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katewinslet Nov 2015
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kfaye Oct 2016
oh
sebum heart
you are more than the cells rotting in your
body
.than the hive mind of bacteria in your gut telling you to rip the
place to shreads


my love traces over
you
in shoals of sticky wet erasure
Laura Jun 2018
Symmetry deficits call for chiaroscuro.
Highlight the summits,
and diffuse shadows at the vertex
of cheekbone and mandible.
Colour the apples, rubescent as newborn flesh,
and soften edges for a gentle definition.

If you paint claret from bow to corner
it can create something fuller; induce desire-
Valencia can bleach the blemishes.
Liquid or matte lies in pesky furrows
and rots like carrion in warm weather:
remember to blot excess sebum prior.

Are you pneumatic? Applications can support you-
with enough you can acquire
something ample for a decade.
Look to the lens. It winks;
raise brow in a clean cut, diagonal
from nostril edge: the playful frame apertures admire.

Flash.

Share with friends:
refresh/close/open,
and sigh at affirmations.
West of a mutilated day, wormwood salts are scattered for some wild-chinned Controllers on a high pinnacle with viva vox in the Mandrake, Vernarth's house of Orion:

Saint John the Apostle says the proverbial Psalm: “In the lofty Cage, Gregorian sylphs, with skillful gestures and mania for cheering, are graced for coming to the Way of the cheap and venerable souls that are made up of the bodies of the evil-born on their railing. , in quagmire of swallowing spittle where the cold winter is banished, to jump from the cold oriental, having to walk with the elbows, and with the daring screams of the Sylphs that shake themselves among the foggy and fleshy tangle with rags and fur cloths flying smoothly through the tops of the oak trees in smoke to purge for Vernarth! Gospel, gospel in the barn of the delicate humus was felt, and that it was refracted in the refined forest with philosophical sacred love. Lord, all of us who are because we are, are you Lord ..., all in my exercises of loving gaze, are channeled by the indexes of my thumb to the little finger at the bottom of the sea, and float again from the little finger to the bottom of the surface. Waving in the transience of the world and holding back, Father God thunder, this with laryngitis when he outlines himself with the vast earthly sight, he covers with his right hand, the phlegm of ***** that made him drive an empty tremor, in my lack of security he testified by singing thousands and millions of choirs at this auction. The first ring of the profile will be carried by Jesus light, rubbing his back with some eyelashes of a drunk beetle, while the beetle will collect water between its extensions that will wail real needs of every morning albi - rosaceous that will travel in a circle towards the auditory of the Last auctioned saying: "As I have not to be where I was and was ..., if at night my beloved morning row impulsively and goes against it so as not to stumble into the night ...". Each cut piece of the dermis will have to be auctioned, I had Faith and the screenplay, encapsulated and embedded in each hope of the ramshackle flock, the impiety-weary ogre needed to stow his empty viscera with the cloth of the celestial kingdom, which at auction was beginning to squeeze and vanish when regurgitating smoothies and disintegrated spaces of belonging of the devotees of Vernarth. The writing is signed with lupus, this Lucia emanated from the morning resentment of skin envy, and from the massif drenched in anarchy and city archeology, lying hesitantly ..., as if the forest gave it some indication of rebirth, under the shadow of twinkling doubt, from the high front where they were nuanced over the engendered banners of truth, elucidating the forbidden and true matrix.

