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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 23, 2014

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Submitted: July 23, 2014



and by the way 
there are flies in the basement, 
no doubt, the 
result of passionless blood-letting and 
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places) 
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy- 
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the 
sacred flesh of incandescence 
-these that thrust reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to suck the last drops of electromagnetic intercourse from their poems of illumination.
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant- 
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and 
allowing me the liberty of penetration.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet panties and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality 
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness. 
and there is nothing to be known except this. 
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation- 
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters 
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation, 
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses 
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity. 
i like my body for what its worth 
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and raped the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse 
and pushed thumbtacks through her nipples just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the sex with cinnamon tongues, 
received the grace of an angel as pierced nipples and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms- 
little ms. misanthropy 
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels 
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken 
but her breasts, not left untouched 

i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-


her wounds bled with the words,

you begin 
all of me

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