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There was a maiden named Lucy
Her face pretty her body healthy
She had a boyfriend named Damien
He'd strong muscles and dainty skin

She was a poet he was a student
She was robust he was diligent
She loved to write stories he adored
She was so glad he never got bored

One day he woke from his repose
Out he wandered to buy a rose
It was his mother's grand birthday
His face lighted as he made his way

He found a strange ******* the streets
He walked forth but she came to greet
She had lost her bag and wallet
While passing by the old garret

She looked dizzy and fairly drowsy
Reminded him of girlfriend Lucy
On he went to help find her bag
Until the sun flew from the shack

Full of sweat did Damien retire
From his errand beside the fire
In a mansion that's the lady's
Forgotten was the day's duties

Wait and wait did Lucy for him
In her gown she looked splendid slim
Expecting Damien was she now
Cheeks like a doll in a stage show

Asleep was her love in the chair
Tired from the day and the whole affair
The fair lady resting on the stairs
With glowing red eyes and golden hair

He had not known that blood was wanted
In this mansion which was haunted
He'd been deceived and awesomely fooled
The lady woke and laughed and growled

Kneeling by him she showed her fangs
Sharp and bitter like the dark winter
Out as the moon began to hang
She drank his blood and made him like her

The morning came gray and dreary
With chills that sent everyone sickly
Young Lucy wept cried on her bed
For trusting the dull vow they'd made

She retained her blanket in vain
'Oh 'tis so cold', she thought in pain
Just closed her eyes when there's a knock
Hurry did she to wear her frock

Thirst did he feel when he woke up
A sultry heat from his long nap
Jump did he from his cozy seat
Full of raw fear of what it did!

Startled was he as his teeth moved!
What are these things that have been mute?
Out he fled to find a mirror
The people instantly screamed in terror!

He was astounded by his speed
And how rapid he could now flit!
Out he burst into gay laughter
As he start'd to think this over!

The lady 'peared in front of him
Satisfied yet her smirk looked grim
'Art thou glad?', she turned to question
He nodded in shy admiration

A mirror was in her pocket
Out she tore it to his eyes red
He shrieked in loud astonishment
His tone but full of excitement

'Thou'rt a vampire now,' she explained
'Fill your thirst don't ever let it drain'
'Human blood shall be your favour'
'You can't deny its sweet flavour!'

'I'm not a monster!' Damien whined
Can I instead drink just some wine?
'Fate is not to be abolished,
Fate is just to be accomplished!'

'We are so blessed,' said the lady
'For endless days of immortality,
For real power and true beauty,
We are praised more than the Almighty!'

Poor Damien could just cry and wail
But by thirst his firmness began to fail
Still he wanted to find Lucy
Putting black glasses he turned away and flee

Arrived he at her little hut
In one swift step but it was still shut
He knocked on the door and waited
The maiden came with her hair plaited

She shrieked as he pulled his glasses
The soul of sins the eyes of darkness
Pushed him away she slammed the door
Fire and rage rang took him inside his core

Flash of madness groans and outcries
Tears were welling in poor Lucy's eyes
Tears that to him were shadows of blood
Quickened the pace of his unheart

He sniffed nature he sniffed the flesh
Hidden behind all the tears afresh
With one small leap he's in the house
Where Lucy screamed like a tortured mouse!

In one second he's before her
The smell stronger as he went closer
He was blinded and could not desist
By a mad thirst no-one could resist!

And did he weep and deeply shrieked
Cursing himself as a ****** freak
As his thirst filled his lover dead
He was sullied he went home all mad

On his way back he saw a river
With a huge mass of black hot water
He recalled a tale of a group of vampires
Living in peace in a rustic empire

But they died of the heat of the sun
Whilst the river was brimming with swans
Unthinkingly he splashed downwards
Ditching himself into those boiling shards!

Failed but he had to **** Lucy!
She woke but in great beauty!
Adoring herself in the closest mirror
Pulled outdoors just to face horror

A young man found dead in the lake!
His chest stabbed by a wooden stake!
Away then she ran from the scene,
nearly fainted at what she'd seen.

Wept and wept she in agony,
could not believe in her misery!
What was then the use of the Almighty,
of it was but of lies and cruelty?

Lift herself up o then she did,
tired as she was of her idle feet!
Moving about 'till the hunger came,
when no more care she had for shame!

No regret did she find to have,
until no more blood for her left;
in her hands were a child's remains,
whose mother her very best friend!

The blood rose herself to full speed,
and raised her newer sense of greed!
She growled and gnarled and looked around;
her face was pale, her eyes were round.

Her nails grew sharper instantly!
Her lips bloomed and her cheeks rosy!
Thrice a day she hunted gaily,
'till a small lad saw her mutiny!

She had him and felt triumphant,
but she needed to run away!
Unseen hath she been since that sad day,
though the knights'd searched from December to May!

Tales foretell she's somewhere unknown
Hiding amongst bushes and their tall thorns
For men still disappear and get lost
At midnights and in winter frosts

A hidden question it is indeed
Finding her is but a must need
While the moon is blunt bristly and grey
and when the thin dusk starts to decay.
Livingdeadgirl Apr 2015
“No one understands me. I don’t want any of these guys; they just won’t leave me alone!” I said to my best friend, Sarah Heart.
“Well, Μαρία, try not to look so nice!”
I am 17; long black hair, hazel eyes, and deep red lips, am about 5’8”, and have unusually pale skin. “I don’t ever look nice, and you know it! Besides, you’re the one who looks great, one of the best in Femenino.” Sarah is 16, long blond hair, blue eyes, pale pink lips, is about 5’, and has very tan skin. “They only like me because I am almost of age.” Here on Femenino, when a girl turns 18, she is ready to be wed. The guys are born with their wings patterns. When the girl decides to marry a certain person, she will mirror the design the guy has after they both say their vows.
“Μαρία, why do you always talk down about yourself?” Sarah said.
“I don’t know, but can we discuss this tomorrow? I’m tired.”
“Ok, but tomorrow we’ll talk about who you’re going to marry. You only have 1 week left to decide.”
“Ok, Sarah,” I yawned, “good night, sweet dreams.”
“Yeah, I’ll have sweet dreams, of the prince marrying me!” she said with a devilish grin. No one knew the prince’s real name, so we just called him ‘prince’.  We laughed at that, “but, good night, girl, we will definitely talk tomorrow.” I fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with the question of who I was to marry in 1 week.
Raven black hair, one eye brown, one eye black, tall, tan, and body like a warrior.” kiss me, Μαρία” he said, “Never leave me, please.”
“I won’t leave you, ever, I swear.”
I woke up, not knowing who the man was. ‘Well, all I know is, it’s time to make a new potion.’ “Ok, let’s see, a bit of baby’s breath, wild flower, lilac blossoms, and a pinch of rose petals. Ok, add them in boiling water, mmmmm that smells good.  Hmm, now, before the dream with him, what did I do with the potion? Oh, yeah, I dabbed it behind the ears, and everyone was happy to see me, even, surprisingly, the girls.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t try it, because some of the girls have never liked me, and I’m probably going to forget what I did, and wonder why they are happy to see me all day, I’m always forgetting things, that’s why I put all my spells in a book, after all.” I mumbled to myself. I went to write it down, calling it the ‘Like Me’ spell. Ok, I have the ‘Love’ potion, a few body, hair, and ****** changing spells, a ‘Find it’ spell, a spell to bind the heart to a specific person. Oh, cute, I still have the spell I made when I was seven, so my heart wouldn’t break if I found a guy, but I didn’t cast it because then I would be sad in the end if I never found the guy I had asked for.
‘Oh, boy, I’m going off to dreamland again. Sigh, will I ever find my kind of guy?’ Well, the only thing that could be worse is the prince picking for me, well, except that we were born on the same day, but at different times, he was born about an hour before me in a room next to me, and since he’s royalty, he chooses a wife before I choose a husband, and I will be mortified since I have to stand next to him, but I doubt anyone would want me as a wife because I’m, in my Aunt Feranium’s words, “an inexcusable excuse of an abomination, no one could possibly want to even be near me, much less marry me”. Well, Aunt Feranium, you’ll get to see if your right or not in 1 week.
Well, today I have to go meet up with some of the guys here, and get some ingredients for my potions and spells. I’m hoping at least one of the guys is ok with how I am and who I am. I guess I’ll meet with guys before I get my ingredients, so I can cheer myself up afterwards.
I met with three guys for the first half hour. Each and every one of them was wealthy and smug. All I could think was, ‘I can’t wait to get away from here and finish up talking to some other guys.’ One guy, named Damien was saying, “When we get married, you will love your life.” Another named Lucas said, “No, when WE get married you will be in the laps of luxury, far more than either of these two could ever give you, Μαρία.” The third guy, named Jordan said, “We all have wealth, so why don’t we let Μαρία choose for herself?”
They all turned to me and looked expectantly. I smiled politely and said, “Well, I have quite a few more people to talk with, so I must not say who of you fine,” and I almost choked on that, “gentlemen. I’m sorry to say, I must go now to meet the others. Good day.” I smiled, got up and left before they could argue/complain/persuade me to stay longer.
I went to meet one of my friends, who was being forced by his mother to court/marry me. I saw him and waved. “Hey, Alejandro, what’s up?”
He did a slight nod of his head, telling me his mom was nearby, eavesdropping on us. He said anyway, “Not much, but you look lovely today. How are you?”
I smiled, because he was not usually like this when his mom wasn’t around. “I am fine. You don’t look so bad yourself.” He blushed, which made me smile, since he only sees me as his one of his best friends, which is the same way I feel about him. I nodded to him, letting him know his mom can no longer hear us, or see us. ‘Goodness, I love being able to do spells with little effort. I just wonder where his mom thinks we went.’
“Thanks Μαρία. So who’d you have to deal with first?”
“Three rich guys.”
He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. Full of themselves and saying who you were going to marry?”
“Yea, well, except the one, he actually asked ME who I’d marry. It was interesting, since no one would usually care what I thought.”
“What did one of them look like?”
“One, named Jordan, who asked my opinion, had short brown hair, tan skin, about 5’ 10”. A second, Damien, has medium ***** blonde hair, dark skin, about 6’. The third, Lucas, had sort of long blonde hair, sort of pale skin, about 5’9”. Why?”
“I think they are following you.” He pointed behind me, and when I turned to see, there they were, a few tables over.
I looked back to Alejandro, smiled, and called for a waiter. “Excuse me, could you send a note and a round of drinks to those three gentlemen over there?” I pointed to the three guys, and gave the waiter 50 coins, and a tip of 20 coins, which is our currency. He smiled and lightly bowed, for the most a waiter would usually get as tip was 5-10 coins.
“What is your note?”
I told him, “Chill out and have a fine day.” He nodded and did as I asked.
When the guys got their drinks, I told Alejandro to come on. We left them there, and made sure they didn’t follow. We got to the market district, because, in truth, Alejandro was the only other person I was to meet. We got there and I showed him a list of ingredients I needed. The list went as follows:
Dew Drops
Sunlight
Sun flowers
Fresh Baby Laughter
Freshly Fallen Snow
Tear of Love
Hair of a Beauty
Sob of a Broken Heart
A Child’s Doll
Petal of a Fully Bloomed Rose
Lilac
Babies Breathe
Final Breath of the Dying
Rose Thorns

