August 28 2014, 01:57 AM

The squeak of that creaky wooden chair was our weakness
Stifled giggles against one another as we tried to keep our momentum
You insisted on the hip-swivel approach
While I chose the jackhammer, knees aching at the repetitive push against gravity
And still that chair groaned and ached and complained under our weights
Begging for it to be over.
Little did it know what a long night it had ahead of it.

August 28 2014, 01:51 AM
7 notes  •  Via: pxmcvm

Bleeding Corpses

pxmcvm:

Sometimes
the thought
that love’s what would
only save us
terrifies
the hell out of me.

They say that
in the end
love remains
upon
our decaying flesh.

But oftentimes—

when my heart skips a beat
when your arms are back around me
when we are breathing again—

I push back my fear
against the wall and
let my blood spill
on the ground.

I try to believe
that these times
would end it.

August 27 2014, 11:37 PM
kittygory replied to your post:Cyrano
Wow! This is cool…and kinda scary! LOL!

I think it would be a great game for the classroom, to be honest.

August 27 2014, 11:15 PM

Cyrano

So if any of you are interested in a really cool game, there’s one called “Cyrano” where you and your friends compete at writing short 4-line poems. You’re given a topic and the sounds to use for your rhyming words at the end of each line. You’re also not allowed to use the example words given. You also have to give your poem a title. It has some rules from Boggle in order for you to win.
Needless to say, some of these entries got… interesting. And very NSFW. I’m only sharing a few of the best ones.

Subject: New York
"In Manhattan looking to score
Not doing well, feeling pretty glum
The best on offer is a back-alley whore
She smells like old fish and looks like Gollum.”

Subject: The Sea
"On open water, a ship of metals
Crisp air has me feeling alive
Submarine starts to go under, the ballast settles
Ah oo gah, ah oo gah, dive dive.”

Subject: A Kiss
"When I speak to you my voice is frail
Thinking of kissing your skin so pale
Meet me while I come/cum up to the ladder
Then clean the window sill of my batter.”

Subject: A Kiss
"A kiss from a lover, there’s nothing greater
It’s like finding the Holy Grail
But I don’t know what that would entail
I’m a chronic masturbater.”

Subject: Religion
"Since the earliest days, everyone knows
Of a book that might fit in your pocket
Word to live by, in rhyme and in prose
The stupid Bible can suck it.”

Subject: New York
"Hark! A train, hear it comes with a roar
Look! A leaper, he jumps to the tracks on the floor
Listen! A crunch! He’s been turned into chum
Mmmm! Yum!!!!!”

August 27 2014, 02:46 PM

In the dark

w-ord-illiam:

She fucks with the lights off
Because bodies are things
Best left unseen
Hands tell a more romantic story
Than your eyes
Then your eyes
“Use your eyes as a last resort”
Your tongue will tell you more
Your lips will draw her secrets from her chest
In gasps and screams
Your eyes will never tell you anything
But lies
Eyes are too easily deceived
“Use your eyes as a last resort”
She fucks in the dark
For all of these reasons
Because eyes are deceivers

August 27 2014, 12:55 PM

where we went

submarinedreams:

When the apocalypse happens it will be soft. It will happen over years and across miles. We will end up in Iowa wondering why we are growing inedible corn and missing the sight of the ocean from before it inundated the places we used to love. Because you see we are not the children of some distant star, this is home, and we grapple to the end with the silent cataclysm that growls offshore and overhead. 

Men, evolution-minded, will accuse women for this. The human failing, they will say, is the result of runaway sexual selection, driven by women. Women, they will say, should have chosen wiser men. But we will all be to blame and pondering the eccentricities of our peculiar evolution will do little to stop the advance of the end.

In a dwindling world, tethered to each other by hooks in our eyelids, we will offer prayers to gods we will have thought we stopped believing in. Some will say we wronged those gods. Others will say we never deserved this. Scientists will point out that we have survived worse than this quiet catastrophe. And the Cold War survivors will cry because the agony of the slow death is so much greater than that of nuclear holocaust.

And someday, long after the sun has swallowed the Earth and the lights of the galaxy have begun to flicker and die, the last sign of distant space will recede over the horizon, like ships bound for a forgotten shore. We won’t be there. Entropy implacably marches on: who are we to slow it down?

August 27 2014, 05:32 AM

Root

poeticallyprofound:

Back to when I was anointed
Exalted and then exploited
Most poets pretend to be Moses
A testament to be avoided 
Kneeling in front of my death knell 
Where they drove in the nails 
And a messiah was appointed 
Pennies for thoughts as I was wished well
Which way to hell?
I hail from a maelstrom
And feigned reign over a regime that has failed                           
Take me back to where I once came from
I promise not to tell
A thousand suns couldn’t brighten this fate
Hide in the shade in shame
Shadows of truth 
No safe haven for the brave
Ripped out our only sanctuary from it’s roots
While we’re still here waiting to be saved 
Stuck in between tongue and cheek is a rotten tooth
Most wait for a shallow grave
I’ve murdered every single muse
That happened to stay
Tomorrow is just proof
That nothing matters today…

August 27 2014, 03:41 AM

church parking lots are such a bust

dialoghost:

It’s not something I would rather do alone, it
happened to the stories that used to make us
the theater. It slants downhill so I like riding
by in America on a gathering of stories from 
fingertips or in my dreams. When I was in
pavement, we’re talking about three or four
sounds of the wheels rolling across the
abandoned average, left out in the dust. It doesn’t
wash my feet after a long skate. When I lived
in your ears, knowing that they are original in
their own way, free-riding the pivot of no happiness
did you not contain the dream, and believe that the time
we feel inside knew about the things at your back?
I kind of feel good and smooth. I never really
kick off with a smooth start anymore, and getting
black ink all over that shit like a magnet sometimes
just listens to the sounds of riding
 your feet feel numb

(seed text: Thrasher, Issue 408, July 2014)

August 27 2014, 01:51 AM
60 notes  •  Via: frofc

Writing

frofc:

If the attempt

to write

is anything

It is the

search to

say the

unsayable

To see

the unseeable

To reveal

the unrevealable

To find

what is otherwise

left undiscovered

August 26 2014, 12:55 PM

My choice was you
or the bottle
and, I think
we both always knew
what I would pick

It’s dark here in this room, alone and I miss you, baby and I’d give anything to have you back; anything I own, anything on this earth, except this bottle. I can’t give you that.

