a tongue tingedLook at how they want moreLook at how they surround him, sucking on his halo Hyenas lapping at the dried blood - savoring the bones But I was the lion who made the killing.I see the smokeThat aura's no jokeNot to say I didn't toke … I did … and oh how it soaked in.But was it worth what was wasted?See, now I cant watch a train go by without feeling the air that rushed past my faceAnd remember how my thoughts disgraced the spaceBetween my lips and his waist.Yes I sucked that halo too and nowI can't get rid of the taste.Look at how they want moreAnd they haven't even opened theAll they hear are the voices behind theAll they see is the light under the door.I can't get rid of the taste.
nautical nostalgiaI come once a year.I hear your heart beating in these boulders.Pieces of your skin wash ashore aboard the concave cavities of shells.Your fingernails lay drying in the sand like the discarded scales of mermaid tails.Strands of your blonde hair curl softly around the feet of gulls as they screech to their kin farther up the beach.And I remember the day I lost you to this gluttonous sea.
Zeus Breathes?Electricity cut through the sky -A streak of light, A darting current of fate splitting and forking into a furious wrinkle on the pallid face of this globe.Like the final signature on a mandate.Rain squirted from the sky's gaping wound and spattered on my windows from all angles.Violently ... like mad dogs.Cryptically ... like a prologue.It was in the air, you know,and I know it sounds cliche,but I knew you'd die that day.The clouds often whisper too loud in their bickering."He's due," I made out amidst their chit-chat.Belated were the sirens in reassurance of that.
hehe was the boy with the fast walkthe fast talkthe dirty pantsthe thoughtless hairthe digesting eyesthe communist patch on his left shoulder the boy waiting for a revolutionhe was the friend of a friendat the other end of the couch that seemed to extend for miles or maybe it was just the space in between that made it so ...he was the boy with the bottlesthe boy with the booksthe boy beside the other ones, falling into rank but not exactly falling into line; shorter than his fellow soldiers but holding higher cards. and I had not heard many words but the few I overheard I held in high regards.h
adversary of sortsHe wears his 9-mm like a hero.He wears his knife like lingerie.He wears his black like skin to mast the black that lies therein.He's a joker with a cynic mind,a lover - the sadistic kind,a lawless gambler of lives,and a bastard you don't dare survive.He wears his tuxedo incognito.He wears his gold like lingerie.He wears his gloves like skin to mask the black that lies therein.He's a talker of the charming kind,a bourgeois prince with a working-class mind,with a sickness you're just not quite sure of.He's a bastard you won't dare not to love.
feral horsefilth-clad stable gates swing in a less than strong fall breeze.cleft feet scamper in stupor at much obliged freedom, the cliff not far off.it ran in humble dignity, owing something to itself: a vouchsafe freedom, only dealt out to the airborne.so it jumped from that cliff as if angels would catch it although not expecting to find halo-bathed fingers at the bottom.when he hit the ground he made no sound but a sigh of relief amidst the crunching of leaves.and he dreamt of a freedom,absent of saddles and filth-clad stables.returning to the feral state of being unmounted, untamedlike a virgin.
you hybrid of hocus and pocusI cant find an elaborately elegantor brilliantly stupefyingor colourful way to tell youthat youre my terra firma and the walls of the house that will retire on it. and that if I were to fly the soles of my feet would be cicatrized; scars in the shape of recycled paper.so ill say it in black and white:play with me,stay with me,you hybrid of hocus and pocus.
Ezekiel 21[4 ... therefore shall my sword go forth out of his sheath against all flesh from the south to the north: 5That all flesh may know that I the Lord have drawn forth my sword out of his sheath ...] He guided the armed with a pointed sword &
InfoRedlow lights make blues look more blue than blue really is.more mysterious than you really are ...the smoke cloud lifts and what I thought was exotic was me being quixotic how goddamn unerotic to read the clock and find that time has passed backwards.now I don't know what tense I'm in,but im looser than I was before I walked in.highlights make reds look more red than red really is.more passionate than it really was ...(it looked like the moon but really it was just the reflection of your empty, open palms in the sky)oh how mistaken