He whistled low at how much I needed.  I smiled; because that was the least I needed in quite a few months. We went about getting my stuff and just hung out, until we came upon Sarah, who knew me and Alejandro did not like each other, but teased us saying we did all the same.
She smiled and said, “Hey lovebirds. What goes on? Oh, are you guys finally realizing you’re meant for each other and going to marry each other?”
We said in unison, “No! We are not.” Alejandro scowled while I laughed.
“Sure sounds like you’re meant for each other to me!” Sarah laughed while Alejandro’s scowl grew longer.
I said, “Sarah stop teasing, poor Alejandro couldn’t possibly take all the scowling.” ‘And the heart break, since he’s in love with you Sarah, you just never see. I’m about to tell you straight up.’ I looked over at Alejandro and smiled, since he didn’t tell me, he didn’t know I knew, even though it was written plainly on his face, he thought he was discreet.
He looked down at his feet, letting the hurt pass over his face for a brief second. “I need to get the rest of my ingredients from my list. Okay, let’s see, just a few rose thorns is all I need to get.” We went to go get them. And there, a few feet away, were the three guys again. I pointed them out to Alejandro, and he rolled his eyes. I walked straight up to them.
They acted surprise to see me, I said, “Why are you following me?”
They were all flustered, but Jordan said, “We weren’t following you!”
“Oh, really, you three, follow me, Alejandro, Sarah, you can come to.” We went into an alley way and I continued, “So you three just happened to be at the same café only a few tables away, and then be just a few feet away from me?” They nodded in unison, and I got raged. I used a spell and had them pinned against the wall behind them and asked angrily, “Who are you working for?”
They looked fearful, and Lucas said stammering, “You ought to stop, ‘cause there are witnesses.”
I looked at him, “They are the only thing keeping me in check, you idiot, now, answer my questions, why were you following me and who are you working for?”
They looked at each other, then at me, and swallowed loudly and hard. Damien said, “Sheesh, when we saw you, we thought you’d be no problem to us, but dang! We might as well tell her since she got us, and ‘cause I don’t know her limits.”
They all nodded their heads, before looking frighteningly at me. Damien continued, “We are guards, some of the finest, and I now see we are some of the most arrogant.” I rolled my eyes.
“Why were you following me?”
“We were told to act as the people that we were told to be. It seems your something of interest.”
I glared at them, “You’re lying.” They were wide eyed with fright.
“No! That’s all that we were told!”
“You two might, but he was told more, and he’s not telling.” I glared at him and came close to his face. I looked in his eyes and asked as calmly as I could, “What are you hiding?”
He would not answer, so I let them go, and said, “Don’t follow me anymore! Just leave me alone.”
They stayed in place, frozen with fear, but Jordan piped up, “Wow, with your strength in spells, Μαρία, would you ever consider joining the guard? We really need you and your strength.”
I glared at them and said, “Go!”
They ran, still not sure of my limits when I was mad. My friends burst out in laughter after the guards were well out of ear shot. They said in halting gasps, “I can’t believe you bluffed them while you were mad!”
I smiled, knowing I wasn’t someone that could harm anyone. When I get angry at someone, I always try to bluff them, I guess I’ve either gotten better, or they were not good at telling my bluff. “Well at least we learned something out of this whole episode. Now, let’s get my ingredients and get back to my house, I had a dream about a new spell last night.” I felt a pair of eyes on me, but when I looked, there was nothing there. I shrugged and thought, ‘I must be getting paranoid.’
When we got back to my house, they helped me put my ingredients away, and I showed them my new ‘Like Me’ spell. “I don’t know how long it lasts, so I won’t let it be used on either of you.” I felt the eyes on my back, I turned and saw nothing. “Do either of you two feel like someone’s watching us?”
They shook their heads no, Alejandro said, “Maybe you should do a spell for protection over yourself for whoever’s watching you.”
I nodded, and found one that was simple to do but difficult to break through and lasted a long time. I cast it over my friends as well, who smiled when they felt the spell cover them as well. Sarah said, “Ok, now, Alejandro, shoo, me and Μαρία have a few things to talk about.” She grinned wickedly, and so he left.
He said, “Bye.” And got out as quick as he could.
I looked at her, “Now why’d you do that for? He doesn’t even count as a marriage choice; it’d be too much like marrying a brother.”
She shrugged, “Does it matter? This is girl talk, now spill who you like.” She looked at me expectantly.
“I really don’t know, I’ll just go with my gut when the time comes, okay?”
She sighed dramatically, “Fine!”
I laughed, “You know, it’s not your time to pick, you have a few years, and more than a few admirers.”
She flipped her hair and laughed lightly, “I can’t help if guys like me, Μαρία!”She shrugged, "That's my image, Μαρία, I have to keep up with it, or I'll be ruined!" I laughed.
"You can be so dramatic. You know that?"
"Yea, and now I know you can be to. ‘They are the only thing keeping me in check, you idiot', nice one, especially with the idiot, it added to your tone."
I looked at the floor sheepishly. "It just came to mind, and I went with it. Was I that convincing to you?"
"Are you kidding, I thought you would of killed 'em on the spot! Your bluff is way better Μαρία."
I smiled, "Thanks Sarah."
We went about our own thoughts for an hour, until it was time for Sarah to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow Μαρία."
"Okay, see ya." I flicked my wings out, mostly because I still felt like someone was watching me. I thought about my wings, and how soon I'll have a design. I remembered a type of fairy that used to exist long ago. They were called the florescent fairies. Unfortunately they died off. They all had wing patterns of their own. Even the females had their own patterns that they kept after marriage. Their wings were always so big and elaborate.
I felt my wings tingling, so I went to my front door. There on my doorstep was the guard that I knew as Jordan. He was in his uniform. I said, “What do you want, Jordan, if that is really your name?”
He cleared his throat. He was afraid, but put up a brave front and said, “I came for you were summoned by the head of the royal guard.”
I rolled my eyes, “And why would I be summoned this late at night?”
His bravado was fading when he said, “Because the head of the royal guard wants to see you now.”
“Why?”
His bravado was completely gone now and he was shaking in his boots, “He just wants you to come.”
I rolled my eyes again, turned out the lights, and locked my house up. “Lets’ get this done and over with. I do need to sleep like others’, you know.” Then I felt magic welling up around me. I found them easily with my magic, and brought them out in front of me. I threw them all into a pile in front of me. “Tell me three good reasons I shouldn’t put you all in a magic hold that would leave you motionless for the rest of the night.”
They were all struggling, and I was holding Jordan with a glare. “I am tired, and would not regret it. And you all need to learn to hide your magic. That’s how I knew where you were.”
They all tried to plead for me to let them go, but with a wave of my hand, they fell silent. Jordan said stammering, “They were only supposed to be back-up in case you wouldn’t come.”
I waved my pointer finger side to side, “Tsk, tsk, tsk, not nice to play tricks with me.” I used my magic to send the pile of guards back to the palace, while I looked at Jordan and said, “I told you to leave me alone.” I flicked my hand at him, and he went flying back to the palace. I went back into my house, went to my room, and after taking a hot shower, went to bed.
The next morning, I got up and ready for the day. I was about to leave my home when my wings tingled. Someone was at the door. I looked through a peep hole and saw my friends, Sarah and Alejandro. I opened the door, and they came in talking at me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, so I said, “Slow down, now what?”
They started laughing. Sarah said, “Apparently, you gave all the guard’s a scare. What did you do?”
I looked at them, confused for a second, and then I remembered, and told them the events of last night. They laughed, so I said, “What? I was extremely tired, I wasn’t taking their crap.” That just made them laugh harder.
Alejandro said, “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Μαρία.” He chuckled and said, “Can you teach me some of your **** kicking moves?”
I grinned devilishly and made to look like I was going to use it on him and said “Sure,” and mocked what I did with the guards without using my magic. We all laughed. There was a knock on the door. I rolled my eyes and yelled, “Who is it?”
Whoever it was just knocked again. I went to the door and looked through the peep hole. There was no one there. I motioned my friends back, away, and I used a searching spell. I calmly looked all around my house, then finally smiled. I opened my door fast and
Comments appreciated/wanted!!
Renmar Sep 2014
Sitting here watching you
sleep
Wondering if your dreams are
sweet
Knowing you'll always be mommies
**baby boy
Valo Salo Aug 2015
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Bridget Lee May 2010
"It's just one cut,"
said the sharp lady doctor before language
melted off her clipboard and the operating lamps
grew huge and spilled their bright innards into my eyes.

I lay on the cold tiled floor of the museum.
One monstrous cut -- the white shark suspended
above in a last hungry lunge yawns, belly open.
Around me what a wide-eyed fisherman pulled out:
old tires, whale-oil lamps, Damien Hirst, bones upon bones.
Damien sits on a tire, bored as hell. See the jagged edges,
he says, they pulled him into our cold afterlife
and cut while he suffocated, explosive oxygen flooding
his lungs from the wrong direction.

Later, the doctors showed me
what had for so long kicked and screamed to be out.
Liver-colored, swollen, wrapped in catgut, it was not
as expected. Others had promised ground seaglass,
poppyseed freckles, huge lungs like fibrous balloons
for flying or spouting poetry nonstop in day-long stretches.
Where were my eyes?
It was supposed to have my eyes.
Nigel Obiya Jan 2012
Whether it happens next... or this year

The vote

In memory of the last time I shed 'this tear'

And wrote... a piece

For the blood that flooded the streets

When in vain we sought

For calm... for peace

In a situation that was out of our control

A raging fire that almost engulfed and burnt all

When we all watched our motherland fall

Almost

When darkness threatened to blind all... or most...