There were your eyes
so soft and blue and forgiving
They reflected back at me
the image of the man
I had always wished to be
Once I thought
I could stare into them forever
but in the end
I couldn’t stop
even for a day
and those eyes
refused to watch me
drown

I’m dreaming of you and you know that I’ll love you forever but you need a man; someone better than me, who can give you the life you deserve. Not this miserable, worthless fucking nothing. Not me.

Then there were your lips
warm and welcoming and cut out of velvet
They pressed against mine
and washed away my fears
my cares, my past and my future
There was only the moment
there in your arms
but I guess I preferred
the kiss of cold glass
and sharp whiskey
as I watched your lips
mouth the word
goodbye

I’ve tried everything and still I can’t stop; cold turkey and AA and therapy and hiding this shit from myself. I can’t stop. I can’t stop. Dear God in Heaven, what the hell’s wrong with me?

Then too, were your hands
agile and strong and sensuous
They soared over my skin
and set my flesh to burning
My body had never known
A touch so true and right
but I need to drink
more than I need to breathe
so I had to watch you
use those hands
to turn the knob
and walk out my door
forever

I drink and I drink but the pain is still here; the fear is still here. There isn’t enough to take it away anymore. Only you could do that, baby but I shoved you out of my life so I could sit here in my own sweat and piss, and drink. And drink. And drink. And drink. ‘til I burst.

If the bottle was stronger
than your eyes or your lips or your hands
then why, in God’s name
doesn’t it have the power
to erase your lovely face
from my mind?

 -

Max Mundan, You or the Bottle

© David Rutter 2014

Follow me on twitter @dmr226

(via maxmundan)

August 26 2014, 11:05 AM

letting you go

cherokeeghostwriter:


I thank my falling stars
drinking in the luck
of insights 
bringing to bear
brought to light
redshifting galaxies
In flight.

Putting your memory
to music now
In rhapsodies
pulling from thin air
pulled from grace
Flung out into the Uni-verse
without a trace.

August 26 2014, 10:04 AM

SEXUAL G R A T I F I C A T I O N

mason-rhett-ford:

Strange, if I was ten years younger
I’d fuck you hard—and not think twice
about what we had done in this bed,
the only thing that would matter
to me as a man, would be—
the comfort of my head.

Sex can be I guess unsavoury at times
maybe even unpleasant to some—

The idea of want over need
seems distant. Requiring the occasional—
if you please touch me here if you dare.

Emotional stimulation is something
to aim for as you get older
this too is justified
clitoral gratification.

Sometimes people stifle the moment
with passionate hunger—which begs
and smells of bad teen-sex
simplified mind over matter
its overt frustration—at best.

But the consensual idea of sexual
pleasure as the tip-top idea of this type
of stimulation—washes out
as nothing more than ageless
glorification, this, the apex of any
relationship which carries that as its crown
seems rather adolescent—even though
the moments seem tender and sublime.

I’d much prefer it if you fucked my mind
every now and then—just to keep me
on my toes, so it goes as we get older.

We teeter in the salacious endeavours,
and our pairing, which now seems more
like a monumental journey of exploration,
once we pass the point of no return
where two people unhook their locked
pressed lips for a time, to talk of their
emotional states—instead as they lay
naked in bed. It becomes a moment
of bliss and cool seductive joy.

This is the kind of shedding petals
we wish for as we start staring
up at the August sun, here is where
one wants the most bang for the buck,
where it quivers hard in the withers of life—
to know what real love is, before you fuck.

Mason Rhett Ford © 2014

August 26 2014, 05:32 AM

I’d wanna rip your lips into bits.
Fragment it into billions of stardust then let it
sedate me as I mix you with vodka.
Drink you while The Smiths blare unto my bedroom,
listen to it while I taste all the lips that shared yours.
The nicotine that seem embedded along with all the
cherry-lime flavored lies and foul mouthiness.
Every syllable let out by your mouth, drained.
Savored.
I want to dilute it into the thinnest substance of you.
Watch the makings of you, swirling upon my mug.
Drink you full until consumption seems to become my death.
But even if I could, feel you fade away inch further by taking you in.
You’d live on.
I know you would.
Inside me, controlling the very nucleus of me.
A parasite, malignant to any kind of weakness, to any surrender.
I want to carve your lips, lost in a tree bark.
Mark it, within the memory of a gloomy Wednesday you ingrained your
soul on my left shoulder to my right hip bone.
Your lips.
Lips.
Such chaos it beseech, too little knowledge to silence me.
Too many promises in between lost kisses and laughter.
It gathers up like mildew staining the windowpanes on rain-drenched months.
I wonder how good you’d taste like, when I take away your lips for one day.
Would I still survive with just your hands and words?

 - Labia Oris (Lips) -s.p. (via mystrangesilhouettes)
August 26 2014, 03:42 AM

thesealivesinme:

Some things don’t come true
until you write them down
and I’ve not penned down the score,
consider it self preservation,
I’m either saving the museum
or carving the greatest of mausoleums.