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Meagan Moore Jan 2014
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.

We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.

The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel

The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Tersely "Ugly"
Not "Nari Keri"
Just "Ugly"
Unfinished
LACONICALLY "UGLY"
UGLY
betterdays Nov 2014
the days subsides,
with adoring colour
and the racous choral,
of retiring lorikeets.

we sit upon the deck,
cold bevvies in hand
and watch the master
painter at work,

over on the mountain range
the clouds gather.
ben, laconically states,

"storm tonight"

and yes that smell,
so wonderful,
sits heavy in the twilight air.

petrichor, heavy on the eucalypt, ****** beer,
and warm tar....
the smells of a stormy,summer afternoon.
Helen Oct 2015
I left you
seven hundred miles ago
with a note that read,

I'm done with this ****

you should have known

when you woke up upon sheets
that were soaked with our final weeks, and you realised, that you woke alone, it wasn't just a joke,
that one thing should have made you know,

seven hundred miles later,
your bare *** is alone...

you should have known

and now I'm down the highway
seven hundred miles away
from you
checking out the sunset
wondering if you
see it
as blue as I do
are you seeing the splintering
and fracturing of the lightening
that splits between clouds
of such a perfect grey?

Do you even remember that day?

I do!

you should have known

how the ventricles in your heart
clip clop at such a slow pace
how the neurones that fire
within your brain
stitch together memories
so laconically

you should have known

that seven hundred miles
down the road
I was going to be more open
More free to be me
Less inclined to practice
this inhumanly farce

Seven hundred miles ago

You should have known

*It was never going to last
I walked among the garden, passing by where long ago you once planted daisies—how those buds once bloomed. I walked a-ways farther until I came to a hearth, torn asunder. Its warmth gone cold and gray. The air about the garden is murky and slick, and I can feel it hang low in the snood of the evening mist. Up ahead I see where the path narrows, and like a siren it lasciviously calls out to me. It lies barren beneath the wet winter wind that blows restive. I know that it knows the way not. The wind sets the tawny leaves to caper and dance this way and that. And laconically they cross atop the worn-out grass. The sun now set save for the trailing penumbras, that set ominous among the darkening clouds like floating tundras. I catch a chill and realize for the first that I am out here alone; among the ancient pillars in the shadowy garden that I have for so long known. Why is it that year after year I must return here, is it to visit you, set things straight, or is it to recover a thing I might have lost to the atavistic gait of chaos and time? I know not—it is not for me to know. But, out here among the spectral shadows I am returned to the primordial. The nonpareil decay of clay and dust.
Aditya Roy Oct 2018
"You're blocking the light."
She said laconically
God replied,"Sorry, I think I was being shortsighted.
Here you go."
Almighty doesn't move
"Thanks" he approbates
"Dominus Iluminatio Mea"-Oxford Motto (The Lord Is Our Light)
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2020
Pitfalls in perfection are beyond the ken of man
With a yen for paranoia on this page without a plan,
Skipping forth with egomania through a paradox or two
When there’s ****** all to brag about, even if it’s true!
For you know it’s all a homily, a house of cards, a ruse
When it flicks across the conscience, (to laconically abuse),
When it slides up to the reputation, (hanging by a thread)
And you wish to Christ you’re indisposed, (or preferably dead!)
A hallmark of the day that thou can never quite slam shut…
Particularly when encountered, friend,
.....for it has found you, three parts cut!

M.
2 September 2020
"Three parts cut" denotes a measure of intoxication...You've been on the Bushmills, again!
Evan Stephens Apr 2019
Do you
think about
when we
discovered
hornets
in the grass
lot by the
apartment?
They were
drunk on
fallen apples,
and just
watched us
laconically.

I hope you
think about
yourself the
same way -
look back
& remember
you were
a hornet,
lance-cruel,
drunk on sugar,
having wings
you didn't use,
as I walked away.

I'm sure
you don't
think of me
at all. Good -
I hope that
I am your
lacuna.
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
I knew the bliss
In the knees folded in prayer
Pieces on your stomp bebop don’t burn the bedrock
In the room, rook on the board
Laconically talk to our forthcoming rights
To governance and growth, growing with each prayer
I learn how to pray for less sadness, and more eternalness
Moreover, we need you to be happy about having children
Christ in heaven looks on your soul with affection
The light baptizes the sacrosanct boy, and the girl I’ve known all my life
Is now praying with me and taking me to church

— The End —