Kenyans

When a neighbour would suddenly become a stranger... a ghost

Alien

Incited by the devil's seed

Damien

Brothers, sisters overcome by evil... greed

The same one...

That would then start a war... civil

And feed... off it

I, one individual Kenyan plead

That this time we say no to violence

We 'off it'

Let the disgruntled nurse his frustrations in silence

No blood for 'office'

And let us not get coaxed into foolish acts

To ourselves, we owe this

Let hatchets be buried away with the bones

Old ghosts can't haunt us

I shed a tear for peace this... or next year

Deaf ear to he that tries to taunt us

'Make the right choice'

I hope I reach many

And many hear my one voice

But this message cannot just be spread by me... so its 'we'

We can do it, and God wills it

Let it be

That we journey toward serenity

To a better tomorrow... come with me

The best way I can encourage my brothers and sisters

Is through poetry

For as a country and a culture we are destined to soar sky high

Thus... 'the pride of Africa'

We should always be

Peace.
Fenix Flight May 2014
In a busy town
In massachusetts
there is this college
BCC

At this cozy college
there are 8 buildings
But one has capture my heart completly
G BUILDING

Walk through the sliding glass doors
Around the corner
through the lunch room
To the Dinning hall

Noise assult my ears
Beeping video games
shouts of triumph
Kpop and metal music

Tables littered with playing cards
Yugioh
Pokemon
Magic

People as different as can be
From all corners of the social spectrum
Popular
and geeks

Join together in a crazy dance
A swirling brightly colored tango
Joined together
by mutal intrest

Riker, dear Riker
puple fadora ever present
My "Co-****"
a founding father of the trolling company

Damien, Oh damien
Your strangness growing stranger
Your hair of deception
Another founding father

Jose, Dear Lord Jose
You're pervertenss proceeds you
Cat calling
Video gaming

Holly, sweet Holly
Looking innocent and sweet
Masking your wildness
underneath

Nathan, My Naten
My best friend through the ages
Opinions flying
Jungle juice by your side

Casey, My sweet sweet Casey
Ghost story devourer
Trusting you with my secrets
Everyone's little sister

John, John of the lake
Annoying as hell
but loveble all the same
only kind things to say

Josh, Or should I say Shoji
Big Brother
Laptop out
Video game in

Matt, My lovely Matt
This is where we met
Fate intervined
brought us together

This is where I belong
This island of misfits
This G building gang
This is my home.
To BCC's Freaks. I miss you with every fiber of my being. I'll be home soon I promise
ghost queen Jul 2019
I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.

I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.

“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.

Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.

As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”  

She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.  

She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.

“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should  kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”
Hollow Jul 2014
It was silent as Chelsea crept into the room
There I lay, nestled to sleep with a teddy bear
The moonlight on my back, soothing light
She awoke me violently, shaking me ashen
And my eyes widened in terror at her face

It didn't take long for her to find something
A tool to suit the job, my punishment
I was a bad sister, always was I wrong
So she found a pair of shoes, my shoes
And I braced for the nightly beating

But Chelsea had something else in mind
As she removed the lace from one of them
She gripped an end in each hand, staring
And she moved on top of me, saying;
"I hate you, stupid attention *****"

She placed the string over my throat
And she pressed down very hard, frowning
I felt my airway constrict, and I struggled
She put her knees on my elbows in anger
And my begging made her push harder

As I began to see gray, I remember a tear
But not the many that I released, I know
Because I felt it patter onto my dying face
And I sputtered and arched my back, hoping
And Chelsea only pressed harder, murderous

As I drifted out of consciousness, I heard
My brothers voice, sweet brother Damien
And he slapped Chelsea and pulled her off
As I curled up and breathed delicious air
And he caressed my face, and hugged me

That night acted as a catalyst for hatred
And within myself I bred a monster
But I suppose I cannot give credit for
My mistakes, to the true genesis of pain
I just haven't found anything else to blame
Myself?
_______
_______
s Feb 2014
As I sit staring at the "fasten seatbelt" light overhead
I can feel the endless possibilities of places I could go, people I could meet.
Today you asked me "you feel miserable here a lot don't you?"
You've never been more right.
And as I sit here on this **** plane in your **** sweatshirt I wonder if you know.
I wonder if you know how scared I am
of all the opportunities the fasten seatbelt light brings me.
Of all the opportunities you bring me.
I swear the way you look at me
while I'm in the passenger seat of your beat up car
on the way to the dinner that you'll buy me
and I'll pretend not to care about
is the same way I look at Columbia and blank notebooks.
The possibilities and beautiful what-ifs are spelled out
in the whites, blacks, and multiples shades of brown in your eyes.
And I am thinking to myself how beautiful this fasten your seat belt light is
but I am also thinking of how beautiful you are
and how you've never been given the chances or opportunities you deserve.
So as I sit here stirring in my just barely big enough seat
I am feeling things that not even the damien rice in my ears can suppress.
I am seeing every beautiful night I spent wishing I never had to go home.
I'm seeing all the miles you put on just wanting to talk to me a little longer.
I'm seeing the way you nod your head back and forth
and tap on your steering wheel to the beat
of your latest favorite pop punk song.
And I am seeing the tremble in my knee that you don't notice
when you say that my laugh instantly makes you smile
because in all reality every waking moment I spent frowning at you
was because I was hoping that if I convinced myself
that we were no good then you would believe it too.
I realize all these things as I sit in seat 20E
on a delayed flight to Orlando
and all I want to do is parachute down to whatever tiny
secluded unknown cafe you're spending your evening jamming
to a local set of bands drinking something fruity you've never tried before.
And just like that drink I want to run down your throat
to the deepest parts of your gut
and permeate through your blood stream.
I want to run like oxygen infused flames through your system.
I'm still sitting in this cramped seat on damien song number five
staring at this fasten seatbelt light and all the possibilities
and I just have one thing to say: fasten your seatbelt with me.
Fasten your seatbelt and see all the possibilities that I see.
Fasten your seat belt and move three states closer to that dream
you've been dreaming since we were neighbors on that worn down block
where we learned to hate our parents.
Fasten your seatbelt and run away with me.
ghost queen Oct 2020
Night was falling, a full bright silver moon was rising, and Seraphine’s hunger had become unbearable. She needed to feed, had to have young fresh female blood, to stay alive and young.

Science had caught up with the reason vampires needed to feed on the youngest, preferably baby’s blood. In 1866 a Frenchman named Paul Bert had conjoined rat’s circulatory systems in a process called parabiosis, and thus the Prize of Experimental Physiology from the French Academy of Science.

In 2012, Cambridge University’s Julia Ruckh found old mice cojoined to young mice physically and mentally rejuvenated, becoming younger, smarter, and more energetic. Subsequent research discovered proteins in the plasma caused the rejuvenation. News outlets had proclaimed, “fountain of youth discovered in ordinary plasma.”

Seraphine needed the youngest, which has the highest concentration of rejuvenation proteins and hormones;  the purest, which is virus-free, and female, which has the highest levels of estrogen and progesterone.

Ideally, a baby girl’s blood would be best, but in today’s modern society, killed babies drew attention. The next best and the pragmatic thing was a 15-year-old runaway girl. L’ Association Assistance et Recherche de Personnes Disparues (ARPD), estimates 1000s of Parisienne girls, ages 10 to 18, runaway each year due to ****** and or physical abuse, ending up on the street, and having survival *** in 48 hours or less for food and or protection. And few if anybody cared. They disappeared, never to be found, presumed dead from a ****** overdose, or stabbed in a fight for food, money, or drugs.

Since runaways had high levels of disease due to survival ***, ****, and ****** addiction, Seraphine focused her attention on young troubled Arab girls living in the Habitation à Loyer Modéré (HLM) or projects of the 93rd, the department number of Seine-Saint-Denis, the poorest, predominantly Maghreb Islamic Arab banlieues of Paris.

Seraphine would undo her ponytail, letting her raven black hair cascade down around her shoulders, so she could fly around and into the projects at night landing on rooftops, listening for arguments, yelling, or shouting of eahira (*****), waqha (****), or haram (forbidden). When she heard those words, she knew a father was forcing old-world customs and religion on his born and raised in France daughter. The daughter, going to secular French public school, knew neither Arabic nor Islam, rebelled, wanting to live a secular, feminist rather than a submissive religious life.

Seraphine had found this month’s mark. She focused her superhuman hearing and sight on a tenth-floor open balcony window of the building across the street.

She could see an older man dressed in the traditional white dishdasha tunic, and taqiyah skull cap worn to evening prayers, yelling and throwing his hands in the air. Further in the flat, Seraphine could see a girl, crying. The man yelled waqha, waqha, then slapped her, and she fell to the floor. An old woman pulled the man back, as the girl got up and ran out the door.

Seraphine knew how this would play out and where the girl was headed. Four blocks away was the Lycée Général et Technologique, which housed a 24-hour crisis center for teens facing physical and or ****** abuse, pregnancy, homosexuality, ****** addiction, or homelessness.

As foreseen, the girl burst out the front doors of the HLM, running, crying down the street. Seraphine leaped from the 13-floor building into the air, silently following the girl like a bird of prey. The girl walked down Rue Bonnevide to Rue Guy Moquet, taking a shortcut through a wooded park.

Seraphine flew down to the ground, landing without a sound, and followed the girl from a distance. She could smell her youth, see her round hips and long shiny hair. When the girl had walked deep into the dark and silent park, Seraphine sprang forward like a puma, tackling the girl to the ground, and slitting her throat before she could scream.

Seraphine savored the ****, drinking the squirting blood from the carotid artery, relishing the warm fresh blood. The girl, in shock, blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened to her. She tried to speak but gurgled only blood, tears of fear started streaming down her cheeks. She knew she was dying, was afraid of dying, and wished her father was here to protect her, and make it all go away.

The blood slowed to a trickle. The girl had bled out and her body died. Seraphine continued to drink, ******* harder to get the remaining blood. The girl’s body convulsed then stilled as her brained slowly and finally died.

Seraphine had fed and would be satiated till another full moon.  She got up and licked her lips of residual blood. Her clothes were drenched in sweat and blood. She looked at the girl’s dead body, admiring her clear complexion, and big brown doe eyes, but felt no remorse for the ****.

