I unfasten you, moment by moment.
You(r) Your voice, transcending legatos; Beautiful, calming, melodic, Gracefully harmonic. Your eyes, candle lights; Bright, kind, benign,&
Unlocked My sexual desires, moaning &
_I want to bind you tightly blue,And give you an experience so ghastly new.I want to blindfold you softly,And let that deception grow menacingly cold,and lofty.I want to cuff you harshly,And grab your body so terrifyingly rough,and grotesquely.I want to lick you feverishly,And feel you desperately all over,repeatedly.I want to whip you friskily,And bite you passionately deep,fervidly.I want this to satisfy you too,And I hope this love beautifully ensues.
D'evilAt a café, a woman catches a glance with a handsome man wearing a black fascist looking coat.She smiles, "I bet you think you're crazy with your collection of Japanese horror films, and snuff films. But what you don't know, is that I'm crazier - with my necessary need to rip apart every heart that falls at my feet. I don't poison. And no, I don't moonlight as a serial killer. I'm worse. I'm your worst nightmare. You look at me and all you see are black patent leather boots and a similar coat as yours but what you don't see under these cherry red drawn lips are teeth that pierce and consume. Eyes that penetrate so deeply, they're soul stealing. Or these legs that'll cast a
.I want to make you moan, And groan, and gasp, and hiss.I want to give you a turbid kiss,And show you absolute bliss.I want to touch your limbs,And feel your veins against mine.I want to envelope you like a vine,And sew your skin into mine.I want to share some opium,And crack your bones with lust.I want to cease your soul in thrust,And feel your body tremble and bust.
SeveredI lost my heart on the edge of eternity.I dropped it off there thinking we would come back.Thinking we would come through, but we broke paths.We lost our maps, we lost each other.
Oh Winter, my MistressYour pale skin and blue eyes make me melt.Your thin limbs always warm me;So beautiful and inspiring.But underneath them, you remain cold.You tell me it's fleeting, "This will not last."I know that, but when I'm with you, I never feel that.Your room, always dark.Your sheets, always white.Your collections, always dead:Skulls, skeletons, mounts, and furs.You tell me this will not last.I never believed you,But you said, "It's the way life is."Your hair, always shimmering black.With a blue tint, I never can get over that.Your lingerie, clean white, no -Crystal white, almost see-through;That delicate color of ice.You tell me this will not last.But I never,believe you.
Falling Down Toxin Petroleum kisses, Arsenic embraces, I've fallen into metastasis.
The Kill I foam red. I spit vertebrae. Tendons
Rooibos TeaBreathe deep the chai hazePicasso's djinn,a muse of eggshells and grandma's lace tablecloths,cradles the tea kettle to her chestand abandons Latin words and namesflotsam and jetsam dribblingirrelevant among the little red tea leaves;the driftwood of genus and species bumpingagainst the shores of the South African scrublands.She hovers orange and indigo,a quavering flame of dreamsand drained tea dregsdivination with a soft-spiced voiceat the bottom of the mug,never quite gonea flock of Van Gogh crowsfrozen in their hayfields.
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho--somatic, dear;the ocean has swallowedme whole.hay una guitarra bajomi almohada, ysueño de música cuandoestoy solo.you came here withcity smoke in your lungs,and iforgot to breathe.
SwallowI swallowed stones for a girl once,tethered a daughter to my arm,raised her with my own hands,and pulsed so much bloodthrough the wireit became a vein.Eventually I fell,slammed to the floor,like a marionette savagely thrownagainst a wall.My guts were full,of sediment andmy stomach swelled too much.I breathed dust and ants,swallowed as much as I was able,and tried to get upwith my daughter in tow.Clumsily falling back over,with bruised hands andforced, rough, breathing,I felt tensionfrom the other side.The line pulled taut and hardand dragged me from its endacross so many splintering boardsI bled from my fingers tryingto fight it.Until,it frayed and snapped.Admittedly, I cried for itand I shoveled debris and carted bloodswearing the whole timeI'd never swallow stones for a girlagain.Then I met you.
cwe're traveling at the speed of lightand we won't stop for nothing (there are no br(e)akes in this vehicle called life)so let's keep going until we can reach the far edges of the universe where the blackness seeps into your skin and you passed the last star a couple thousand light years ago;and return home to each other as old folks who've aged nothing but gained knowledge of all the mousetraps of the cosmos &
Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,rather,I'm a feather on its wing,so when you let me drifton the next western current,let me fall slowly down,d r i f t i n g.I promise I'll land softly,though you will not find mewhere you left me.
Colourful LanguageThey talk blue. You see red.
another notch on the wall. 1.a while now,a while now has passedwith bruises crying jagged from your voice and pretty little nicks upon your memory.( tricky partners dancingstiffly within your hands cupped around a flame,for artists draw andwriters scream another curse at the bleeding night snipping stitches and weaving nightmares into weary minds.
