Phil


target yackthe bell spiders spew from the gullet of the tubatarget yack
only to hit my perfect ubliet,
tainting my prefect and refusing me a staple refuge from sunlight.
they bring 800 legs to scratch my eyes, spraying web on my neat walls.
damn ignorance!
ill educated of my rule they allow themselves to play,
dancing in teams and playin with tarts on sticks they push my fist too far.
fire
END


Quieteyour muttered splatters hit my drum, inducing a putrid bile to my dry mouth.Quiete
cancer-bats spring from my chisseled head, gift wrapping me a migrane.
my licking of the amber-fuels and sniffing the deisel-glue eases the scraping whine of your words.
with my learning i tassle white noise, if only to blanket my body shell and gather a silent mercenary to remove your damn tongue.
bliss


ahabi see neutered jesters, learning script from the tiles of stitched plectrumsahab
they paddle in a citrus salad and juggle their new toffee hammers, while aflot in canvis pig-ear kaics bound in twine and tar..
they weep over the chainsaws that have made a map of scars on a borrowed flesh
with eyes of Etna's glass; this heathen tracks the ghost koy added to the lemons and limes by a man from the western poppy fields.
the man that carries a scythe of bone, blood red from the petals of the fallen flowers
Moi

home furnishings and morecanary candlesticks matching the mantlepiece, wet paint on a new car. a crate full of butter. jugglers in a line, bagged fruit. trumpets polished with cherry-scented oils. fishy, fleshy seed pods, nutition or leftovers, uninspired or a knuckle-dragger, a brand new steak.home furnishings and more
he's got cranberry hands


I've Been Here BeforeI've walked down this crumbled path before, scanning ahead for stumble pits, tripping over memory foam, perfectly enraged carrying my braining-stick hoping to encounter some fanged clawed creature creeping through the stinking underbrush hunting its own murder-meat- I'll sneak up behind it, and...I've Been Here Before
I've beat down this sinking mood before, swimming against the tilt-a-whirlpool, sucking my sick slick matchstick soul down the swirling psycho drain, screaming under boiled blistered witch's-ass sewer waves, grasping for the slipper-rim, scratching slime from
--
Let's make the World beautiful - GET TATTOOED
--
~I am a poet~
-meg
--
If you're frightened of dying and you're holding on, you'll see devils tearing your life away. If you've made your peace, then the devils are really angels...freeing you from the earth.
Previous Page12345...Next Page