She picked up the girl’s body in her arms, jumped into the night sky, and flew 65 kilometers northeast of Paris to La Foret De Compiegne in la department d’Oise, a secluded and rural part of northern France. Dead center in the forest lies Saint-Jean-aux-Bois, a small, and forgotten farming village of septuagenarian and octogenarian.

Seraphine flew to a farm a kilometer outside of the village. As she neared the farm, she could smell the putrid stench of pig ****. She started her descent, dropping the girl’s body, which hit the ground with a thud, in the barnyard, as she gently touched down.

The farm was dark, the only light was that of the full moon. She heard a rustling coming from the farmhouse. She saw an old man walking her way, holding a dim flamed oil lamp. He did not look at her, only at the ground, afraid of what would happen if he looked her in the eyes.

Seraphine grabbed the girl’s body by the hair and dragged it to the main pigpen, and threw the body over the fence and into the pit of sleeping pigs. The body hit a pig, startling it out of its sleep, squealing, waking up the other pigs, and realizing they had been fed fresh meat. The pigs sheared the flesh off the bones, then chewed and ground the bones. Within a couple of hours, there would be no trace of the young girl’s body. She was just another disappeared runaway.

Seraphine turned her attention back to the farmer, pulled out a brick of Euros from her coat, and threw it at his feet. He didn’t dare pick it up. He was too afraid of her. He knew what she was. And she knew, he knew what she was.

He’d seen the countless girl’s bodies come through like chicken carcasses at a processing plant over the decades. He knew he would die of old age soon, and only hoped God would forgive him for helping a monster.

Seraphine turned around, jumping into the sky, and disappeared. He was trembling and relieved that she was gone. He won’t see her for another full moon. He painfully bent over and picked up the brick of Euros. His hands were shaking.

******

Seraphine got out of the shower and wrapped her hair in a towel. She looked in the mirror and admired herself, the flawless white skin, the blood red lips, the pear shaped figure, but most of all her firm perky *******. She was brushing her teeth, when the doorbell rang. She rinsed out her mouth and wrapped a towel around her, walked to the door and opened it. It was Damien. She mischievously and alluringly smiled. He grinned back, knowing why she’d called. “I was so glad you were still up when I called,” she said poutingly.

She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. It was softly lit, a low yellowish light, not unlike that of a candle’s. The walls were decorated in red damask wallpaper with gold crown, base, and chair moulding. It was very elegant, very French. The bed was a large four posted red ruffled canopy, covered with a red duvet and pillows.

She got to the foot of the bed, turned around, unwrapped herself, sat on the bed, and shuffled herself to the headboard. She looked at him and spread her legs, showing, offering herself to him. Damien took off his clothes and crawled to her, over her, and leaned down to kiss her. She rose up to meet his kiss, wrapping her arm around his neck, then dragging him down in her.

She kissed him hard, ******* his tongue into her mouth, biting his lower lip. She stopped. He looked at her, a questioning look on his face. Then she pushed him down towards her *****. She had a trimmed and sculpted bush, just enough not to hide her full lips.

He started kissing around her bush, her tummy, and inner thighs. He could feel her squirming, as he circled around, edging closer to her *******. He kissed her lips, sliding his tongue up and down, then penetrating her.

She was wet, and tasted fresh, like sweet spring water. How amazing he thought to himself. I’ve never tasted a woman like this before. He went deeper with his tongue, pulling back the lips with his hands. She pushed his head hard into her. He licked her splayed ******, as she moaned in pleasure and approval. He moved his tongue up till he got to her ****, and lightly rubbed it then stopped, kissing her tummy. She relaxed and sighed.

He kissed his way down to her ****, kissing it softly then circling it with his tongue. She arched her back as he vigorously rubbed her **** with the tipe of his tongue. She moaned, then yelled stop, stop, in breathy gasps, then fell back into the pills. She took his head in her hands, and pulled him up to her mouth, and gave him deep, passionate baiser amoureux.

She took his hard **** in her hand and guided him towards her *****. She slid his **** up and down her *****, lubing up the head of the **** with her wetness. Then she let go, and he penetrated her slowly, as she gasped then moaned. He felt her wetness and heat as he slid deeper into her.

He started to pump rhythmically back and forth, slowlying picking up speed, as she moaned and groaned as he bottomed out his **** into her. He was going to *** and started to moan, when she yelled, “choke me, choke me.”

Taken back, he slowed. She looked up at him quizzically. “Choke me,” she said sternly. “You're a big boy. Choke me,” she repeated with a bit of irritation in her voice. He placed his hands around her neck and lightly pressed and started pumping. He got back into the rhythm and was back on track, getting close to *******. “Harder,” she said, “hard like you mean it.” It turned him on, and he clamped down harder as he pumped harder, animalistically.

He knew she was getting close to orgasming as she moaned and writhed under him. “Oui, oui, oui,” she screamed, and in a blink of an eye, she’d flip him on his back. Her hands on his chest, holding him down, as she rode him hard. She screamed, “ah, ah, ah,” then collapsed on his chest. His ****, still hard, inside her. She slowly rolled over, taking him with her, till he was on top, then rocked her hips, wanting him to continue, to finish.

He started to moan. She hooked her wrist around his neck and pulled him to her mouth, kissing him hard and deep as he came. He convulsed collapsing  on top of her. His **** still inside her, as she wrapped her arms around and rocked him back and forth, kissing the top of his head as if comforting a child.

He rolled over, crashing into the bed with exhausting and fatigue. He looked over at her. She was staring up at the ceiling. He saw the reddish purple strangulation marks he’d left on her neck, and slipped into a deep sleep.
ghost queen Apr 2020
It was getting dark when I exited the Port d’Orleans metro station. The cold air hit me instantaneously, seeping in between my clothes and skin. I tighten my long coat around me, readjusted my back pack, and pulled out my phone to confirm the address of Tango à Paris. It was only two blocks north of where I was standing.  

It was my first date with Séraphine. I had suggested dinner. She suggested something less formal, a bit more active, how about tango, explaining her studio gave a hour long introduction before the milonga. I agreed, as I had taken a year of tango, and felt confident I could keep up, maybe even impress her.

I’d wondered how she kept her 5 foot 8, 130 pound-ish physique, swimmer lean, and now I knew, she was a dancer.

I liked this part of Paris, the 14th arrondissement, L’Observatoire, clean, tidy, having the look and feel of a Nordic city like Olso or Stockholm. The sidewalks were full of interweaving professionals, eager to get out of the cold, the drizzle, and home to their loved ones.  

I walked up L’Avenue du Général Leclerc till I got to No 119. I pressed the buzzer and heard back, “oui.” “I am here for the milonga,” I said. The door buzzed, I pushed it open, entering a small foyer with sign pointing up a staircase to the first floor. I could hear the muffed sound of music and feel the movement of bodies dancing upstairs.

I climbed the curved wrought iron staircase, the old wooden stairs creaking softly with every step. I saw the studio immediately: two traditional French doors swung open, exposing a gymnasium like dance studio, with clean, golden yellow oak hardwood floor. Men and woman dancing, swinging and spinning about.

I entered the studio, paused, and looked around. At the far of the room was the DJ, sitting at table, with two loud speakers on stands pumping out music at just the right volume: loud enough to feel the music, low enough to talk your partner without having to scream in her ear.  

To my left, people gathered around a table. I walked over, they were writing their names with a felt tip pens on self adhesive name tags and placing it on their chest. A woman turned around and smiled at me. “Bienvenue,” she said, “I’m Jolene.” and extended her hand. “I am Damien”, I replied, shaking her hand politely. “Is this your first time here,” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, “I am waiting on a friend, Seraphine.”

“Mais oui,” she replied with a smile, “she is one of our best dancers, talented, if not gifted.” Her head turned slowly towards the doors, my eyes following.

In the door stood Seraphine, wearing a spaghetti strap, damask black on maroon tango midi dress, slit high up her right tigh. Her shoes, opened toe, black thin strap heels, showing off her matching blood red toe and finger nail polish and lipstick. Her eyelashes thick, black, eyelids smoked dark, giving her the stereotypical look of a femme fatale tango dancer.  She was gorgeous, seductive, awe inspiring, like Bouguereau's The Birth of Venus. How could a man resist such a siren. She was goddess among women.

She walked over to us, said, “Bonsoir Madame,” and kissed Jolene
twice on the cheeks (faire la bise) as is customary among Parisian friends, then  turned to me, touched her cheek to mine, making the mwah, kissing sound.

I was intrigued. The kiss implied no longer an acquaintance, but in her inner circle of intimacy. It had subtle implications that set my mind racing about the meaning; it was also maddening, like trying to see a completed jigsaw puzzle while only holding one of a thousand pieces.

“Ca va,” she asked, bypassing the formal “comment vas-tu” greeting. “Ca va bien,” I replied. “Your dress is stunning,” I said. “Thank you,” she replied, with confidence.

She sat down, ruffled through her bag, and pulled out ecru opened toe tango shoes. I couldn’t help notice her feet, delicate, feminine, absolutely exquisite. I also couldn’t help noticing her tigh, exposed through the slit of her dress.

Before she could get up from the chair, an older man approached, extended his hand, which she accepted. She stood up, looked me in the eyes, and said, “it is rude to refused a dance when asked.” They walked to middle of the floor and started to dance to a slow, sultry, Spanish guitar piece. I sat down and watched. She didn’t just dance, she pranced, shook, and swayed her hips as only an accomplished Latin dancer could. It was amazing to watch.

The music repeated, slowed, and concluded. They walked off the dance floor, to the beverage table, topped with a variety of multicolored bottles of wine. He poured two glasses, offered her one, as they talked, she smiled and occasionally laughed. He bowed his head slightly, touched her upper arm, and walked away, as a cortina started.

Seraphine poured more wine in her glass and poured another glass, walked to me, and offered it. I took it, deliberately touching her hand as I did. She sat down, crossed her legs, the dress sliding aside, exposing her tigh, and asked me, “do you dance monsieur.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” I replied, as a new tanda of spanish guitar played. She stood up, extended her hand. I took it, stood up, and lead her to the middle of the floor, dodging couples along the way.

“Tango”, I asked. “Yes,” she replied. I move in close, wrapped my right arm across her back, pressing her body tight against mine, extending my left arm out in position, palm open. She carefully placed her hand in mine, her forefinger on my thumb, her thumb on the radial artery on wrist, as if feeling my pulse. It struck me as odd and was curious as to why.  She’d done it in a such a methodical way.