Awake For The SunriseI despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling awayand resting in my bloodshot eyes that sayI will cry before it rains and the sunwill always be more bright than our future.But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,because the moon loves the stars enoughto be with them at least once a day.The way rain clouds ploughed their wayinto yesterday and tomorrow reminds meof the time I asked why you were cryingand you told me "Today won't last forever."So my heart brokelike it had no other options;a water-filled jar being frozenand there just wasn't enough spaceleft in my chest for air.
etch-a-sketchhe wrote his suicide note on an etch-a-sketch board.elmo-red frame, golden paint drawing out the classy cursive logo, white bottle-cap knobs, and a fake digital screen.a child's dream.it took him six hours to revisit his childhood for the last time.[it didn't take that long because he didn't know what to say, but because he wanted to finally do something right.]he carefully turned each knob, forming darkened pixels into letters, letters into words, and words into spider-silk-thin sentences that would rip and fade, just as spider webs did.his words faded a bit when you accidentally knocked it off his dresser so you could take it to the funeral.faded a bit when you went over that speed bump on the road and the little board bounced around a bit in the car.faded a bit when you walked over to his open casket and dropped it next to his mortician-treated body.faded a bit when the mini-crane dropped the casket into the grave just a moment too early, and so the death-box shook like a f
The nature of inspirationWhen was the last timeYou heard the word 'erection' in poetry?I think it was a while backBetween the pagesOf reformAnd Odyssey.I mean "humans" don't even playBogies anymore,Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-houseInside us allWhere politeness is a foul facadeAnd we aren't afraid of our fingers.No...InsteadWe prioritise the silhouettesAnd forgetThe way pressing pen into paperMade us soSteamyAnd out ofBreath.Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...It's magmaFlowingWith taboo,GlowingLike irradiatedLemonadeAnd it's about time we becameMutants too.It's about timeWe let upAnd let itBurn us upTurn us onTurn us upAnd fine-tuneOur wobbly bitsInto an aphrodisiacViagra fusionOf concussiveCorrosiveVerboseSex.So if there's any P.S.Poetry can teach youIt's this.Never forgetthe word 'erection'.
fumesthe talk of my heart unfurls, wisps of smoke
Revolver in a Bag of PuppetsRevolver in a Bag of PuppetsFor Christine ChubbuckOn a fiery July morningyour eyes opened with intentionto involve innocentsin a cold steel plotdetailed on pagesin the bowels of your briefcasewishes birthed in solitudeno light, no hopeDid your hands shakeas you buttoned your blouse?Did your coffeego cold in the cup?Did your eggsburn in the pan?Did you think of the childrenwatching that day,as the camera's eyetransmitted your pain live in color?A thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wessondrawn from a shopping bag full of puppetsOne shotfired behind the right earYour headslammed against the deskDeadcalmScreens faded to blackcontrol panels fell darkEyes aghastin silent horrorYour final statementagainst the sensationalism you detestedIrony articulatedthrough a tempest of permanenceYour sorrow feltlike bombs over paradise============================COPYRIGHT 2014, William BarkerAll my work has copyrightswith the Library of Congress.
Fireating.Your showcase act,she whotoes the line betweensafetyandstupiditytightrope-catwalking,straightline-kerbstalkingdistance edges closer as herheart rate stalls.Your glitz girl,she whoknows the time it takes totrustandpractisehorsetrot-swordthrowingactgets-crowdgoingher balance was performance but shefell for you.
The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.He wouldn't like me writing it that waya fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of a cantankerous old bastard with every imaginable bigotrythe 'self-hating Jew' routine was something he carried out very well. But with him you could always see the humor in his words. I once watched in awe as he told a joke that had the word 'nigger' in it at least three times to a table full of black men who could remember when they heard that
Hubris.todaywe're youngerthan we're ever gonnabe.i. and we finally did it,drove to the mountainswatched meteorsand let the mattressgrow dampunder our loveunder the starsii. there are things tobe reconcilediii. my eyes sting likechlorine, but fromcrying,I finally disappointedthem;the highest order of shameiv. but you cannot putpeople into pockets;good, baddon't mixwith themv. and I cannot choosewho I lovevi. your lenses are straight,elite and proudmine, open and accumulatingfilthvii. maybeI should run away more often,we never talk like thisviii. and you have to realisethat I live in a worldthat you don't, and youlive in one Icannotix. the respect is there,but I cannotbe stifledany longer.
London Bridge is Falling DownIt is one o'clockAnd I have been playing JengaFor two years, eight monthsTwenty-three days, four hoursAnd approximately fifteenMinutes.I slide books from their slotsOne by one, the teetering towerBecoming more teeteringAnd less towering.All the poetry books are gone,Stored underneath my bed,Because I love reading them atThree thirty in the afternoon,When everyone is doing somethingBut me.One day the wall of booksWill topple to the ground,Onto my ashen carpet, for yesterdayThe apocalypse had taken placeWhile I was washing dishes.I guess I missed it, but luckilyThe book tower is still standing,And it will continue to be thereUntil I make a mistake and all of itErupts into a shower of finality and fire andInk.
Souls and SparklesTo write something that is meaningful to someone else, you must first write something that is meaningful to yourself.There are a thousand rooms in each person's mind, and each mind is a maze because it has been tangled. The hallways are criss-crossing and clumping, like long hair in the wind. Society has made it so.We all have impure thoughts. Things that would make us "bad", unequal, or imperfect. Thoughts that make us different in gloriously unusual ways. We are born into the world unashamed, but then we are taught the unspoken words. Words that are rules. Words like normal, like good and bad, ugly and pretty. We are taught that if we do not fit the rule of "good", we are bad. We are evil, we are tainted, and so we are unwanted.So, each of us hides our failures; our shortcomings, even though they are exactly the opposite of such. They are a representation of the uniqueness of each human soul, but unique is "bad", and so we hide. And those impure thoughts are hidden in darke
Bits of Nothing 61On paper you're perfect.Isn't it a shame the world isn't made of origami?
*I unbutton you, kiss by kiss.I untie you, touch by touch.I unzip you, rib by rib.I unfasten you, moment by moment.