"tentacle" poems
i'm your o so wanna be lover
I'm afraid not what you would expect though
i admit to being a difficult pleasure
perhaps
a tad strange looking
squishy with long tentacles
half man half octopus
with a winking cycloptic eye
i entreat you
looks can be deceiving
how many pretty boys have you loved
crawling worms for a soul
that have left you a ruined creel
a jagged cry chattering tears of desolation
have you ever asked your self
who adores you
who would give all to protect love and cherish
i'm waving my eight arms at you
from the center of the universe
i eat black holes to kiss your ***
am i not a cosmic horror
with my big Cthulhu smile
quivering with tenderness
do you hunger for butter **** lollypop
i have two big **** heartbreakers
with teardrop curves
a feast for your ravenous holes of emptiness
and many armed tentacles to hold you tight
to slither all over your tender woven caves
to pull you into me
with suckers that thrill
during swirling inky *****
i will unravel your mind
your soul tilthed
if you can get passed
my
gray rubbery boneless head
i can push this shape-shifting balloon face
through your annul tubular contours
all the way up your beautiful ***
licking
salivating
tickling into your
tender bowel and throat
like a great dancing tongue
a stretched waving goodness
entering your mouth from the back side
can pretty pretty do that?
come slowly unto me my beloved
i am all chromatophores
endless glittering nightlights
incandescent
so we may wander our way through long dim nights ******
in the deep deep dark
with tentacle ***** galore
an infinity of entertainment
for every crevice and desire
and one winking cycloptic eye
that pierces your soul
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
19.4k
Tentacles with impressive girth
From space, rain down to Earth
In furious flurry, birthing
A new reign of terror
Oy vey! Scream the globalist elite
Suspended in animation
As throbbing veins,
Snares, entangling
Penetrate their every orifice
Nonconsensually
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no ***** ***** or testicles.
What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?
Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!
Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.
So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a ********
Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.
Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!
I say herein lies food for thought.
Mike T Minehan
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
I fear you,
Oh beautiful book.
You are a guide,
To a daedric overlook.
Darkness takes you,
In a slimy tentacle.
Its Hermaeus Mora,
Daedric Prince of Wisdom.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
Surrounded by oak wood
There he stood
Staring at me
With no eyes
As tall as a tree
He caught me by surprise
I hear a loud sound
Then I am thrown to the ground
With tentacle like arms
Actually you know what I will just stop there... I will let you just think about that last line
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
Your brown eyes have such depth.
I wonder if I dove into them
how far I'd have to swim
before I didn't know
which way was up.
The abyss of your curls
surround me
pulling me under,
and I hardly struggle;
Just a few ripples,
and nothing like that lady in Jaws
with her ******** screams.
I'll take the proffered tentacle
- allowing you to lead me away
from this place.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Technology:
how I love you and loathe you
in the same breath
your phonic ears
listening out for
a babble of distress
from a childs vest
sleeping soundly
in the next room
your ten tentacle arms
purge my words
and shelter emotions
across vast distances
for long lost friends
to find comfort
in 140 characters
your innovations
are the respirator
the breathing lungs
the beating heart
the bionic limbs
that help without want
to walk again
if only you could
just once
guess my words
correctly
just once
is all I ask
I invited that girl
for a pint
not a riot
and the black berry
ripens in the east
is now an improvised
IED
Technology:
will you ever be perfect?
or will you always
be evolving
how will you know
that you have not
stepped back
to be overshadowed
by an ape
punching numbers
searching for Shots
and finding Pints
in the middle of
a dusty Riot
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
She felt she was a jellyfish, floating round, manipulated easily, seen through, landing where she landed and leaving when she’d leave. But occasionally she’d hurt those that got too close.
She’d sting them. She didn’t want to. And was sorry ever since, but her tentacles were made. Made with the stingers ready for anyone that got too close.
She tried to stay away from the sea but needed it to survive, so she’d drift in the same currents, the same as everyone else just kept distance, kept them safe.
Until that brave turtle came along, nearly impenetrable. So protected from danger and he lured her away from loneliness. There was a moment of convincing. He had to show her that he was strong enough and he seemed strong enough to resist her pains.
But he was too strong, too bottled up in his shell. No communicating with the inside, and it was tough for her. After a while he let down his guard and with one quick motion he slipped on her tentacle. He was hurt and left.
Now left alone to face the current with few jellyfish friends who had chosen the back path, but she needed someone close and as much as she loved her friends, they weren’t enough.
She hasn’t forgot that turtle to this day and she wished upon a twinkling coral that she may have him back. But maybe it isn’t meant to be.
Back to reality now, enough with the fish metaphors, as much as I like them. I guess I like them because they make me feel like I could be close to her. Maybe even close enough to be her turtle. One problem.
I can’t swim
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?
He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?
This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?
This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?
This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:
memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Black lagoon brain pools,
Drown me in our retrograde...
Long and tactful tentacles ...
To catch my anatomical....
Retracting my soul from your memory tubes.
Painting our moments in shades of black.