Her hands were warm, soft, supple, dewy. She closed her grip and waited for me. I swayed gently to the beat of Tango D’Amor by Bellma Cesepedes, as she rhythmically matched my body. I stepped back on my right foot, holding her tight, bringing her with me, then left,  then forward. My chest pressing into hers. My leg brushed against her tigh as I moved, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow of the basic 8 count. I paused for a second, for her to cross then pushed forward, slowly turning to avoid couples.

I sensed her body heat, felt the wetness of perspiration on her back, smelled the earthiness of her scent. She radiated animal magnetism. I couldn’t, nor wanted to resist her. I knew I was a moth, she the flame.

New music started to play, Fuego Tango by Athos Bassissi, a traditional fast staccato accordion piece with a distinct beat for walking, turning, and swaying. I placed my my hand between her shoulders. I couldn’t feel a strap. She wasn’t wearing bra. It felt intimate, seductive, only a thin layer of cloth between us.

She pulled her head back, looked at me in the eyes, and said, “Tighter, I need to feel you, your body, your moves, so I can respond to your body.” I wrapped by arm completely around her, pulling her tight against my me. My primal urges welled up. I wanted her, to kiss her, to protect her,  to provide for her, have and raise kids with her. I felt stronger, more powerful, like a man. I wanted her in my life before she disappeared forever.

She placed her forehead on my temple. I rocked back and forth catching the beat, stepping backwards with my right, and we started to dance, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, in a vertical expression of horizon desire.

Bending my knee, sliding forward, my chest pressing against hers, pushing, stopping, shifting, subtly twisting, I signaled a backward ocho. I waited for her, than slide to the left bring her with me, waited for her to pivot then slid right, bringing her with me, then waited for her to center. I walked forward, stopped, signalling for her to cross. I waited for the beat then finished my eight step basic.

I could feel her breath on my cheek, fast, hot; felt her breathing, her chest rising, falling sensuously. She felt good in my arms, as right as rain. I liked holding her, feeling her so close to me.

I started an eight step, stopping at the cross, signaling her to move right in preparation for a scada. As she moved, I stepped between her legs, pivoting her and me 180 degrees, repeating the step 3 times, bringing her back to cross, and finishing the step.

I heard her audibly exhale, relaxing in my arms. She was giving up control, learning to trust, surrendering to me. And I, was one with her, nothing else mattered, all else had disappeared. I was in a state of deep mediation. She was the now and forever.

The music stopped, I looked at her, noticed the glow in her cheeks, felt the warm moistness on her back. But most of all, I noticed her dilated pupils. The glowing sapphire blue of her eyes, replaced by a fathomless blackness, which I fell into.

She looked into my eyes with a gentleness, a knowing, and smiled. A new piece started, Rain, by Kantango, clean, crisp, staccato. I moved, walked, slid, in step with the beat, losing myself in the sensuality of the music and the movement of the dance.  I pressed her tight against my chest, sliding forward, rock stepping backward, holding her tighter as I did a single axis spin. I heard her sigh in my ear and felt her body relax. I slid forward to the staccato rhythm, dramatic, forceful, almost charging.

I stopped and lean to my left. She extended her right leg back, and planeo-ed as I walked her in a circle, side-by-side rock, then to neutral. She tighten her hold, pressing me into her chest, her touch telling me so much, screaming her arousal.

I slid forward, to the side, staring an 8 count to the cross, going into a backward ocho, I shifted my weight, taking her into a moulinette, twisting to the right then to the left, as she elegantly danced around me, back to 5 to complete our 8 count.

I was no longer thinking, just feeling, one with the music, lost in the sensuality, in a type of bliss. I walked forward then back, turning her to the right. To my surprise, she extended her left leg, whipping it across the floor, then back, wrapping it around my leg, slowly sliding her calf up my leg, then unwinding to neutral. I walked forward, she spun around, and slowed her walk. My body colliding, pressing into her’s as we slowly stopped. She turned her face towards mine, raising her hand, touching my face, my cheek, gently turning, bringing it towards her’s, towards her lips. Just as we were going to kiss, she turned her face, my face plunged into her hair, the back of her neck. I could smell, Poison by Dior. I kissed the back of her neck, squeezing her slightly, as she moaned ever so slightly.
Jamesb Jul 2022
The worst part of a funeral is not the sombre faces,
Nor the awkwardness of people
Who know not how to be at such a time,
It's not the heavy sense of sadness and loss
That permeates the air or the brash jollity of those
Who over compensate,

It's not standing to eulogise my friend
In so few minutes
When he was so vibrant and ALIVE,
Nor seeing in my mind's eye his face
As he lay recumbent in the coffin's cushioned dark
And airless embrace,

Not the sobs that came in public as I sat
After giving his farewell my all,
My first eulogy and sadly probably not my last,
No, the worst, the most awful thing was the wet thump
Of roses red falling on his coffin lid,
I tossed a handful of dry earth,

It sounded better,
Seemed more fitting,
An example followed by others,
A better more respecttful
And indeed final fare well,
Rest now Damien

Rest in peace
I will see you soon enough
ghost queen Jul 2020
Séraphine, Vignette nº 7, Le Cercueil

I was on the phone talking to the museum. Ground-penetrating radar had found what looked like a coffin at the Lutetian layer, and they were in the process of digging down to it. I was telling Sylvain to use the new 4K video cameras to record every detail when the doorbell rang. I’d left the door ajar, knowing Madame Pinard, the concierge was bringing by an adjuster to inspect and cut a check for the repair of the leak in the ceiling that had washed away chunks of plaster, now laying on the hardwood floor in the bedroom, exposing the wooden rafters of the attic.

“May we come in Monsieur,” she shouted from down the hall in the foyer. “Yes, Madame, please come in,” I shouted back, with more exasperation in my voice than I wanted to express. “I am on the phone with the musee Madame, please show him to the bedroom.”

I saw Madame and the adjuster come in out of the corner of my eye and turned my head to see them as they walked the stairs to the bedrooms. The adjuster was not a man, but a woman, which was surprising in France. The first thing I noticed about her, was her wide round birthing hips, what the kids, called thick. She wore a long-sleeve white silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and the traditional, obligatory Parisian back seamed stockings. I didn’t make out her face but caught sight of her red hair tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and the milky white skin of her neck.

“Damien, are you listening,” said Sylvain, the dig manager on the other end of the line. “Yes, I replied, “l was distracted by my landlady bringing an adjuster into the apartment. Yes, I’ll come down as soon as they leave.”

After a few minutes, Madame and the adjuster came back down. The adjuster walked into the foyer to wait. Madame came into the living room and said she’d have a crew out tomorrow to start repairs. As madame turned and walked down the hall, I got a better look at the adjuster. She was pure Celt, with red hair, white skin, dark brown doe eyes that looked black, high cheekbones, and the sharp straight nose of a Greek statute.

Besides her stunning beauty, I noticed her necklace, a traditional golden Celtic torc, which signified the wearer as a person of high rank. I’d never seen a person wearing one. I’d only seen one on a statue, The Dying Gaul in Le Louvres. How so very interesting I thought to myself.  

As she was talking to Madame and turning to leave, she made eye contact. She tilted in acknowledgment and goodbye. I nodded back and she was gone. I wished I could have gotten a chance to talk to her, maybe even ask her for an aperitif at the corner bistro. Oh well, c’est la vie.

-------

I went to the dig at the La Crypt at 12:30-ish talked to Sylvain for a bit and went down to the lower levels to see it for myself. The area was gridded out and several cameras on tripods were recording. The team was within centimeters front the top, and so put down their trowels and used a high-pressure water and suction hoses to remove the rest of the topsoil. The top came into view, the excess water was ****** away. Sponges were used to clear and clean away the mud.

The stone was obviously Lutetian limestone, finely sanded and polished. The lid was craved, which first glance, looked like Norse runes and one Celtic knot. “Take pics and send them to religious studies,” I said half to myself, half to Sylvain. How strange to have Norse and Celt iconography together I thought to myself.

It was late when I exited the metro station. The air was bitterly cold, my breath appearing and disappearing around me like a mystic cloud.

I was tired, exhausted from digging, and was seeing things in the corner of my eye that I chalked up to aberrations of a fatigued mind. That is until I walked past the Boise de Boulogne. In a dark recess, along the tree line, I saw what looked like a faintly glowing woman in a white dress. My first reaction was horror, remembering all the monster movies I’d seen as a child. Then quickly, my adult mind kicked in and rationalized it away as an artsy late night photography session, which is common around Paris. The sting of the cold refocused my attention and I hurriedly resumed my walk home.

I was tired, muddy, and had to take a shower before throwing myself into bed. I showered, dried off, and pulled back the new, thick duvet I’d bought for winter. The moon was full, beaming softly, barely illuminating the dark bedroom, as I cracked opened a window to let a small amount of fresh cold air into the humid stale room.

I slid under the duvet. I liked the cold, it reminded me of camping in the mountains with my old man and being snug in our down sleeping bags as we talked half the night away. I quickly fell asleep.

I half awoke, sensing a presence. I opened my eyes and saw a woman, ****, standing at the end of my bed, enveloped in a faint blue luminescence. She looked at me with big doe eyes. I watched her watching me, trying to figure out if I was dreaming or not.

She crawled on to the bed. I couldn’t feel her as she made her up the bed. She straddled me. I saw glint around her neck and saw she was wearing a torc, and realized who she was.

Her face was centimeters from mine. Her eyes burned with ferocity, intensity, and anger. I looked back up at her, fear welling up inside of me. She looked down at me. Her penetrating eyes, looking into my soul. I could feel her in my head, my mind.

She felt my fear, and without a word, just the look in her eyes, reassured me, calmed me, and my body and mind relaxed as if a nurse had given me a shot of morphine.

She touched her lips to mine, and felt the heat of her beath, smelled her dewy scent. I didn’t move. I knew I was prey. I knew what she wanted, and let her take it.

She slid her tongue into my mouth, and I gently ****** on it. She ****** up my lower lip, biting it playfully. She tasted sweet, fresh, like spring water. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wanted more. I kissed her harder, deeper, and felt myself slide to the edge of sleep, no longer sure what was a dream, or what was real.