Adelimpia, Vernarth's grandmother, was squatting cutting the drool from the dwarf tree that lost a forage, at around 6:30 p.m. on the 39.9th day of a supposed 14th month of another dimension, almost winding up in a tangled series of productive hesitations and rituals, taking her victorious chariot in Lent where the teacher without felt traction, weave sprinkles of forgiveness on her distributor, starting her shaft and not her running engine, she already knew herself as a commoner with the wake of a ship without knowing where to go. Those who did not see themselves more backward intrigued to be part of the central bar of the rocker of the nymphs in their stadium, with a yawning lip where no one was invited. Mega-watt snitches go to the sacristan, breaking speeds of intangible entities that abide by her law, as a sage vilified in her secular realm, even in nowhere, the atmospheric larynx hissed widening through the flakes of the auctioned field, Joshua leaping with her. Cranky black horse Equus, with his anthropomorphic hooves, accelerated with action that put him among the lost belongings of the plateau, whose east limited him to two half-quarters of each other, and two-thirds slowing the sunset from ruby to ruby, brightening in the shades of green and green. Vernarth  Bernardolipo's father swallowed crops, from whose movements were born out of place gestures of residence, parturient fairies appeared emerging at once, or perhaps not emerging, the afternoon crushes the unplayable sun, Hugh and Anne covered their supra orbital eye areas, more towards a hillside where thousands of repertoires were being knocked down, and copious tableware with caked sugar, which seemed to reduce the acoustics from the beginning in what seemed solidly to fade to postulate in new shades of the weary rubbed rainbow, like thousands of shades doing the times of zascandil  in a curled comb, re-sprouting certain storm deities in the natural bow of the wind entangled in each stratus, sprinkling on the hectares of Possessions, standard deeds, sales orders, mutual funds, bonds ... the coffers and the earthly decomposed. Before each onslaught, a highly dense fog arose, highly ignored, anti-critical, and more disparaging of amassing a high scarcity with a local, in his quintals of his last bread for the flock. Lashes that exceed the grammage, foliage from leaf to leaf, from today until tomorrow, in a traveling satyr of dry leaves, "The Sphincter of the World will need Purgative ...".

Marathon of poisonings,… Lord, you have looked me in the eye; with your boat I will follow you, to your privileged perspiring cinnamon dock with various vociferous songs. What fared more than seven zeros, now they will be eaten by rodents, Lord attend my prayers, the pink mast has been sailing at several knots from the north, and it is rapidly losing its polar location, between verbs never traveled or driven, I dared to show off that the path of the gospel in small distant fragments will abound in infinite space, only the one that predominates will glide over my forehead with an accumulation of everything seen and that today in this sale; where everyone you own and care for, like a baby in front of a dissimilar kinship of good adventure and progeny that will leave your hands. "  

Etréstles says: "Soft and mellifluous presumptions ..., where do I have to look if nothing is heard? What is proposed and permeates the law of possessing and not, perhaps the strap reaches an infinite house, where the sun breaks down ..., the spout of my minimal rebirth slowly turned it into my reoriented defined cell. My grandfather Joshua fertilizes the new sales every day with his hooves bandaged with hemp, the sebum stones since they were so are already spirited circles, the hand of the maker is being compared with his tactile sense, Kaitelka's lungs, full of phosphate residues and sulphated, for the first time they milk in medium drops on their udders, although saying and what they prefer to assert of a worthy Down! If it were not, for his regal model of cetacean ostentation, he would not be in the Horcondising taking from today, towards the end of the curtain in the regular blushes, to create the great detachment, so necessary for the pulsating plain and purge his master Vernarth . The night covers it with sulfur oceanic satin, with the spauto of its jet and a magical moving game. Everyone was distracted when she circled over the routines of well-magnetized charms. More than two subjects were deprived of their well-placed jaw, when the overtime ran not crossing in the entire field in which she lived. It was time to unmask the interveners, the boatswain of the alfalfa field had been eating almonds with oil from the sole of a Joshua bototo shoe, she folded her wings at halftime to take a modest breath, to resume weak paths, deprived of confidence and not. To know who they would obey and to whom they would yield the fruit of their old and stock market work in the garden. Chaos for them, light of Lights, for those affiliated with the ruler who is Joshua, who will live behind a makeshift Patagua tree, erecting  aquisus tents and the dogmas of tomorrow. The magnificent concessions in the Horcondising massif continued to fall precipitously; some rummaged through their accounting almanacs, distanced and squandered their exquisite profits. The stagecoach is moving away, and the barrels of water were scarce, the aroma and tastes of roasted beef comes out over the bushes, the stores sway in a naive wind of blooming daisies, the sales were coming against the owners themselves, the taste of the laughter degraded their own present absence, the paraphernalia of the little birds on the carpet of the mountain plateau were, they began to do mercy of the tip in the exposed beams, the hundred feet with calluses came down from the semi-incinerated poles. Nothing smelled of pride anymore, just the last shadow of Joshua's Chief Sheriff; Vinicius, who thinned out the spotlights of the semi-strongmen still trying to collect his heavy wealth, now that among clouds of heavy cargo they went to give him only one habit to try to fit his body, just to wear his outfit. They looked, looked and kept looking at his octogenarian tearful sapro- genito dream, where the first dream ends, and his exile begins. Vinicius, locks the door, and starts drinking mate tea; while screams of those bad jackals were heard fighting for their inherited evils, in manners of not conquering those who lose a dream of their patriarchal courting-love, under the shadow of the most powerful bush for the rest of their lives in groves. Crumbs come off the beards of Joshua, his galvanized knife cuts multiform slices, to feed everyone equally and continue the purge of Vernarth "

