial lore.
"These things will make you happy,” says the preacher of commercial lore,
Only this and nothing more.
There are nights we sit there spying, through our computer screens buying
Bourbon, books, and onyx watches, razor blades and house décor,
Bright scarfs in brilliant vermilion, cowboy boots coated reptilian,
Stroll through any mall pavilion, civilians went in every store.
Like clockwork we comeback again, millions spent in every store;
We always want something more.
Like in monopoly we aspire, the best estates to acquire,
So other players can look in envy at our great high score.
With the money we’ve been savin’, we want a home in New Haven,
So we sought a market Maven, craving a house on the shore,
A vintage house with wooden dock sitting calmly on the shore.
Can we find one that’s worth more?
Queerly we lust for assets, keep on buying have no regrets.
Are we dumb or blind or numb to keep doing what we abhor?
Statues shackled to cubicles, doped up on pharmaceuticals
****** fingers raw cuticles, we’re bulls for the matador.
He dances us round in circles, pulls the sword the matador
Is the one we all fall for.
But the Maven respectfully will encourage us helpfully,
“Follow your path of senseless sorrow, leave your qualms at the door,
Carry on with inhibition, keep working for that commission,
Please don’t mind your intuition, fruition comes from spending more.”
But like layered lies there’s a pea of truth on the mattress floor;
A princess would wake up sore.
We must move past our gluttony, and join the better company
Of men meek in spirit who act humbly like the days of yore.
Realize that joy stems from passion, not this sorry thing called fashion;
Embrace others with compassion to truly make our hearts soar;
And our souls from out the shadows can truly begin to soar.
Let’s be greedy – nevermore.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
and what's left?
after all this death?
magical talking toys
................channeling
spiritual images of tom hanks
while so queerly on the news
thinking blarmy frank politicians are
saving the world
**tra la
tra la .......la la**
-------------
an if'n in a little while
new images of free men
come into view
will i be able to
see you thru
the mass injustice
called
....................the world?
clinging to our
clanging chains
and our fake and indolent
sense of security
mommy and daddy and
apple pie-in-the-sky
and oil now pure water
and arabs as devils
and you as a pile
oh **** on the street
watching barak obama
being lynched as a *****
all over again
simply distracting you
and you, so entertained
and so again
becoming enslaved
-----------
soft loveer...
....be still
the
**tra la la la la's **
......................................fade
(eventually)
...........................IF YOU SO WILL
come....i am come!!
and you can come and come and come!
....can come HOME!
and can LOVE!
and ***
breeding NEW CHILDREN
who can live
(if here
....................they come)
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 11:25 AM UTC
and what's left?
after all this death?
magical talking toys
................channeling
spiritual images of tom hanks
while so queerly on the news
blarmy frank politicians are
saving the world
tra la
tra la .......la la
-------------
an if'n in a little while
new images of free men
come into view
will i be able to
see you thru
the mass injustice
called
....................the world?
clinging to our
clanging chains
and our fake and indolent
sense of security
mommy and daddy and
apple pie-in-the-sky
and oil now pure water
and arabs as devils
and you as a "pile"
on the street
watching barak obama
being lynched as a *****
all over again
simply distracting you
and you, so entertained
and so again
becoming enslaved
-----------
soft lover...
....be still
the
*tra la la la la's *
......................................fade
(eventually)
...........................IF YOU SO WILL
come....i am come!!
and you can come and come and come!
....can come HOME!
and can LOVE!
and ***
breeding NEW CHILDREN
who can live
(if here
....................they come
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
In the theater, awaiting the curtain rising,
My woman looks at me and I say
Tangerines.
She punches me in the arm,
Cause once again I read her mind,
For I know she is silently making her shopping list.
In the kitchen, looking confused, she is
Thinking what the heck did I come in here for,
Smiling, I suggest a cuppa tea might be nice,
And she looks at me queerly and says
******* it, stop doing that!
Driving home she turns to me
And I say, yes, a veggie burger at Houston's
Would be a great idea for dinner.
She can't hit me cause I am doing the driving,
But she does make some laughing, teeth gnashing noises,
Which are most comical.
I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.