She pulled back the duvet, grabbed my ****, and stroked it till it was painfully hard. She kissed it, put it in her mouth, and ****** it. Her head bobbing up and down. She’d stop, bite the head, and use her teeth to scrape up and down the shaft till I winched and yelled out in pain.

I started to moan, my body tightening, and arched, thrusting deeper into her mouth, coming as she raked her nails hard down the side of my chest. To my surprise, she didn’t spit out but swallowed my ***, licking excess from around her lips.

--------

I opened my eyes and was blinded by sunlight streaming in through the open windows and curtains. What the ****, I thought to myself, I never sleep this late. It was always dark when I wake. And the birds, chirping in the trees outside my window, were loud, and grating on my nerves.  

I slowly got out of bed. My body ached, my lower lip hurt, and my **** was sore. I grabbed my **** and immediately released it in pain. It was raw as if I’d had ***. I was definitely confused. My eyes darted from side to side as I tried to make sense and remember last night. I left the dig, came home, showered, and went to bed.

I trudged to the kitchen and made coffee, all the while, racking my brain for some clue as to why I felt like ****. I poured a cup, leaned back on the counter, and sip the coffee. I shook my head, placing my hand on my hip, and felt a sharp burning. I looked down and saw blood on my hand and side. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw fingernail marks down both sides of my chest. I just stared.

I had no idea, no clues as to how these happened. I jumped into the shower and washed off, bandaged up the bleeding scratches with paper towels and tape, dressed, and went to the cafe at the corner.

Despite the cold, I sat on the terrace, ordered coffee, bread, butter, and jam. I looked at my phone. It was 8:08. I looked at my text messages and emails for some clue as to what happened last night.

Breakfast came, and I sipped the coffee, staring out into the street. The waiter walked past me. “Oui madame, what would you like this morning,” he said. “Cafe et croissant,” she said. The waiter turned and walked back inside. I turned my head to the side for a quick look and blinked twice. It was the redheaded adjuster from yesterday.

“Bonjour M. Delacroix,” she said. “Bonjour Madame,” I instinctively replied. There was an awkward pause.  “I am Brigitte, Brigitte Dieudonné,” she said softly.

We small talked over breakfast and when I tab came, paid, and said, “I headed to the office.” “It is the weekend monsieur. “Yes,” I replied, “I work at an archeological dig on Ile de la Cite. The crypte.” “I am headed that way myself, do you mind if I walk with you,” she asked.

We walked to the metro station, down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the quay. The train came, the doors hissed open, and we strode in. The train was full of Chinese tourists and it was standing room only. I grab a pole and Brigitte did the same as she squeezed up beside me.

The train jolted forward and Brigitte bumped into me. As the train smoothed out, she kept leaning into me. Her derriere in my crouch. I could feel her body through her coat. I was getting turned on. As the trained curved around a curve, it rocked back and forth. Her *** bumping and grinding against my now hard ****. Could she feel my hard-on through the coats? She half-turned her head a gave me a coquettish smile. She knew I thought to myself.

We exited La Cité metro station, on to Place Louis Lépine. Before I could say anything, she said she’d like to see the dig. “Sure,” I said, and we walked to the La Crypt. We walked down the stairs to glass doors and pass the touristy exhibits and displays, to the back, behind the green painted plywood wall. Sylvain and several grad students were standing over and around the coffin. Two of them were in the pit setting up a portable x-ray machine, one with a still camera, another with a video camcorder, and the rest looking down at their tablets.

Brigitte and I walked to the edge. The coffin’s lid had been clean. The runes and Celtic knot were clearly visible. “Danger, death, mother,” Brigitte said. Sylvain turned his head, and said, “she is right, danger, death, mother according to the religious studies guys.” “How do you know that,” I asked. “It’s in all the teenage vampire movies,” she replied grinning.

“The top one is an inverse Thurisaz, which is means danger. The second one is an inverse Algiz, which means death. The knot is Celtic for mother, and the dot in the heart means she had one daughter,” Brigitte said trailing off.

“It looks you’ve got it under control Sylvain. I have an appointment. Brigitte can I walk you back to la place,” I said.

We walked to la place and stopped at the metro entrance. “Can I have your number,” I asked? “Yes, you may, if you promise to call monsieur Delacroix,” she said smiling girlishly. She took my phone from my hand and typed in her number and dialed. Her phone rang. “I have your monsieur, Delacroix. A bientot,” she said. We did la bise and she was off.
The River Runs Deep
by Damien Johnson
The River
runs
deep.
Running
forever.
Yet.
Always there,
always...
here,
with me.
A million
miles
away,
no matter,
if its a smile,
or a kiss.
I wade
so far,
that the current
picks me up,
and carries me
out to sea.
An
ocean of our
love.
For you,
you are my
River.
Gracious.
Furious.
Unrelenting.
And
forever.
It was past 10 pm
Indian Standard Time
And the score was
Two O Five

Klusener was the launcher
Donald was the Duck

Hansie had the fancy
That he will lift the cup
Seconds ticking
One, two, three, four, five…

Damien Fleming’s the bowler
And he’s known as a troller
Windies was the victim
Eight years ago

Steve Waugh!
The man who made Gibbs drop the cup
Stood there
Like a commander
Klusener like a slaughterer

Yorker’s the marker
To stop the nine runs needed
From the Klusener blade

NOW THE LAST OVER
ONE went for a four
TWO went for a four
Tensions flared up
We are on the proverbial Edge-of-the-seat

Steve stood there
No expression on his face
Hansie's in the pavilion
Like a warrior king

THE THIRD BALL
Damien's running like he do
Yes, bang on target
Klusener's couldn't get it off
Like the way in his earlier knocks off

One run needed in three

Just a recap again

Final over
last pair together
nine to get in six *****
player of the tournament on strike
Successive fours from Lance Klusener
and it was one from four *****

Then came the comedy
for South Africa uniquely in the game's annals
the tragedy of a tie.

Moments before it
Steve Waugh was
As cold as an Iceberg
To the Titanic of South Africa

(To be continued in next part)
1999 Cricket World Cup semifinals match between Australia and South Africa

http://www.espncricinfo.com/ci/engine/current/match/65233.html

A match I'll never forget
TheUnseenPoet Oct 2017
I am actually a huge fan of Banksy and thoroughly enjoyed Dismaland but the A level kids I teach at a school just down the road from Weston couldn't get in because they've got Art P2. We wrote letters and sent emails but had no reply. They were very disillusioned by it all so their art teacher decided to take them to Dismaland and show some of their work on the grass outside. Security were not impressed and called the police. We made a film about it and I read this poem at the gates. This is the first part.
So this is where this tale will start,
Of What is Banksy? Who is art?
You're the joke now, don't you see?
This ****** ticket lottery,
For crazy cats who play the rules
Not you poor buggers stuck in schools
Can’t press refresh at the stroke of ten
Cos that's exactly the time when
the bell rings for art to begin
The irony is lost on him.
No tickets in your grubby hand
Cos schools cant afford the broadband.
Don't look at me with dismal faces
You lot sure are going places
Yep, you're all sat on a train
Going to weston in the rain
Who do you lot think you are?
No movie queens nor a rock star
You don't fly in from LA
You don't even have a card to pay
No Damien's, No Brad. No Suze.
Pack up your dreams kids,
Born to lose.
Like a load of buckets to the factory gate
Where we'll have to stand and stand and wait
He is not Wonka, he's not your friend,
This Charlie gets nothing in the end.
So looks like we might not get in,
Stare them down kids, take ours to him.
Banksy Inc. has made these choices,
But they can't silence all our voices.
Helllooooooo Banksy?
Are you there?
Going to show these kids you care?
Open up those hallowed portals
For this lot of mere mortals?
They've brought stuff they want to show
It's really very good you know
Because they made it from the heart
Not for a calendar of street art
You know? Like how you used to be?
Before they showed you on TV.
They protest about stuff for reals,
And soon be snapping at the heels
Of all the London folk in there
Sell for a million but pretend they care.
Come on Banksy they'll be good
Take their selfies like they should.
Come on Banksy, just be nice,
They'll snap up all your merchandise
And shuffle round the park like drones
Take out pocket money loans.
Listen kids, this isn't working,
Banksy's in his rolls and shirking,
We don't need to storm the walls
We can show them we've got *****
By standing here and giving free
What they've all spent five quid to see.
brooke Apr 2013
they say that bronze was
the prime component in
the Equestrian Statue of
Marcus Aurelius
, or the
stone of the Ajanta Caves
in India, but will my skin
keep me alive? I once said
something interesting in
a classroom in regards to
immortality, when a girl
picked out the flaws in
For the Love of God a
piece by Damien Hirst.
It seems to say that we                                              must realize our mortality
but do skeletons not last
the ravage of time? Exactly
what part of us is mortal
aside from our skin, first?
(c) Brooke Otto
RJ Cordae Jul 2011
One
No need for an introduction,
She was ****** incarnate, volatile pandemonium.
She was always gone by the morning’s pale light,
No pins could stick her, pretty glass doll.
She was his tangible addiction,
Sweeter than any pixie sugar,
Yet poisonous as a viper.

“Phantasmagoria,” she’d breathe,
Her words freezing and falling, broken diamonds.

“What?” his confusion so sweet.

She cackled then,
Chaotic grins folding over gossamer silk.
He just shook his head,
Knowing she was a tragedy.

He could never hold her,
Thorns tore ragged lines into him every time he tried.
She was his to have, to gaze at,
But never to touch.
She was intransigent, lying eyes and battered lips,
Scars tugged at his heart whenever he looked,
Bleeding masquerades of perfection in her curves.

Porcelain masks adorned with crimson feathers,
So shocking against the ebony walls.
The masks were like her smile, he had decided so long ago,
Hanging a new one every six months.

He saw right through her.

Two
Malignant words bubbled from her lips,
She blew him EXPLOSIVE kisses,
Her eyes full of iridescent splendor and charm.

She gave herself to him completely,
Tired of running on the fuel of a thousand shattered hearts.


Pale like winter,
He was fierce like autumn leaves in a fiery glow.
His eyes were a swirl of blue,
So deep, hypnotic and entrancing.
His hair was black as a crow,
Soft as velvet against bare flesh.

He was beauty in a terrible splendor,
Pale, carved marble, breath-taking and alive.
His kisses were spider-silk,
Dripping venom down her throat.

“Extemporaneous,” he’d sigh,
His words left behind the after taste of chocolate.

“Everything is,” echoed her bittersweet reply.

Chemical smoke poured from his mouth,
When he parted his lips to speak.
She loved the way it danced in the glow of the fire.

Three
The curve of her smile let you see the whole asylum.
Oh how she’d laugh, broken glass in her eyes,
When he’d nibble her flesh so softly.
Her eyes flashed red,
A brief shutter speed of a moment.

He’d saunter up to her,
Leather pants worn as a second skin.
His eyes glittered in the dark,
The ocean by moonlight.
He spun her in dizzy circles.

“Vertigo baby, you spin me high with vertigo,”
He’d laugh, watching her stumble.

They were psychotic lovers in a masquerade of midnight frenzies,
Graveyard picnics and ballroom dancing the mausoleum.
They were a Gothic fairytale without the ever-after,
Kings fighting for their queens,
That and the dragon ate the kNight.

Moonlight tans and wrought-iron fences,
They kept the world at bay.

“No one needs to know,” she whispered beneath the crying tree,
“Let them wonder in solitude,” her voice soft as a feather.

The zephyr smelled of ice and heartbreak.

Four
Silver needles with glitter tips,
Pulled star-studded thread through her lips,
Anything to keep the lies from spilling out.

“Desperate hours call for drastic measures,”
Barbed-wire bled from familiar tongues.

Tiny symbols on her lover’s face,
A black mask stitched with silver Zodiac charms.
He was her hero in Venetian adornments,
If you ignored the combat boots.

SAFTEY,
An over-rated opinion.
(Throw away the key.)

The pond froze over,
Reflecting dark-eyed ghosts of glass.
The paint on the masks cracked,
The feathers faded long ago.

He held her close,
Feeling her thorns tear him o p e n.
He bled sweet metallic candy for her.

She’d be gone again in the morning.

Five
She sighed, keeping perfect rhythm with the visions in her eyes.
The cold seeping slowly into every pore,
Electrifying ever nerve and fiber.
Haunting whispers on the wind,
Reminders of another life.

I’ll love you forever; I miss you already,
She scrawled in black ink on the bathroom mirror.

He scrubbed for weeks,
But the message never faded.

Then you shouldn’t have left,
He painted in slow red cursive beneath it.

He’d always wait for her.

Six
So innocent when she pouted,
Lying little girl with a cracked doll’s mask,
Just like the faces he hung on the wall.
When she smiles, the truth comes out,
The perfect killer with the perfect guise.

She’d blow chemical rings to your heart,
Knowing how deep they’d cut.
She savored the taste so bitter and sweet,
Liquid candy, deep red cherries.

He relished the glitter in her eyes,
When she was off on another “Suicide Mission”,
As her friends so poetically dubbed them.

He bound himself to her,
With black lace chords and red wrist ribbons.
They lusted for a never-ending destruction,
No amount of chaos could sate their desire.

“You are a tragedy,” he once told her,
“A million deaths in the making.”

She always laughed at those words,
Tears stinging her face when she was away.
“I’m your tragedy, my love,” she called sweetly to the wind.

Tie the mask tight,
Check the powder around your eyes,
Lace up that corset,
This job is just a masquerade.
Shade is not your name,
And the Emancipator knows it.
He’ll keep your secret as long as you work,
Pretty little ****** doll.

“I miss him,” she whispered,
Her eyes so full of sorrow.

“Then go home,” he told her.

Simple phrases break hearts the fastest.

Seven
Her hand trembled, eyes wide, so fearful,
This homecoming no different than the dozens before it.

He opened the door before she could even caress its silver handle.

Startled, he stood there and gaped,
Trying to convince himself that she had actually come back.
“Five years is a long time to be gone without calling,” he whispered,
A shaking hand brushed the hair from her eyes.

She caught his hand,
Pressed it hard against her face,
Her tears carved shallow channels down her cheeks.

“I missed you.”

He glanced away,
His hand dropped to his side like a stone,
“Then you shouldn’t have left.”

She knew he was right when she turned to leave again,
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, almost choking on her words.

He grasped her wrist,
Pulled her into his arms, clutching her tightly,
His blue eyes deep puddles.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Eight
She was home for a moment,
Maybe even longer,
To dance upon his paper heart.
(Look at those steep red stilettos.)

He was happy for a moment,
Maybe even longer,
To have her in his arms again.
(No matter how deep the thorns cut.)

“Aniya, my dear, you’ll be the death of me,”
He sighed, holding his lips to hers.

“I’ll be the death of myself,”
She replied sardonically, entwining her fingers in his hair.

They were restless, half crazed in the heat,
The terror mounting passion in fire,
So cold it burned flesh from the bone.
They were the purest form of calamity,
A delicate sense of fatality,
Like lightening through a sea of metal.

“Damien, my love, you are my addiction,”
She purred, her hands caressed his face.


“Likewise, my darling,” he smiled,
He pulled those pale hands to his lips.

Nine
The tension mounted outside those wrought-iron gates,
A war bubbling to the surface,
The first of many, a battle for the ages.

Lace up those ebony heels,
Tie the corset tighter and tighter,
Dizzy from the pressure.
Make sure all the swords are sleek as blood,
Clear as the freshest waters.

Slick back the hair,
Tie the mask tighter and tighter,
He was dizzy from the anticipation.
Make sure all the guns have silver bullets,
And all the spears have jagged edges.

The troops rained in,
The fire arms screamed,
Eagles of flame danced in the sky.
Celebrations started before the dust could even settle.
This is actually a relatively old piece of work. I had written it the summer before my senior year of high school. Let me know what you think? I will try to answer all comments :)
Jessica Feb 2018
“Quiet” he says, its easier when I’m quiet,
But how can I be quiet when he’s stabbing at me.
“Breathe” he says, its easier when I breathe,
But how can I breathe with a hand gripping my neck.
“Smile” he says, its easier when I smile,
But how can I smile when he’s shattering my innocence.
“Moan” he says, its easier when I moan,
But how can I moan when my whole body is screaming in pain.
“Beg” he says, its easier when I beg,
But how can I beg when I want his hands off my body.
“Cry” he says, its easier when I cry,
But how can I cry when I know that’s what he enjoys.
I refuse to let him destroy me.
Daisy Anarchy Jul 2010
Daisy (12:57 AM):  Please please please...
Daisy (1:02 AM):  I was laying down earlier, and without asking me any sort of permission, the image of Nathan with some other girl in his arms, in his room, laughing smiling, the whole idea came vividly to mind, and it crushed. It felt like someone stood on my chest and stomped. My computer was making aim noises and I didn't want to talk to anyone, I got up anyway. Now it's later, and I've shoved the thought from my mind. Now I'm alone, everyone's gone to sleep, my hair is clean, I'm alone. Damien Rice's voice pours out my speaker and my eyes overflow. I guess once I finally thought I was really really over him, it had to come back and hit me in the face. I'm so sick of sounding so stupid. It doesn't even make sense,
Daisy (1:03 AM):  I shouldn't be tied to him after everything. My soul is crushed.
Daisy (1:06 AM):  Sobs reach up my throat and sneak out of my mouth, filling the air, thick with sorrow, like fog. Like cigarette smoke, like smog, from thousands of cars. Why is it that i have to suffer like this for one who left me so abruptly. "I still think about you every day that passes." He said to me, and i probably believed it. He doesn't know, and thinks everything I say is some stupid dream, he answers me skeptically and full of scorn. I could scream, with my back arched in pain. Let all I ever had to say come out of me in one fluid motion.
Daisy (1:11 AM):  These are answers I'll never get. Learn to live like your very own bone marrow has been stripped from you. Week and empty.
Q Jun 2018
Dear Damien,
It's been awhile since we met
I'd like to ask how you've been
But all I get is the empty silence
And the stillness of your heart.
I thought we could reconnect
But time is so cruel.
Where have you gone?

We used to play in the summers
Then in the fall of seventeen
Something changed us that would never be the same
We fell apart we broke apart
And even though we're 28
we feel the loss every day.
Dearest Damien
Where have you gone?
Valo Salo Aug 2014
**** the f... communists
if there is anyone f... left
**** the f... capitalists
at least it's going to be a f... mass ******

**** the f… politicians
**** the f… priests
**** the f… pirates
**** the f… presidents
**** the f… French

**** the f… mujahedins
**** the f… terrorists
**** your f… stylish youth
**** the f… classical sentences like f… the Police
F… the Police

**** the f… Police
**** your f… self
**** the f… sun
**** the f… Damien Hirst
**** the f… moon
**** the f…  Warhols
even dead and then again
for every f… 15 minutes!

**** your f… life and **** your f… death
**** the f… lesbians and the f… gays too
**** the f… Beethoven’s f… music
**** all the f... families
**** the f… lies
**** the f… truth
**** the f… God
**** the f… Devil
**** the f… carrots and the f… *******
**** the f… punks!

**** f… everything and everyone
**** the f... stars on earth and in the f... sky
**** the f... TV and the f... TV hosts
**** the f… ******
**** the f… Jews
**** the f… Christians
**** the f… poets
**** the f… pets
**** the f… children

**** the f… laws and the f… lawns
**** your f… hope and f… guts
**** every f… creature on this f… planet
**** the f… planet

**** the f… DNA and all of the f… stem cells
**** the f… techno and the f… folk music now!
**** the f… DJ and f… Ozzy
**** the f… Americans
**** the f… vegetarian and every f… hippie
**** the f… meat eaters too
**** the f… humour
**** for the f… God’s sake and mine

**** the f… zeitgeist
**** the f… good and the f... bad behaviour
**** the f… Buddha and the f… Buddhism
**** my f… ****
**** the f… Justin Biebers f… **** too

**** every f… ****** ****** dead or alive
Dig up every f... dead Ku Klux Clan member
and **** them f… again and again

**** your f… good taste
Your f… self-righteous thinking
Your f… good morals
Your f… delicate philosophical views
**** every f… thing I forgot to f… mention
**** the f… you
F… you all
F… You!
Big Virge Apr 2018
What is it with ... Pretenders ... ?!?
who've ... ALWAYS GOT ... " Agendas " ...

They tend to be ... " Pretentious " ...
and like those ...  " Cellar Fellas' " ... !!!

Use GIMPS ...
to serve as ... " Tricks " ...

So that they can ...

.... " Lick Their Lips " .... !!!!!

Their vibes are ... TRULY SICK ... !!!!!
when it comes to ... How They Live ...

Just let ...

" Marcellus " ... Tell ya' ... !!!!!!