Disappearing phantom laughs...
And lucid nightmares follow me to sleep.
Ghostly appendages wrapping me tight.
Ensnared by his tragical hold,
Farewell snap shots are never enough.
Goodnight static dream tracer.
Your everywhere is no where now.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
Most people grow gardens with flowers and peas.
But I am not most people.
My garden is rather unique.
Come quickly outside if you dare take a peek.
Follow me out the door
but don't be too hasty
I will return you here looking awfully pasty.
Into the woods we go
with a feeling of unease
remind yourself you may turn 'round if you please.
You wear an expression of bravery
plastered to your face
I'll warn you that is entirely out of place.
My garden lies far, far away
The entrance: this long narrow path
Upon return I suggest a nice lukewarm bath.
We march on silently
Straight to my clearing
Where all that dwells is hardly endearing.
We arrive at gates
I push them wide open
and glance at your face, the expression most potent.
You stare out at my garden
Your weary eyes cautious
Searching for normality with obvious malice.
There is nothing of that sort to be found here.
So sorry to disappoint you, my dear.
From the unicorn pasture
to the golden archer
near the tentacle bed
and the swooping vulture
Round the corner lives my large pet dino
being lead by a petite albino
by the pond grows my crop of egg head
while nearby lies a heard of enormous sized rhino
Your gaze falls on my pink sparkly pegasus
being rode by a tiara topped princess
on a field of grass that is blood-red
bordering a lake worthy of the great greek god Isis.
As I watch your face change with shock and a pinch of delight
I see you won't put up a fight
You'll help me grow and raise my unparalleled garden
You might even defend it and be my trusty warden.
All that matters is that my garden is safe.
And to be honest, I couldn't be happier.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
The blue honda pulls up to the curb. A strange lingering fog is tinged purple. He steps out of the car, and looks around. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it in a moment of awe. What meets his bleared city eyes is a sight like no other. Looming in front of him is green woods, seemingly taking shallow breaths in the mist. Then, shadowy swirls form into tentacle-like wraiths. He stood frozen for what seemed like forever. Then a shadow slowly crawled onwards him, slithering on the gravel. It tentatively touches the tip of his shoe and he scrambles back into his car and locks the door, trying to steady himself. After telling himself repeatedly that it was just his imagination. Not real. Not real. Not real. Feeling better, he picks up his phone and calls his wife back. The phone rings, and the normal sound brings him back to the present. He looks towards the woods. He quietly scoffs to himself, what an idiot he was, it was only his imagination. Something catches his eye.He doesn’t see anything. Looking towards his phone something catches his eye again. Upon a second inspection he looks and finds nothing. He looks down on his phone, why can’t his wife pick up already? Something catches his eye a third time and he looks, there is no mistaking the shadows leaking towards his car. he hangs up desperately and attempts to call again.It rings once and the shadows seem to leak into his car, it rings twice, and the shadows seep into the open window, it rings four times, and she finally picks up.
Her lone voice rings out
Hello?
…
Are you there?
…
Honey, are you ok?
...
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Tentacles twist breaking bow and mast.
Clinging and clinching to the once mighty vessel.
A ship once prized by the Navy
Now prized as a partner for the sea beast.
Each serpentine tentacle tightens,
Around wooden board, and cast iron fastener.
Creaking and cracking the boat dances as the beast leads.
Waves crazed as they are whipped to frenzy,
Matching the mammoth's rhythms.
They struggle to keep the beast contained.
White caps covering the beasts murderous desire.
The ship is his, and as dances do,
This one ends in a flourish.
Cracking crosstrees and foremast,
Collapsing the gangways,
Sails still whipping as the dancer's dress is ravaged.
And as quickly as it began
It stops.
The monster sinks back from where his strike began.
The tired vessel following quickly after.
The water forgets its rhythm and steps.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
I was attacked by jellyfish.
Clear umbrellas
circus tents with mardi gras beads
hung down the side
like indian fringe
tentacles stretching stretching stretching stretching
and stopping.
And stinging.
Those mother smuckers
shooting venom
like Belushi shot ******
through my skin
Chinese acupuncture
sticky jelly arms sticking
plucked off suction cups
like fake tattoos rubbed off
with bare fingers
skin burned
a sixteen alarm salt fire
contained by ocean
no flame but pain
and water stings
the tickle from tentacle to skin
not even a fish
but a gillfree zooplankton
free from captivity
but caged to my skin
like a remora
those shark suckers
but I'm not a host
just prey in the way
for a swim in the gulf
or a walk on the shore
or a pet at the zoo
my chest my feet my hands
stung like ghost bees
not seen but felt
glossed with mud
this time tide sand
wet like tsunamis
mixed with vinegar
rubbed like bay leaves
under the nose
to relieve congestion
but on the wound
to relieve infection
my skin reddens
like rose bloom
from gypsum sands
and I want to sleep
sound as Beethoven
but wake again
like an immortal sea jellie
roaming every ocean
like De Soto or Marco Polo.