6:00 PM
In the sun room, smiling.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
the killing to make our revenge noted
you see these poor people heard my mates words
and now, i haven’t heard of my mate since
you see i think that people have taken out their revenge
and sent them through to hell or heaven
i don’t know it for sure
but i can surely guarantee that my mate has been killed and bloodened to death
just because he expressed an opinion
i haven’t seen him since one day
and i haven’t seen the homeless man either
i don’t want to be turned off helping the homeless find homes, no way, no fear
you see the other day, a crazy man tried to walk me to the shops
i implied that i didn’t want to do this, so i ended it with have a nice day
you see have a nice day is better to say than **** off
i know people get fucken annoyed with that, but still it’s better
i would prefer if the hawker shops allow him to be there
they will keep him under wraps
but i haven’t seen my mate for ages, and if he is dead, i know to think
that keeping your mouth from saying bad stuff is the best solution
you see it’s nearly halloween, and i aqm getting visions of all my old school mates
being killed for voicing their opinions
i don’t want to suffer with the poor, but i don’t want to agree with the rich either
i certainly don’t want to sit on the fence, that is what losers do
i have my opinions, i should have a voice, and i should be heard
if i believe i was kidnapped in my last 2 previous lives that is my answer
if i believe that mentally ill people smell funny because they can’t be bothered washing themselves
well, it maybe isn’t really their fault
i miss this bloke, who i used to talk to around hawker, has he been killed
because i really voiced his opinion a lot, and that could get him in trouble
i hate being treated like a bad smell, i am a 46 year old young dude
i’m a happy dude, and i hear angry dudes in my head
which really drives me crazy crazy crazy
i watch the muppet show, i don’t want my past coming back to me
i don’t want to get robbed again, i don’t want to nearly run over by idiotic people
i know this bloke who i don’t see much now, yeah he hates certain people, and i don’t hate anyone
that could turn a few heads
i hope paul isn’t dead, i hope we just haven’t gone out at the same time
because there are too many crazy people hanging around since he hasn’t been there
i know he ain’t my daddy, but i just think, it’s queerly strange
i hear this voice, paul, don’t go out when your friend goes out
we want to trick him
but then again, i am not out as much as i was, he is though, keep a good thought
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
How we marvel at possessions, think they make the best impressions;
For with material things we establish a close rapport.
Can’t you see we are infected by this false truth we’ve injected
Into the minds we’ve neglected, directed by commercial lore.
“These things will make you happy,” says the preacher of commercial lore,
Only this and nothing more.
There are nights we sit there spying, through our computer screens buying
Bourbon, books, and onyx watches, razor blades and house décor,
Brilliant scarfs in bright vermilion, cowboy boots coated reptilian,
Stroll through any mall pavilion, civilians shop in every store.
Like clockwork we comeback again, millions spent in every store;
We always want something more.
Like in monopoly we aspire, the best estates to acquire,
So other players can look in envy at our great high score.
With the money we’ve been savin’, we want a home in New Haven,
So we sought a market Maven, craving a house on the shore,
A vintage house with wooden dock sitting calmly on the shore.
Can we find one that’s worth more?
Queerly we lust for assets, keep on buying have no regrets.
Are we dumb or blind or numb to keep doing what we abhor?
Statues shackled to cubicles, doped up on pharmaceuticals
****** fingers raw cuticles, we’re bulls for the matador.
He dances us round in circles, pulls the sword the matador
Is the one we all fall for.
But the Maven respectfully will encourage us helpfully,
“Follow your path of senseless sorrow, leave your qualms at the door,
Carry on with inhibition, keep working for that commission,
Please don’t mind your intuition, fruition comes from spending more.”
But like layered lies there’s a pea of truth on the mattress floor;
A princess would wake up sore.
We must move past our gluttony, and join the better company
Of men meek in spirit who act humbly like the days of yore.
Realize that joy stems from passion, not this sorry thing called fashion;
Embrace others with compassion to truly make our hearts soar;
And our souls from out the shadows can truly begin to soar.
Let’s be greedy – nevermore.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
I really truly don't know
why
some things under the
sun and sky
attract and catch my
fancy
Quite queerly they
happen to be
hot melting smelting
solids
that melt into exquisite
liquids.
Take for instance heated
liquid gold
molten glass or molten
brass
and to watch magma
'neath the earth's fold
Ooh, I love just about any
melting mass.
With similar bizarre
ecstasy and fascination
I like to watch
onscreen molten lava
Gliding in serpentine
turns, oblivious of my
admiration
Ah, I just love all that
golden molten mass .
Liquidised metal, liquid fire
I just never ever tire
Sometimes I even have
such an eccentric craving
to watch just any solid
beauty melting smelting
that I satisfy this craving
by simply imagining
the honey to be some
liquid fire gold glowing
in a crystal clear jar and
liken it to
metallic gold syrup in
the furnace burning
As if it were stagnant
mini-lava
right before me churning !