The most desolate deity came; he walked in full sun, shelled and unattached, full of elongated bridles and with haste in his eyes. But not in its strides, thousands of years passed, and it brushed with my lost zeal in the quarrels of the Argolica, in the salinized and rotten feces of Eurymedousa, with its snowy and tricolor feet, hooded with its goods! , therefore, unable to sustain its own air from its nasal socket, dropping it likes brave foam that fell in the fired distance. Bad cooked fruit, with the flavor of a sleeping cinnamon stick, mitigating in its kind balsam, frayed wind yielding 360 and so many more suns, before the last one that I carry on my limbs ends. The end of the End began, in the seven ends adorning my steps. The obscene deities came, with their rebuilding geo music, breaking endometriums of goddess’s mobs and their almost massacred Pillan Mapu, among thousands that were, thousands of nowhere they are ..., in a today already anesthetized. He lies in the stench of the corrugated floor, in the wooden handles and rods stacked on the floor gesturing; the god Pillan Mapuche, under a generic vault of sleep falls into lethargy on the faces, leaving his unintelligible hollow free; and its unbalanced environment, crossing the basaltic moraine that circulated one day from the placenta of the fatigued cemetery. Dreams in kilos everywhere of pressed ducks, with dense covering and grasses on the hooves of bucephalos, crucible, living trident and extraordinary flowers ***** in floating skirmish, with dosing globules, thirst that is born from the whiteness of the first day in confessional liberation, cell of white with a looted look, shields of osculation, like icy air that transpires his ninth life and that is born from his ninth death, splinted in the face of death that mutilates his fingers when crossing his genes of perfidious and monkish plot of a life bypass. I sing or I do not sing, I lack my throne from where I observe the glances with time and impudence, possessing everything behind the back of the macabre time in counter-steps of tender golden plague, in foreign skin growing on my right blanket, from so much passing lights with cracked night outings, walking towards me, between roads and between Monday nights with faces of long and sinuous unctuous branches, with great step and size. Now I have to draw the curtain, on light lying in the shadow of an opening scattered in warm beets. With sincerity ..., and mistake there is no will to germinate in them, I will be born without being with them, to be meaningless without them ..., and that it is above other absences, with great eloquent and numerical weight on absent.

