

RawbonesToo much polymoronic silt forming cataracts crowding the lids with gluons, soft promises of sunbeams and Klimt. Time there was sensation to these whorls and ribbons time there was morbidity of purpose and fat little palatals sprung across the plains, obese gazelles writ in water. No matter, the hours are massless now, tearduct-shaped impressions on a pale wall standing effortless against a gale of ages. For such pleasantries, I have no art. A happy trade, null and out-stretched. thinRawbones


EclipseAugust is a long month of trials and epic bursts of sunshine,Eclipse
eaves hanging by bold thread
sonambulant grace
cool mornings
And the razed darkness of a ragged landscape recognizing autumn under the spring.
Priapic roses and dusky fumes alike paralyze their nerves for duty of memoria.
Breezes blow emphatic the noxious waves of molten mettle across Adriatic grasslands decisive as trainsong.
Screeching iron prayers to the psychopomp, Iliads to violet battles, August s


Androgenous ZonesHe sees them out running, and he wants to be part of her menstrual jelly, thighs coughing slick with sweat. Green eyes on the machinery swaying like bosoms, Chastity licks itself thinAndrogenous Zones
and bristles with taste. Smoke condenses from the body in a film about the waist rankling the veneer of his carapace into a sullen fog of jetsam
and eyelashes.
Bulemic-hard rains in this salt-tasting sunshine, slippery as static, slake none of the arterial thirsts of these turbines. Cold running bursts of short life. They measure


Open WindowsI have tasted the air of these seven soiled springtimes putrid in their brevity the stifling twist of metronome synchronicity bearing out the Pythagoras taste of Love on its tongue. Pendulous motions of faithful thought-forms flickering like fluorescence on rotten ceiling tiles. Metaphors, cognates have never been so cruel as the waves of sensation bright enough to be audible in the Spartan sparenessOpen Windows
--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
--
Ryan "El Zorrito"
--
Ryan "El Zorrito"
--
Ryan "El Zorrito"
Why don't you join the poetry contest from [link] ?
It's free and every nitwit such as myself who enters gets a small gift
but someone like you might win one of their $10 000 or $100 000 prizes.
--
third world country music
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