Marco
Polo
Marco
Polo
Fish out of water.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
I have a squid in my belly
and she likes to be fed
filtered cigarettes
and whatever vodka's on sale.
When she's good
I'll treat her with
a couple lines off the table,
but I never use mirrors
because she's never good
until two in the morning
when she's all liquored up
and I'm not looking my best.
These days I'm pretty fed up
with her ******** because
sometimes she'll stretch a tentacle
through my esophagus
and pry open my painted lips
and reach out to whoever's closest
and go for their neck.
I try to swallow her back down
to protect everyone
but she's a tough broad
and it's hard to tame a creature
when you're not sure
where she ends
and you begin.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
He anchors me
When my carefree wings take me too high
Tentacle arms surround him
Past my wintery armor he sneaks by
Ever the sunshine skip
In my stormy seas sway
Cradling my heart softly
Intensifying come what may
Blending completely
Edges blurring into one
Always in tandem
A moon for her sun
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
I dreamt
that I was wrestling
and octopus underwater.
Its tentacles found
my face
in that dank place.
I stopped breathing.
One tentacle around
my throat.
Preventing breath.
Close to death.
I fought
and pulled
and screamed
underwater.
Before I became a shipwreck,
I woke up with my lamp cord
around my neck.
~E.M.S.
2/3/12
12:56 a.m.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
Here hails a huge, long and dragonish snake,
With myriads of dangerous heads on its thorax,
Roaming up and down in a nefarious duty
All over the African streets and hamlets,
Villages and terrains, the abodes of poor folks,
Swallowing daughters and sons of this land,
Swallowing a handful of them on each bite,
They are in a forlorn despair like never before,
Defenselessly succumbing to the dragon once in the grip,
Young and old, prebubescent and all others are cancers’ fodder,
Africa is truly diminishing to the abysmal jaws of cancer,
Forget of initial vices of *** Ebola and leprosy,
Forget of the contemporary terrorism and ethnic warlordism,
Cancer is ruthlessly swallowing poor folks of Africa
Into its inferno of early deaths, rendering many parentless,
A knot for the living to put aside pride and seek genuine help,
For the myriad heads of dragonish cancer violently **** the prey,
I have seen sons and daughters of poor Africa in cancerous agony,
Often with a blocked food pipe when in the grip of throat cancer,
Non-stop vaginal bleeding at mercilessness of cervical cancer,
In the torture of brute pulling weight in grip of scrotal cancer,
On the top of maximum pain in the grip of breast cancer
Humorously desperate before menacing eyes of death,
When misfortunately in the grip of heart cancer,
Deathly starvation condemns many poor folks to grave,
Always when in the unlucky tentacle of intestinal cancer,
In this desperate land of Africa where basic hospital
Stands a luxury, affordable by the rich in the political class,
As the poor without choice die and die and die,
O who will take me out of Africa, this nonchalant Africa?
Before the dragon of cancer condemns me down to its
Inferno of pains and miserably violent death!
I fear death due to punctured lungs without solace,
I fear death due to stunted blood cells without succor
I fear death due to poisoned blood without palliative
When the cancerous heads of ; lung cancer, blood cancer,
And Liver cancer will besiege this land of Africa to hold me a captive.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?
How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and ****
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?
Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and ****
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.
Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,
Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost
Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops
With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.
1.8k
the radio is thrumming in the distance and you are measuring something
its scientific
so you don't bother to explain it to me
because we both know that i won't understand it
and i'm okay with that
because i am more than happy staring in wonder at you
perhaps it sounds cheesy
that's okay, because it's sincere
and you know this
the radio is listing random numbers
as always when it's not tuned to my voice
and the sun hasn't set
but that means very little, because the sun has not been setting at the right time anyways
not that it matters, since electric lights were invented some time ago
you're leaning against me
and smiling
and i am carding my fingers through your hair
and its lovely, it is
because this moment has not yet ended
and while it is nice to have memories to look back on
its never quite the same
it must be heaven, i think
because i am not used to acceptance
not even in such a strange town as this
i am not used to acceptance and while i am okay with this
its nice
to have someone know your darkest secrets
and stay by your side
it make you feel worthwhile
before i told carlos - beautiful carlos, and he's mine -
i was worrying
my mother
before she died
told me many things
most of them to do with my death
but also
some things that are a little more meaningful
and sitting here with my carlos
i am reminded of what opposites they are
carlos
has always accepted by glowing tattoos that sometimes
when i'm not careful
morph into tentacles that snake their way around his arms, holding him close
he may have been a little annoyed when he couldn't sleep
but it wasn't my fault
he said that
very emphatically
and it was very kind
it's never my fault
he said
when someone bad does something bad to you
and that
has made all the difference
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Her languid voice
Drew me in, drooped,
And tentacle hair wrapping,
My feet fell before hers,
Sinking in the faraway lost pool,
The mortality in the sands,
And even the stars, snuffed
Out of darkness and fire
Became the light of the world,
The hushed day breaking
With welling waters and salt.
How can dream be lived,
Within dream? Must I swear
As I fall into bliss?
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC