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Kunal Kar Jan 2016
A deluge of earthly sins,
A waterspout on green leaves,
A hurricane among lull seas,
An equanimity of autumnal eves.
A dilated tale of mundane me.
A million abstruse blocks of C of Co²
A walker among you and me.
A wanderer lost in blue.
Attired by crimson lust of artistry.

A masquerade brew of red wine and dark coffee,
A stark blithe of sanguine comatose,
All drunk and clinging to the thin threads of this unstaged life,
All murdered by the sinical overdose.
The seascape choirs of ocean waves,
Embracing the narcoleptic yellow shorelines,
And evanescent castles
And sail headwind with a mystical concubine.

The iced conundrums of this lost forsaken echoes of winter breeze,
The insanity measured in ones & zeroes,
We're the kings of this deadbeat time,
And praised victories of unsung heroes.
The wanderlust sailors drank the skies,
In mixed cocktails,
And thy heavens sang to this night,
As a melodic madness of wild gales.

Her pale white body declares some love due,
As our lips bled rapture,
And rose a melodramatic cue,
Like words of a closing chapter.
Charged with the flow of adrenal enzymes,
A surrogate from affinity to serendipity,
For in flashback of these forlorn events,
I write this epiphany.

And though these letters are on fire,
And bestowed the bullets over armored heart,
For life exists in the heartache symphonies,
Like a stratagem cliché of painted art.
Call your unfurled knots of wrecked sanity.
A wildfire has gone wild within,
The eloquence thirst of your red lips,
Inked the words of love on this skin.

An audacious lover of seafaring,
Beside the starry onset of a beautiful dawn,
A tide of marvelous mystery,
Whose side are you on?
Its all fiction served with tea,
And through warm sips of this worthy minute,
Change is tempted to render seeds,
That swam through wind, till it escapes and wanders the infinite.
KM Jones May 2011
you are my favorite non-fiction
and darling, I've lived fantasies...
I have fictionalized feelings...

but what we shared was unstaged
-unscripted
something found in between the sheets and "I'm sorry's"

we redefined the line
we cut the strings
found ourselves lost amidst the friends and the lovers

like the rough draft of a Hemingway novel.

what we are is made for the storybooks, my sweet.

we witnessed monotony and wrote of miracles
never intoxicated, but always impaired

we could overflow libraries-
flood them with our stories of how the sea swallowed up * all those * l i v e s...
and we had barely missed making history

we begged the other to simply save us...

starving for the intrigue of a good fiction
- dying to live a story worth telling...
.




His dog is in need of water--

the actor's emaciated.
You'd think he's sacrificed blood,
but the gutter is overrated.

His eyes seek out a bargain
in between the brittle brick.
Just like his toes,
they are cracked and froze...

--- this is not a trick.

Sing an ode to your pin cushion veins
and to your pastel eyes--
these wet city streets are full of broken screams
and unspoken alibis.

I've heard your simple prayers, (yes)
I've smelled the spark's sharp steel stench.
I watched the moon slide across the frost
as you slept on the park's bench.

Trade your bread for a piece of sky
with a madman's son or daughter.
(Yes!) This actor may be unstaged---



but his dog is in need of water.







.
Nathaniel Mar 2019
Heave! Heave! On every breath
Leaving his body in unstaged scenes

Grabbing for air his lungs deflate
And he curls as a new born in a crib

His hands sweat and and his face fades red
toes curl from the tingle

With scrunched face he reveals white teeth
and hides his joy-filled eyes

Laughter unveils his just jubilation
or there is just a happiness in his means
Alzet Weideman Nov 2017
There are words hiding
in the shadows of your body
Script too dark to write
for my wrist is too weak and ink too thin

Unstaged monologue
Unspoken song
Unwritten essay
Unravelled riddle

Grant me an inkling, my lover
a concession for my effort; a reward for my toil
So I can construe the omitted allusion
So I can hear the whispering voice of your soma
Travis Green Jul 2020
There was a bullet hole way too deep
in my chests, my flesh feeling cold
to the touch, causing me to be stressed,
dejected, my veins and bones feeling alone,
long gone, alarmed, disarmed, losing
my eyesight and flight in the blinding light,
disintegrating in neglected mazes, divided
pages, my skin sizzling, swollen, lost poetry
poisoned.  I was beginning to conceptualize
the stormy scene, the serenity slipping away
from me in the distant and darkened seas,
the gleam traversing away from my white,
sweat-soaked face.  The chilling beat
was psychologically crazed, unstaged,
playing with my innermost thoughts,
creating a leakage, a blockage to my heart
as I searched for a shooting star, to carry
me from this world of misery.

— The End —