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Stryder
Poetry: 79
Art: 0 / Audio: 9
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1 Poetry
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The doc says,
as he records services rendered,
that I need to quit drinking
because the pain in my gut… is my pancreas dying.
And I should quit smoking
because this wheeze isn’t going away.
He says I can look like a million bucks,
for my age,
but if I’m bankrupt inside......
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White paper moons
graphite
and the sudden
loss
of touch
you press
the point of the pen
hard
until it breaks
as if below the sea
far
far away
you heard yourself
lighthouse keeper
dead skin
heavy
ironbark
my lungs
hardened
transformed
into
diving...
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You showed me love
at a distance..
a hazy sun
through
a dirty buss window
our surfaces
gleams like liquid coal
unlocks the secrets..
we laugh like rusted hinges
she touched…
the overheated birds, a hundredfold
leaden bodies forms a bruise in the sky
i...
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I close.
On dreams of open fields,
an' mother's voice callin'
the sun down o'er the hills.
Whose smolder'd sky yields
heaven's diamonds fallin'
an' others blinkin', still.
Therein fingers trace
a map to ev'ry place.
Eyes closed, I say:
"To where solace waits."
an' open...
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Blooded early,
alone,
but it's a cinch.
Just peeling skin on
spattered rock
to a slamming cry
(sometimes there are no
quiet places to hide,
so one must
roar to survive),
then halting hot
on our gushing spot...
perhaps teaching death
the bug-eyed splat....
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The fast life has left me
spurring the lifeblood out of moments.
I have been picking the bones out of your feeding hand
and making utensils to toy with,
to pick at my poisons with.
However, I've found it most disturbing
that you are more interested
in the me that is dead.
So with...
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The ghosts of flowers
In her eyes
Her love beating hollow
Her humour still wry
Her cigarette withers
The window clears
"True romance is when
Magic is real"
Lips pursed
She exhales the ghosts
And replants the irises
Of the one she loves most
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Purple Dachau
Makes a stoned dog blue
A digital hoarder
On a crash curfew
Feeling beyond skin
Minds colour blind
Souls that stir
After the tears have dried
Space to breathe
But I don't need space
All I need
Is one look at your face
Stay up all night
For the morning sun
My black swan...
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Stay up all night for
the morning sun. My black swan.
My beautiful cunt.
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It's sunny here
Lovely
Watching the slow boats along the canal
From this balcony
I wonder
If Joy Division filmed the video
For Love Will Tear Us Apart
In that red brick building
With white bricked-up windows
Haunted by industry
Music rumbling, reverberating
Resonating
Like the most...
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And in his bastard's wet dream,
God will cry in his slumber
because nobody tucked him into it.
We are all biproducts of his desideration
for mother nature in a church dress,
unpropogated into his dimension
and fleetingly stained into the universal fabric
of an emperors new clothes.
The...
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bespoken.
in the way a thumb
under a breast speaks:..
let me mute this
heart from words.
groan enchantment,
such begging.
i seem to live in the throat of a devil
without hands and i have worn my skin for touch,
alone, when i cry to be the meaning.
this wanting that...
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there is a shipwrecked beauty about her
urban decay mouth as she sips her mocha
latte and takes a bite out of her lemon anise
biscotti at the local coffee shop nearby
and even though she's only another vogue icon,
her camera-shy rolling stone smile dies quickly
like the petals of...
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the crepuscular sky was pregnant with nine-year-old
innocence and its putrefying flesh gave birth
to a renegade fantasy before plummeting
further into an abyss where the subversive
sunshine buried his mistress
decaying stars blew kisses to the zeppelin moon
and recited a prayer for...
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My snakeskin flask is oozing deep,
ablaze in a sweating chill of wet,
a trail of stone to a thirsty sky,
a swaying pouch on the breeze at ease...
my teeth in the creek, I roil in peace,
a tongue from the dirt my guts to lay
a chin of rock in the gushing swim
by the slithering coil...
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This is how
it feels,
the world moves on
blue-grey mo(u)rns
my insides
popping to polyglots,
'neath a garden of skin-
scratching foreign names
under your breath
& over the clouds
within cloaks of war
on alien shores...
& I watch you drift
on the bold, free dawn...
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dont cry
for me...
i can.
[tina]
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Mnemonic shackles; rheumatic meltdown
“sweating syntax on a juggernaut cascade”
- such pretty poetry!
A backfire in the exhaust
of ‘couldn’t-care-less’ exurbia, the ‘bourgeoisie’ content…
Then locked in a frowsty room – keyboard predator
the gruff...
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I wake sometimes
to put my boots in blistering cold.
Under yer bed
& I'll die with them on
so fuck you whence.
My heart beats on a platter
of a mad, red splatter,
my demons croon
for negligent members.
A bottom tooth aches
from gritting cross.
I hike my sleeve...
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(or "Ya'll Have Fun at the Execution, Now, Ya Hear?")
Emotionless voices on humdrum airs,
slave girls jingling curb & motion.
I am on a bring-yer-own to the lithium strip,
a smoked-off plastic thrusting home
& I strangle sleep on a one-two-three,
step by step & assholed up in a...
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