But These Words HERE ...
Aren't For ... " A Flick " ...

" Pulp Fiction's " ... Non-Descript ...
When Pretenders scripts ... Get Flipped ... !!!!!

" IT WASN'T THEM ? "

is their ... ANTHEM ... !!!!!!

They're walking phlegm ... !!!
Who cause ... PROBLEMS ... !!!

cos' they come ... " Inept " ...
with ... NUFF Defects ... !!!!!!!!

You should ... "PROTECT" ...
Yourselves ... from them ... !!!

Their words and ... " Acts " ...
are ALL ....... "Pretence" ...........

So I .... Suggest ....
Your ... Best Defence ...

is to ...
Let Them ... LIE ...
Until you find ...
The Truth .... " behind " ....

What it is they .................................................................­.. "hide" .....

They ...
Choose to ... Lie ...

Pretty much ...

ALL THE TIME ... !!!!!

So .... Politicians ....
and their ... " isms' " ...
are ... NOT TO BE ... Trusted ... !!!

Like .... RELIGION .... !!!!!

I Won't go ......... THERE .........
because they ... FLARE UP ... !!!
Like ... FIREWORKS Son ... !!!!!!!!!!

When they're ... " Questioned " ... ?

So PLEASE ..... Beware ...... !!!
with views you share ....
If you ... DON'T CARE ...
For ... Religious Fare ...

because what they ... CLAIM ...
to be ... " Their Faith " ...
is ... " Subject to Change " ... !!!!!

If they get ... IRATE ...
cos' of ... Things you say ...

ESPECIALLY .... if ....
What YOU ... Believe ...
Shows ... " FRaiLty " ........................

In THEM ...
Their ... BELIEFS ...
and Their ... IDEOLOGIES ... !!!!!

You see ....
PRETENDERS .... Feed ...
OFF ... "FEAR-FILLED" ... Peeps' ...
If you show them that .....

..... You're .... "weak" ....

Pretenders .....
Start to ... "Scheme" ... !!!
to Steal and ...
TAKE ... Money ... !!!

or ...
Leave you with ................. Babies ..................

NO ...  " Sexism " ...

..... DEFINES .....

The ways ...
Pretenders .... ride .... !!!

BOTH ....
Women and Men ....

" Love to " ... Pretend ...

From ... Getting *** ...
To Having ... " Friends " ...

Ask ... " RYAN LOCHTE " ...
About .... DISHONESTY .... !!!!!!

Many .... " Pretend " ....
to ... Get Some ... THEN ...
Are OFF Before ...
Their Victim's ... SURE ... ?
That they have ... " Lied " ... ???

BE WISE ....
.... BE WISE .... !!!

is my ... " Advice " ...

because i've been ... One ...
whose seen them ... Come ...
and even ... INDULGED ...
In ... Letting them ... RUN ...
Their ... "Devious" ... Gums ... !!!

But Trust in this ....

I leave em' ... STUNNED ...
by my .... REACTIONS ....
to their ... ACTIONS ...

They're ...
FAKE Like ... " Factions " ...
Linked to ... " COLLAPsing " ...

..... " Communities " .....

Due to things they ... " Speak " ...
and what they ... " PREACH " ...

ANARCHY ... seems ...
To Feed ... " Their Breed " ... !?!

Mentalities ....
That ... HAPPILY ...

Embrace ... "BIG LIES" ... !!!
and ... FALLACIES ... !!!
That sometimes lead to ...

.... TRAGEDIES .... !!!!!

Like Jane ....
They Are ... CALAMITIES ... !!!!!!
Who ... Break Things ... Up ...
Like .... FAMILIES .... !!!!!!!!!!

because of their ... " Guise " ...
of Speaking ... Their Minds ...

When what they speak ...
DEFIES ... Such Vibes ... !?!

They're ....
QUICK TO ... " Contrive " ...

To Say ....
What You ... LIKE ...
So that they can ... " FIND " ...
Where Your ... weakness lies ... !!!

So DON'T LET ...
Compliments ... FOOL Ya' ... !!!

They're ... " Cute " ...
Just like ... PETUNIAS ... !!!

But REALY ARE ...

.... ABUSERS ... !!!!!!!

Who .... in the end ...
are ... Losers ... !!! ...

Can't you see the ... " L " ...
on their ... Foreheads ... ???

Well ...
Like ... " Damien " ...

The Omen's ... there ... !!!

" The L " ... being where ... ?
Right Under Their ... " Hair " ... !!!

cos' ... Just like ... " Touts " ...
They're QUICK TO ... " Scalp " ... !!!

But Their ... " Native Tongue's "
Left America .... " Dumb " ....

So Look who's come ... ?
YES ... Donald Trump ... !?!

and some other chumps ...
who I ... "won't mention" ...

A ... " ****** Fan " ...
Whose Current Stance ...
is ... Quite ... "pathetic" ...

Just like ... EUGENICS ... !!!!!

They've become ... GENERIC ...
If you ... REALLY ...

Check It ...................... ?!?

From ....

Girlfriends to Guys ....

To ....

Husbands and Wives ....

BEWARE of ... " The Guise " ...
"Behind" ... All Their ... Smiles ....  !!!

cos' it's time to ... REWIND ...
These Lines ... One More Time ...

BE WISE ....
.... BE WISE ....

When These Types ...
Are in ... Sight ... !!!

Read BETWEEN ... Their Lines ...
and you ... May Just Find ... ?!?

A MENTAL ....
Lie ... DETECTOR ... !!!

That'll EXPOSE These ...

... " Pretenders " ...
Inspired by the CRAZY Scenario in Brazil, that involved Ryan Lochte and his pals during the Rio Olympics ....
Connor Feb 2016
The annual rose garden blushes beneath a soft dress
in May. My crooked puppet's shadow has subsided in the theater it came to make way for fairweather, protest, wet teal ink
flowering the walls as sunlight shines thru and the mechanical
blinking of shadowy eyes now spurred AWAKE.
An Appalachian mind gaze and spiderweb neon
smoke attaching it's warmth to every freckled cheek,
a mint kiss like the opening of a fir tree smelted into the
foggy earth.

Ceramics embroider the shop sills
and ceiling fans wave hello n farewell to every guest
each day longer than the last!
WANDERER slept
sound in the Nagakin Capsule Tower, few nights ago now,
had an idea, lost it, feather flowed it's way across Pacific
to my bedroom and I wrote about her here, and saw a Japanese tea ceremony flash by
her eyes/my eyes
a collective consciousness
sometimes years apart.

She, who's witnessed the debris of catastrophe,
standing over what was a golden vase
filled with Tulips
now ash, forgotten except for in a memorial vague outline
in the bewitched brain(s)
Visionary! Arms twitched to the rapture occurring in plain view of us all
VIOLIN rebounding intangible yet unmistakable sound
on a train in Tokyo city. Cement is damp with Spring's sweet rain,
her feet sore from all this walking!

I appreciate her travels, as they are at once my own,
a second-hand enchantment
the taste of green tea, cherries!
EXPLOSIVE FORMLESS ANIMAL WHITE
feather grazed my skin, startled.

This feeling??
something set free, a violent hue erratic
markings on the cave walls, the one from Plato's allegory,
watching fire light the shape of our bodies and some spectacular image displays itself invisible
but felt, undeniable!
Settled, fire transferred to our lungs.
We call this “ART”
we have left the cave, to Paris, to Senegal, to Jaipur,
to her and I and you.

Animal oh animal caged no longer,
howling paintings and smells to our eyes,
bitten our hands sharp with poetry,
this ghast who's empathy for strangers has made a rare few dizzy. Possession! Willingly accepted nocturnal entity and I write this because I can't help myself.

THIS IS WHAT CREATED THE MANDALA,
COLORS OF AN ANCIENT PEACOCK
LURKING WITHIN US TENDING THE FLORA
which takes inspiration from museums, from brief embers shot up in a chasm fireplace illustrating what we'll call Forever,
vocal alchemist who resides in descending faint harp and opera
a fountain in a mysterious lobby only visited by one person, once every few months,
birds shimmer in planted palms and a crystal ceiling expounds the details of travels to come,
an orb above like an observatory for our OWN universe.

APOLLO IN LAUREL
PIANO, ASIAN INFLUENCE,
Damien Hirst's “Beautiful darkness spreading to every corner of your mind painting"
framed holy upon the walls
Jean Cocteau's “The Blood of a Poet” projected also, side by side.
A painted face, a parrot imitating Sudhana

“This is the abode of those of unobstructed intellect and broad mind,
Enjoying the realm of space, free from dependence,
Penetrating all times, free from obstruction,
Clearly perceiving all being and becoming”
- Avatamsaka Sutra

I'm speechless!
She's speechless! Her Tokyo, admittedly imaginary. It's her private
Nagakin Capsule Tower. It's my private Temple, my private Cocteau,
shelves stocked with the poems I'll one day write.
Words which shall knock on my dented skull in sleep mostly, but other times I can't recall as of this moment (Get back to me in July)
retired to literary France
and caught in the quicksand of aging, perhaps medicine will be far along enough that I shall die at 173?
a stretch, but considering that sciences are pushing for immortality by 2045 (pfft)
we shall see.
(??)
Bearded and divine with love
and experience from Airplanes
free jazz, dramatics,
heart to heart, dense libraries,
evening walks to Montmartre
a hand to hold
a kiss to experience.
Meditations,
Rodriguez “Sugar Man” fades out
“Silver magic ships... you carry...”
Sung once by the European barista in British Columbia who kept me caffeinated with a double shot of espresso for guessing the song right which was playing..This just happened, but I realize it'll become such a faint memory by then.
Out and out and out and out there
Far beyond the reaches of consciousness that previously mentioned feather will gather with the other ideas and become the WHITE peacock, infinite.
Carrying us there as wintry atoms
snowdrops on it's back.
One life to another.
Dre G Aug 2017
today i caught myself not
thinking about you for longer than
one heart beat. i was fooled.
had been completely engrossed
in a conversation with a judge
inside my mind, you're standing
across from me and our apocalypse
is here! she asks
me what i mean, she
hates my people but loves
my pedigree. if she asked you
what you thought of me would
you do right by jesus christ?
what rogue elixir could ever tie
the tubes before your embryonic
lies come spewing out onto this
relentless carboniferous slice of
spinning lava?

parasites
just like your guns,
you reckless bandit.
just like your sons,
a leech on the planet.

— The End —