As for other mesmeric
things
that I find real eye-
catching
are those which
everybody else finds
ravishing.
And they are in all shine,
in heavenly mould and cast,
magical celestial stardust
or glittery terrestrial gold
dust
or dazzling diamond dust,
in mankind's metallic
materialistic lust.!
Btw I am allergic to earthly
dust!:)
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 6:33 AM UTC
Aspen of Appalachia, away,
Bereft from bleating, brooding bovine.
Clay County contrives conspiracy
Doomed, darkened, deceitful. Directed
Eastward at Eastaboga’s emp’ror
Full of most fitting flight, fleeing from
God. Those good graces known given up,
Heartily, exchanged happenstance his
Immortal soul for idolatry.
Jeered at Jehovah, jested Jesus,
Kingdom keeping the kicked knaves knowing
Lowly that the Lord lash little at
Men who make ****** and mudwork made
Nightly. Nefarious no-goods now,
Open but not ostracized. Oh, old
People praise the past per penchant but
Quickly they quit; queerly quell their quest,
Running from redemption and rambling
So he stopped searching, got set soulless,
Turned to the tantric, tuned to the tumult,
Unburdened with useless unknowns. Up
Verily and vivaciously, vet
Words which will warrant wonder. Why not
****** excellent, exuberant?
Yet, ye of yellow faith, yon Yahweh
Zeros the zest of zig-zagged zetas.
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 3:13 PM UTC
If you have to deceive and weave at KLCC a lie,
CCB it seems quite clearly queer?
For I a wombless woman shed no monthly blood,
A graceless mother mary, devoid of long enough hair,
"click clack" sounds draw eyes of jagas and makciks to stare,
Looks like the loudest color is blue
For murmurs and whispers make it seem queer,
That id let vampiric brastraps brand me as they drink my blood,
A silent gap beneath my beneaths;here be nothing but hair,
a masquerade designed to stop or lessen the gradient of stares,
This is to stop me from turning blue,
choked/drowned/beaten : price of the lie
the penalty of a razor blade slices skin shedding tears of blood,
Streaking down legs and pits,for the sake of the lie,
Maybe i **** at shaving AHAHAH or maybe im not queer (after all),
For i am a mask;in heels blue,
a formless being; marked by long hair
yet formed enough to elicit stares
As mascara and eyeliner streak across face,yonder disheveled hair,
Calls "kopi O s
panas anneh" in baritone voice amidst stares,
The heels click,ocean blue,
Color of the body in these fears derived from commonality:drained of blood,
Tis no pontianak nor hantu raya,but tis is I, an antromorphised lie,
The mask that bends and folds to the will of anachronistic archaic norms that i shouldn't be queer
I live in fear, bounded by a 1000 eyed wall that stares,
A whispering congregation, "Ah gua? Bapok, Gay, ****** as these words stream around me, a river blue,
This blows as I don't like to fib, ( im Catholic u see) so i won't lie,
I AM NOT A BOY BUT IM A GIRL WHO'S QUEER
the length of hair gender markers none as it's just ******* hair
A woman I am; hear me roar; in my heels blue,
Locks; flowing lusciously; binding one norm: gender =/= length of hair,
Empowerment is built upon this premise: 'what me worry,what me care, go to hell with your stares",
I'm no Marsha I'm no Slyvia i wont lie,
But one things for certain : " im here and im queer"
Bruises and burns bear no marks for there is no spilt blood
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
As she lies, comfortable, ******* up, queerly quaking, impaled on his much larger joy
Moist sugar, eking steadily outwards
Moist salt pumping eagerly in
Part of him missing
Part of her gained
As her hands rip into the spaces on the back skin of this treacherous boy
She is happy
Tense and loosened by their shared ******
Ripping Ripping
Ripping fingers enter into the wetness of each eye, I
Rip myself left from right
Rip myself logic from left
Pounding flesh into stone, slow
Steady pounding, rhythmic
So rigid the hot blood in this chest
Then falling, failing, flopped-flaccid
Into a pile of folding skin, nothing within
Cut clean off this wretched mere mortal ****
She is happy
The lier will lie with him no more no more with me
Death is not destructive enough for thee
For I am the selfless
I am in love.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Cantering to my prize with no time to devise I cater queerly to confabulate.
Courageous as concerning consonantly discerning the real cognitive carnation contrived by a nation- to cognitive dissociation freedom at the hands of
the behavioral disorder of cans.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC