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echoes of youth 1echoes of a youth abandoned
nowhere sentries stand
just barren flatland
three days long ixin all of my weaknesses
with hardly much strength left
i said i wanted to go home now
three days too long now
he told me it was too late now
that i should've known better
than to fuck with a monster
he grinned like a fiend then
and brushed my cheek softly
he covered my mouth with his
he tasted of wild champagne
his mouth devouring like wildfire
hands insistently clawing
like he was hungry and starving
i'd be lying if i said i was still
i'd be lying if i said i'd fought back
in all bright truth in dark night
i responded in kind
three days long vifingertips
covering contours of my plunging throat
in greedy digital detail.
"so soft skin
when he speaks
his words are intercourse
in poetic discourse.
three days longit was just a moment.
a weak moment where i was just only
gazing at the madness of beauty embodied.
and as it were
i stared into the eye of the needle storm
where three days passing
became like three years in limbo
and my body filmed with nerve-sick sweat,
from within a shell of brittle flesh
i could only watch with 72 hour eyes .
borderline personalityyour sky holds bitter contempt.
if it weren't for the world itself
would you be king.
image of a walled citythe following presides as a covenant of unattractive yet somehow poetic prose with no place to live...unrequited.
if the girl could've sighed in mortification, and possibly been squelched with it's simple expression, she certainly would've.
the cure pranced about on the screen, (yeah, thursday i don't care about you) old 6 hour vhs video of mtv back when it actually meant 'music television.' the marker of good enunciation, robert smith was not. every plosive and fricative through impacted sinuses.
the pages laid about the foot of the bed, copy of curiosities.
1989 photo of kowloon walled city.
base architecture spoke of something that was unsavory and a bit unwieldy. like a two legged dog, reduced so by abuse. built upwards and inwards upon vice and violence. a dirty comic book made steel. a strange, compact, vicious dragontown accompanied by poverty and organized crime.
how beautiful and brutal a concept. how inglorious a world. how fully infinite in potentiality.
three days long xlike the streaking clouds
consumed the moon
i knew he would consume me too sinew
flesh muscle bone
breath and blood
he bit into me
ripe as a peach in the sun
the dance of suffering and decay
seemed just some
as time sped up passed
and his lust satiated
i slipped to the ground in cold sweat
my head between his knees
a musement parkcommon ground, split beneath
disappointments manifested, nested in
my swing, your swing, wrapped tightly round
a swingset found
in the boundaries we drew with chalk
five marbles worth one
tiger-eyed shooter and bubble gum
stoic, seated cross-faced and hoarding
schoolteacher's whistles sound
neither one makes a move
then a cold rain started to fall
on our playground divided
and it all just washed away
Under the eggshell skyPaper moth wings
fly at dusk
and the green feathers
fall from the trees
I watched her
leather red lips
cotton ball clouds
And her marble
stare at the
blue eggshell sky
The sky is broken
assonance with an i, or, a...full title: assonance with an i, or, a knife fight with christ
i thought a knife fight with christ was a suicidal idea,
but i survived.
he tried to slice my eyes out, but i took his life with a
slice to his side.
of course he revived in three nights like you might surmise,
but by then,
there were ninety-nine miles between me and that guy.
i miss my friend, sometimessometimes i miss my friend, and
i sometimes miss my friend.
i miss my friend.
and i miss my sometimes friend.
sometimes i miss, my friend,
but really, i just
miss my friend, sometimes.
she had a poem i loved
having something to do with picasso.
i loved her poem of picasso.
loving it i loved picasso.
gertrude lovesteined a poem i picassoed.
picasso loved a stein she gertruded.
poems by picasso and painted by stein.
both i loved, both inspired by gertrude.
she once poemed a painting by picasso
and i loved my missing friend,
mostly there was a poem
picasso loved that steined
its way to paint.
sometimes gertrude misses her friend pablo
and stein picassoes her missing poem.
i loved her missing pablo so i
steined my own picasso.
untitled 112409if this life were a dream, how would you interpret it?
-harold klemp, living ECK master (loosely quoted)
the only difference between dreams and reality is
the only difference between dreams and reality.
god constructed one and we constructed the other
(and we are all god).
your blinkers are out and
you're giving false signals to hapless young men
in bars. ever notice the coincidence and wonder if
you're inadvertently flirting in reality's only dream?
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More