Untitled #42

I submitted my poetry, and short stories, too 

With desire to spread my creativity,

And my lines were met by glowing review 

Of brightlyburning negativity. 

Untitled #41

A simply splendid shade of red
Has been spotted dead ahead
Despite how hardly it breaks through
The bottomless, crumpling blue
Into which you’ve now sunk
By all the weighted iron drunk
While washing down the plates of lead
That you ate to crush your dread.

Untitled #40

Most of “me” is stumbling sick;

Clenching stings in my chest. 

My stomach churns, my heart burns

With a temple prick. 

But fuck the rest. 

The world around me – constant spin.

A never-ending vertigo. 

No longer “if”,

Simply guessing “when”.

But I’ve still got some hurt to go. 

Untitled #39

I held my breath for thirteen days
Until the vacuum cracked my lungs;
Conveyed the pain in different ways,
I spoke in many foreign tongues.

Ich bin sehr müde;
Alas, no remedy inspired.
Estoy muy consado;
Alas, I am still very tired.

I wrote some lines to help me sleep;
Yet rest nor breath came rushing me.
Exhaustion is now mine to reap,
Exhaustion now is crushing me.

The sun rose, and I re-began,
The headache cannons fired;
I staggered, staggered, while I ran,
But still, I’m very, very tired.
So very, very tired,
So goddamn, fucking tired.

 

Untitled #38

A flickering florescent light
So bodes my short longevity;
It prances through this fearful night
With such a bitter brevity.

But if it dances through my dreams
And sinks me with its gravity
I swear, I’ll let fly all my screams
Until my wails shake lose this cavity.

Untitled #37

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They were wrapped up within one another
Like tangled bits of twine;
Two threads stitching a single lover;
“I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

They embraced hard and fast,
Desperately trying to get closer.
With bed-sheets stained by nights of past;
Pillow-talk with echoes of “No, sir.”

For sleeping came with sublime ease;
They fit together like a rhyme.
And they both ink’d moments just like these
As they drifted into time.

(Sketch done by the immensely talented, outrageously artistic, insurmountably poetic, and, to be frank, drop-dead-sexy/best sex of my life, Brenna Lopes, IG: freshcantalopes)

Untitled #35

The way that she conducts her voice;
Oh, how my composure shatters!
Her tone plays fiddles that rejoice
But alas, how little it matters.

For two songs played in such different ways
Could never sound the same;
But I’ll always be moved by the symphonic sways
Of how she says my name.

Untitled #34

I can feel a deathly finger
Creeping, like a pervert, up my thigh;
And for half a spell, it likes to linger
Before it chills me and I die.

This finger, cold and clammy
Has an oddly warm flirt,
It like to tease me, and enjamb me
Before it fingerfucks me in the dirt.

Untitled #33

“I’ll give you my life,” Johnny Pierce did say
“It’s not worth much, I’m willing to risk it
All for a whopping six pounds pay-a-day,
A bolt-action rifle, and midday biscuit.”

“I’m seven-foot-two, born and raised Toulouse,”
The printer Jean Luc had yelled o’er the crowd;
I’ll write my wife,’till’s time my life to lose,
And make both her, and Paris Fleur-de-proud.”

‘Pon “Summa cum laude”  straight up he’d stand,
Then spend his days flipping through pages, couth;
Alas, he heard but “Axel Ferdinand,
All true Germans should join the Iron Youth.”

(Inspired upon completing All Quite on the Western Front by Erich Remarque.)