They are still plastered, washed out and with the frizzy pigments of a parnassus Paradise, where it has been intervening over its bloodless headers. Joshua walks thousands of steps on with his Equus skull, like a meridian slipping off certain rods of decay. Thus they all floated in the cephalous porous airs, with great airs of Cain collapsing on Abel recomposed in reserves of a millennium that fell twisted and stunned, captivated by an ominous word. Sendal covered themselves in bandurrias that covered the melodious icebergs of exulting individuals and swollen with passion, with their rummaging and thunderous noises going along with their flowers to the sea dissipated. My paternal grandmother was delimited; she paraded from the openings with cough-covered mounds of the frozen volcano, growing reflective slits of dense gradation in the nervousness of the overhang and angry sighing heat, in all the vertiginous and venerable spirits numbed by the darkness of so many sorrows on their bluish heads. Eurymedousa, already ill-fated to continue in Rhodes, appeared on stilts and with agonizing lights and yielding to the crossbows of the centaurs gagged by the Beauties; they consisted of their seesaws before the agreement with the Master, who gave us her Hellenic manifestos, and no less to others. My uncle King Arthur carried news of the locked consonants of his string and with a riding crop for his steed, tangled in rows that tore his face into small abscesses on his face, which were superimposed on those capillaries of the sweat of Heaven. Blessed Lord, the knee had grafts of golden steel, the horns of the radio sol brego that were broken in its metaphysical pregnancy, and its food collector that had solid gold baths towards a tabernacle fussing through its mucous orifices of alfalfa with the a flavours of irradiated cattle . He paraded with his loving mount flying down his track and kept clueless, at times he ran so swiftly that he crossed evil omens with Joshua, he was seen as weak and white in insulting slanders, Tamayo; his friend, who was a Talamite native, followed him on horseback, his son rode the sheep every summer, passing wool of pure holy insignia of a healthy man.
Along the banks of the reeds, he came riding on a donkey, Edward my paternal uncle, the third of Adelimpia, came three steps before his donkey, and he counted three times before riding him with provisions for good waters, wrapped in an energetic fire of Saturday tobacco in his mouth in mourning, who lovingly watching over himself, looking at today towards a peak for his sheep, looking at them for a manger of borders and tiny hunching phrases of black song about legends of the offender, which tempted to show off invading their fields. He is to the right of his mother Adelimpia, and under the rib of his father Bernardolipo overflowing, giving sugar to the colt Dolly in the sunsets, bequeathing affection with syrup, and a thousand compliments in December of 9,900 AD, Joshua, I remained in shreds of pageantry and endless lives, I always said, my lady, here I bring you a peasant's soup in flower of primed twisted canvas, in this three-year period I must call them to dinner in past lands with sweet potatoes to eat and candlesticks of flying seeds, with eager candies of a crack and their thirsty mouths. Gentlemen, I am Edward, their son, I want to sleep in your arms, after escaping from my worst perfidious toothless bite that still hurts inside. After eating great cholesterols from all over the world, amidst the tools of my children I am, always putting a tobacco leaf caught in the scrawled pieces and in great coinciding strokes, in circles dancing to throw away the bad and broken places badly thought and done. When I get to the end I will cling to the Joshua habit and shout not to leave me alone in the middle of this world, without toasted flour, cheese and tobacco. I am not a malignant man, I am only like those of us who are far below, feeling footprints on my spine, and I do not tell my wife Molly, so that she does not lack chickpea flour for our children wrapped in regrets and ***** with hunger and light blue in goodness, like saints and media, but in the end with clear blue water in my glasses. I invite everyone to my table to dine on oceans and worlds of clear celestial light, because with this hand I break this piece; I am the Son of Adelimpia and the supplier. They brought me in anemone branches when the Lord's headache invaded him, when he felt nails in his hands, to the east of Eden, without steps or turgid edges and a rough runaway palfrey”

