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Cyanide

I am the insoluble crystallised rock
the experiment she abandoned
and left to rot.
She chose me
when fate was the skeleton that ambled past,
a hood of dust covering its head;
concerned about the density of love
behind this coward's back.
An affair with addiction exploded
in our hands and has since passed--
took my limbs, left my mind limping
through allies in the junkyard as a grey moon sets;
paying my debts to the mouths of
dumpsters that overflow
with long nights under naked flame
testing offerings of flesh for the burning.
The same smell encapsulates it all as I recall
the odour of sweat and cylinders: here, behold
stagnant sessions of sex and solvents
antidotes inspired by hell and thereafter,
to spite me.
Her spirit lives on,
settled on the plains in destitute
where bitter seeds gave birth
to these scattered thoughts stuck in troughs;
her almond-shaped eyes
crawling, infested
back into bed with my dreams
without me
on these bodies
the bombs and gunfire


a breath
leapt away from
the throat of a stranger

silence in the bones
swallowed by the earth
in absolute

blood warm on the tongue
absorbs the prayers
escaping gods favours

will the downy rain lay
here later

hope is falling to the earth at
tropic speed as
our bibles rush to save

the equator
Quote:
Scratching at the surface of Utopia

she was like a scene from bremmer bird and fortune on a broken tv screen
repeated episode after repeated episode after repeated

swaying on frothy words that ran out of her mouth, sterilised world peace
sucked on at the fatty substance left from over-cooked politics

it was necessary for performance.
clich├ęs rhymed against each other like prostitutes barely clad

the good nature of her voice driven by the money,
she summoned the sceptics to stop thinking and

kept on milking that sumptuous smelling, sweetly glazed orchard
perched in front of her,

the fruits she fed to audience; they were all touched

charmed by the words enough to make you believe the propaganda
the hoard of scrutiny became joyous,

animated a future full of skeletons.
Untitled as individual as it was toxic

I was the hymn you screamed
into bottom of the bottle
until your voice went hoarse.

I waited on you even when you
offered nothing but nicotine and ridicule;
was expected to smile
thankfully and appreciate
that you chose to sleep with me,

and now that
my ego, a plethora of broken bones
crunches underneath your feet,
clad in mud and knots of drying dirty laundry,
those chapstick stained, greasy
ululations of sin and filth,
excuses burning holes in your pocket

that sappy liquid catching flame...

Understand that the cross on your neck
is your first and only lover, the prince in waiting--
though you tried so hard
to tattoo the empty colours of faith onto my skin,
repeatedly sailed the seas of my eyes swarching,

those eyes which you found
endless and
transparent later, when what was we

made you feel guilt that
plagued you in your prayers,
blanketed your misgivings a hooded devil
when you thought of me,
and still

you were ready to lie
on your back and swear and promise
that the compulsion to be clean
could not
consume you.

I wanted you to be a realist, but

you never washed once
Dear God
(You betrayed me and I won't forgive you)


blankets of silence enveloping
drunken harmony
misshapen words wriggle
throughout.

this hapless germ is disappointment:
admission into heaven

declined

loving you decomposed the fruits of my thought
abandoned in a wicca basket
left for the sun's gorge and
when i look up i can see the ashes of
my corpse as it caught flame
paper to the gas cylinder

no good now

got my fingers burnt again
toyed with bones in earth and soil,

taught myself to lie and cheat and steal
all in the name of the end

i inhale the fumes in my new situation,
swallowing them (like the passive smoke you are)
hoping that
some 666 property agent with a pronged tongue
will breathe into the shells left of my
worm-ridden heart, let my absence of faith
turn the hateful words into a sturdy stone house
so i can live again
we play
in friendly fires with friends
fingers burn, threads fray
and it is so
easy to make a mistake, but

what comes of this
is the kind of grass
no cows can eat
the kind of milk made in
air: does not
exist

we build carcasses
on excuses of virus and disease

feed
on ashes and embers
in the druid sunlight
forget to breathe

waiting for nighttime to arise
in our palms
which are dry
but we're not mad, we can graze

on yesterday
yesterday
yesterday
I have been reading them for a bit now.
Really? I thought this place was a ghost town
I posted so you wouldn't think that. 3nodding
mind like cellulite
Akashya inoue
hm.


Luis do not give me that you know how to critique you've got the bombshell instantaneous reaction for it do the damn thing critique something in here you can do it it's easy come on you're like the superman of serious criticisms don't let me dangle here like a spider caught in its own web
I'm thinking of how to approach your poem. When I like a piece, I find it rather hard to critique.
TheVoiceOfCreation's avatar

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this one is my favorite, so this one is the one i'm critting.

Grape Flavoured Prozac
Cyanide

I am the insoluble crystallized rock
the experiment she abandoned
and left to rot.
She chose me
when fate was the skeleton bumbling past alright, 1. this line is heart but 2. right about here in this sentence is where i get a confused on the images because your next line reads funny without some kind of punctuation there. because it reads "when fate was the skeleton bumbling past a hood covered its ancient head" and that just reads funny to me.
a hood covered its ancient head
concerned about the density of love
behind this coward's back.
The product of an affair with addiction exploded "product" says that something came from the affair and the addiction, but you don't exactly say what that product is, only what it does. i wanna know what it is that's doing these things. unless i fail and i'm just not reading far enough into the lines. in that case, ignore me. i only got up like an hour ago, anyways. ><
in our hands, and has since, passed--
took my limbs, left my mind limping heart
through allies in the junkyard as a grey moon sets;
paying my debts to the mouths of
dumpsters that overflow
with long nights under naked flame, testing--
offerings of flesh for the burning.
The same smell encapsulates it all as I recall
the odour of sweat and cylinders: here, behold
stagnant sessions of sex and solvents
antidotes inspired by hell, and thereafter
to spite me.
Her spirit lives on, settled on the plains, the destruction
where bitter seeds fermented and gave birth
to these scattered thoughts stuck in troughs;
her almond-shaped eyes
crawling, infested
back into bed with my dreams
without me "with my dreams without me" reads funny, too. it's the "with" too close together. although i kind of think the "without me" could be gathered. but at the same time, it may not be. because it could leave the reader thinking you both got back into bed. so idunno.. you may not need it at all, but on the other hand, it might be necessary. i guess if you took it off it would depend on your reader. if they follow the story well enough, they'll gather the without me should be there, but if they didn't follow the story well enough, they might think it would read "with me" but the "without me" reads funny with the with in the line before regardless.


luis is right, ya know, it is harder to crit things you like, 'cause you're loathe to have anything change. =/ i loved this, though. lovelovelove. heart
Although Ashley does have a point, I guess I'm just being a lazy a** considering she could critique your piece when I damn well should be able to as well. I'll just get to it despite how I feel about the poetry here.

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