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i love you my blood wench... my thump thump heart beat kiss me with a soldering iron... melted maga eyes ....burn me burn me... burn a hole through me... see right through me... fly a kite through me and laugh at the double dips and loppy loops that your thousand blown kisses produce.
use the back door my three footed mariachi maestro. and enter the dreams i have. of silken locks of petrified tears. bruised fruit and ripe wishes. i adore you. call me as your expert witness and i will surely testify on your behalf. i will paint rainbows with your eyelashes. watch you blink in ultra violet.
you mean the milkyway to me. help me recyle plastic bottles and weave wigwams with our wet dreams... i love you like aliens abduct and ears are shaped like question marks. sing me a song of trivial riddles and hum a sweet tune of soft answers. tell me of your grandmothers afgans the body
have you ever been an addict. and im not talking
about the hey-i-like-to-do-this-alot type of addict.
im talking about the
type of addict. im an addict. ive never blown anyone
to get it. i dont think i would. but i havent been
given the opportunity to either. the reason i say 'i
dont think i would' is because i like to pretend that
i still have something thats mine. dignity, pride,
standards. but i know i would easily toss those away
just to get it. i know because i have. so all i
really have is it. for one hour. for two hours. for
fifteen minutes or however long it last. however long
i can afford it to last. ill be high for fifteen
minutes if thats all i can get.
im an addict. i dont get high just to get high. i
get high just to get my mind off getting high for a
few hours. after a fix im good for eight hours.
maybe. then the last of my previous highs memory
cells dry up and i want. need. how ca
She beat me to it,
then beat me with it.
A pair of heavenly bodies,
Fighting the gravity of our collective density.
Shooting starlets is this galaxy choked night sky.
We broke up in the atmosphere.
with an asteroid massage.
Trip the lights horrific.
No one told me it was B.Y.O.Brimstone.
Prince Charming plastic face,
Could never afford the palace.
She blinked my haleys commet,
Greyscale aurora borealis.
Cynical whore with her lasso umbilical chord.
She called it off with a tear filled molotov.
And its over.
And its over and over and over.
will i ever get over?
will i ever
The Perfect Word
The Perfect Word.
The perfect word. The next word. One that fits. One that fits as if it were willed to the page. Cemented. Impervious to eraser tips and backspace backspace backspace keystrokes. Does it exsist? It must. Where is it then? Wedged deep down between the couch cushions. The metaphorical couch cushions of course. No the metaphysical couch cushions. No. The perfect word. Something that rummages through the memory's attic stack of yellowed newspapers with out tearing a page. Mummery. Strumpet. Glim. No no and no. A sentence written is a sentenced flawed. To think we might have strung a string of perfect words is to think we can recite pi, backwards. But surely we can go one for ten, one for a hundred, one per page per chapter per novel. Per lifetime. If we comb over a thesaurus with a magnifying glass. Excuse me? If we comb over a thesaurus with a fine toothed comb. The perfect word. If we are trampled into a bloody fossil-to-be by a murderous heard
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