The Horcondising massif turned into a great mountain, Edward was in the limestone of some potters and followers of Joshua molding him, they began to bait the rope that merges the mountain range, with the valley at the foot of all the mapus, mud flowing from the monastic floods , here they polisonated in the stony atonement of each lamentable trunk. They say;… faramalla  demonion, would be with a Silfife facing the mass of the vital obstacle, with faded coffee fiber, smeared in wine and bread, with eternal vintage vine. Luccica, Vernarth's mother, tackles familiar corners, with anointed frames of fiction in irrational ergonomics…; in numerous steps that will reach your distinguished heart. An ocean of doubts has fallen due to the inheritance that has precarious injuries, of battered egos and scrubbed by undue ignorance. Mountain delusions and manias, which run through the fibrillated vigils of some soft ropes and their abundant bristles like the choppy of an echidna escaping as it tingles by my twisted temples ”. The Horcondising  tam tam modulates through its crater and its pale face of a perpetual cell. Towards the forgiveness of the primordial ones and the commiseration of the orb burying itself in creation, this sacred and over the pale Sudpichian region will rest, in the roots growling in capillaries of the carbonated earths and in its badly wounded footprints. Horcondising is in quarantine, the elevation of the constellations are hyperillusionible, they migrate Along with Albalalhue and Carnivorous, the succeeded nymph that extracts exudation from a flushed match in the palm of some ideas on rollers, higher up and on angular from other right angles. Toiling with her hands, and rubbing possessions with her mazote and her patronage full of rakes.

Etréstles says: “Beyond all metal of hatred of every god not heard, beyond all evil of timid hatred I have not heard. I hold the playful phrasing of Edenic song, which calls us in voices full of long journeys, especially on this day fading. Through the hollow, belts and picket rings breaking the timid lights of the last sunset.  Cardinals in envelopes of fragile strengths, mountains with borders and deposits in the last voluminous plagues on the mason's eye.  Binding themselves in a pile, with saffron nails in their ears, with moths that run through the unforgivable morphologies. Do not lose life, abandon all noisy fight in coalition with the uninhabited *** of coins, there are forty days left to say goodbye to the god Faramalla, who lies with closed tec, limps to his lost pupils, and the sky swirls over his day when nothing not fit for any drinkable air with light bulb. Horcodising loses millimeters within minutes and rising, towards harvests to harvests, they lose merged schedule of a time without a past, reviling themselves from a present of consanguineous evil with an abstinent future. Luccica; Vernarth's mother, she is a sylph dragged by the tempest moraines, being detached to a contemplation and intake of life. The membranes of the accordion burst, and between brittle passageways crying without union, succumb to the teachings of foolish fate, Luccica as a portion owes its origin to the sea, taking its physiognomic bark from a seal specimen of aqueous flattery, to frize it on a similar surface umlauts on the "u", with phosphorescent and indeclinable forges, making it a beautiful maternal nymph, like the beautiful female picking up a moon in her arms, clinging to a new hallucinatory satellite to engender. "Live and talk with your peer, her dazzling sneaks in and laughs at this prominent queen, to exhale on those who observe her."

End Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichian
Transversal Valley  the Ferments - Parapsychological Regression
Mandrake, the Wild Auction
Slur pee Aug 2017
Foreign concepts implant themselves into grey terrain, like aliens;
Landing from a far away, vermillion planet to explore this lifeless place,
(Save for a pocketful of neurons that spend their days rubbing up against my spinal cord)
Blanketed in electricity, sparks cause reality to distort as if clouds fell apart and through the fog
Came God- to **** it. I don’t understand how we so skillfully secrete a monster in a man’s skeleton,
With his nerve endings begging to bend and touch any meagerly love, but they don’t reach far enough
So we inwardly self-destruct; leaving me so ****** that I crave cancer ‘tween my lips, even though I quit;
I want to taste you in my spit, a magical concoction of saliva, sweat and *****;
Concealment of a demon, tactical manipulation. Take my malleable form,
And stretch me out of shape; Use your destructive hands to create your image of perfection,
While I crawl like a spider with a twisted spine in our flawed perdition. Exorcise Christ,
And I’ll exercise my self-rights of freedom; where I’m permitted to be restricted by my own selfish ties.
Entwined in the unimaginable curves of Time, I’ll lay my eggs inside her and devour her line.
Dressed in sebum, I’m born a heathen; fresh out of the garden, apples clinging to my lips.
Give me a kiss soaked in the expensive blood of our sins and I’ll lie there pensive,
Holding on to extensive thoughts, herding them across wrinkles like cattle preparing for slaughter.
Breathe life into this helpless daughter, who’s bones have been hollowed by an ancestry of parasites
And she’ll hallow the saliva that sits on her sallow face as it digs into her blinded headsights.
She’s lying as a larva, trying to fly into a pupal state; her chrysalis diseased like syphilis,
Sores eat at pores and skin, inflamed, aches with itches that penetrate deep between layers of dermis
Her internal organs rot at the thought that this world is the final stop between an endless stretch
Of space and imagination; Let an extraterrestrial race escape from God’s hands through finger gaps
And find a place worthy of permanently marking where they were at.

-SLuR
Ylang Ylang Mar 2018
Show me your secret notebook
A reef under generic surface of water.

They've cut down my childhood tree
I used to climb.
                                      Pink Skies.



As she was walking away
from a car
The music gradually
Interrupted, like a radio
Losing its signal
And stopped.
S H E ' S H O T

As I drove,
I poured the music
out of the windows,
to mix it with
the sea of night.
Frogs of Winter.






O birds of spring,
You woke up too early,
your songs don't belong
in the winter's cold air.
You should have remained
silent and hidden
in your safe nests

I feel rather like
exploring self-caves,
Dark Mines of mine;
Dissolving under the blanket
of warmth and sickness
With my eyes closed.
(Do I?)
Definetly not fitting the machine.

Double-edged sword.
Endless wrestling with
Ego.
Say hello!



Once again(another day),
One more time,
She drifted into the night
and the music got torn
piece by piece
(Chopin, Nocturne op.9 No.1)
And I(We)
Were left in the brutal cold,
and dark, and silence
(Dead, pinned to the ground,
awaiting.)

     The moment a smile fades
     A switch that changes the masks
     Ancient greek theatre

Oh birds, you've found
Your small place
on a lake that froze
almost entirely.
Rejoy,
O lucky birds!



Veins of the city
remain silent beside us.
Conversations like ash
or leaves, or snow flakes
fall to them and dissolve,
but they don't cease to exist;
Remain hidden.

Old and new Things
got wed in an instant,
like wild thorny
carnivorous plants,
without us noticing;
Beyond the still line of horizon
-outshouted by the
Rush of Society.
Hidden old silent rooms.





I held a pipette
and gently instilled
the tiny sharp
drops of liquid Music
into the chill lake of Night.
They diffused in the black,
like a dark sapphire ink.

      Wind be a brush,
       for my long,
       slightly savage hair.

         Time drills and channels
          the canyons
          in the flesh of brain.

(Here is the bag with all the leaves
and withered twigs, rotten apples,
gray hair, used tickets, dried tears,
dirt and sebum scraped off the skin,
crumbled, tattered papers, alcohol
metabolites, angry emotions, *****
of thread, carcasses of birds,
feces, and rusty metal junk)

Thank you,
I am cleansed.
With a title deeply rooted
in subject matter iterated above
invariably makes for hair raising poem,
though I immediately attest said material
constitutes atypical topic
the writing process (with intent
to share bizarre pet peeve)
mildly cathartic to ameliorate
long established body dysmorphia,
(which lifelong aversion

about how body electric
of mine - a corporeal entity housing
an aging baby boomer wordsmith),
steeped with lifetime worth
of disproportionate outsize importance
linkedin to those fibrous
harried styled brunette strands
sustained courtesy by tiny blood vessels
at the base of every follicle
buzzfeeding the hair root to keep it growing.

But once the hairs
becomes visible
(not just on my chinny chin chin),
but more so at the skin's surface,
the cells within the strand of hair
aren't alive anymore.

The hair you see on every part
of your body contains dead cells.

Nevertheless empirical evidence
witnessed bajillion dollar industries,
where many an entrepreneur
made a bundle of money
buttressing caparisoning oneself
aspiring to attain exemplification
towards how western civilization
(and subsequently webbed wide world)
defines contrived beautify.

Yours truly (particularly during
his emotionally tumultuous adolescence)
for all intents and purposes
most all each of his
life long journey into night,
he considered himself afflicted
with obsessive compulsive behavior in general,
and incongruous objection
with arbitrary template
of attraction (as applies
to the male species) in particular.

As a cute little boy
with strawberry blonde hair
kept cropped short to scalp
acquired motherly
endearment of "little monkey,"
accompanied courtesy pinch of cheeks
yet outgrew both imposition of buzz cut
and appellation, yet bananas
as passion fruit never faded
but parental decree to schedule appointments
with barber became vehemently reviled.

I vaguely recollect demonstratively
niggling, remonstrating, and voicing
strong objection, ne protestation
against getting a haircut
(in tandem with gesticulations)
as aladdin upper grades of elementary school,
whereby parents quickly relented
allowing, enabling, and providing
their singular sole son opportunistic
fostering unhealthy relationship
growing his long luscious locks
with what in short order became
nonestablishmentarian true trademark.

Fixation as a vitamin ******
peculiarly evolved whereby
ingesting over the counter supplements
(despite evidence to the contrary)
buzzfeeds limp tresses
lacking pseudo/quasi Jewfro
(a curly, frizzy, or bushy hairstyle
worn by some Jewish people,
reminiscent of an Afro)
sported by yours truly
during his emerging adulthood.
Natalie Dec 2018
wring me out
of everything—
all the thoughts damp
with mildew, old rotten mind,
brain like brown ground beef,
pale with dead blood
and green with fuzz.
wring me out.
when you are finished,
there may be nothing left—
hardly anything left, but
extract this mentality
like sebum from a blemish on my cheek.

There will be nothing left.
Nov. 2018, Ketler Unit ***
Slow-paced medicine slither as sebum on carcass of closed pores; fair pigmented acne secreting frailty mirrored against his beryl hues.
An imagery where my insecurity (minor acne) would be treated softly by a former blue-eyed love interest; fragile for not controlling the insides of my skin, hoping for his sight to dig deeper, towards my soul; although loosely connected, I yearned for his communication when other imperfections rose to our derma, immediate reaction of betrayal on his side, and overall unsaid words bathed in our distance and brisk ending of friendship (may I be allowed to call it so; if not, then acquaintance).
everly Sep 2019
when earth smelt like
linen with a tinge of
lemongrass and
sweet tears made the
soot stick the bottom of our
boots like brown on
rice.
and there was dirt embedded
within the crevices of my nails
that i became negligent of.
negligent of how it got there.
accumulated hour by hour.
sebum from every pore saturating
soiled skin.
crying of laughter for hours
while making white collars sour
our top secret superpower.
i smiled as the sun went down
like the loser you love in me.
Sylindrythrae Sep 13
Edible, malleable texture extended on my derma, a foliage of peeled organs, burnt insides in dried sebum, a sorceress wilted by her nocturnal, pelvic hair, dense to the seamstressing of the Earthly immortal, a claimed follower, or patriarchy itself, a fervent javelin of oak, on which crawls in wet approvals the tangled naturalness plucked not consensually.
Waltzing with a figure who wore her heart on a sleeve, her fingertips touching the materials of ex partners drenched in mud: patriarchy, *** stereotypes; freeing herself through creativity and openness to inwards.
kfaye Nov 2023
is a scale-less basin for memory
sebum goblet . bedside cup.
eyes are a
worldnet for sweeping.the
lost-aloft
and wing fold/ed
:things

Catch.
Catch.
Store.

like bugs on the windshield //
like the pesticide-genocide that hides that
History
from clouding
our road-bright
viiew  ever again.

pretty
skin on the screen

pretty much ***** the real
away.

Dishrag.heart
Heads back,
Homeless.
kfaye Sep 2023
oh
sebum heart
you are more than the cells rotting in your
body
.than the hive mind of bacteria in your gut
telling you to rip the
place to shreads


in shoals of sticky wet erasure

— The End —