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ChoicesThe curtains are drawn; the smoke lingers from the previous cigarette. Far too many today. The glass sticky, the whiskey kissing the ice and here you are again. The same old, same old dusty shit and you're alone, always alone. The nights are forever the same. You suck at the glass as you drink, bite down. The days melt into the night without warning, like the ice in your sixth drink of the day. The light fades, the rain falls and here you are again.Choices
Desperation can be a beautiful thing, it can change you, give you that ultimate cathartic moment that you
by ~pink-bullet
What is poetry?Poetry is the addict The alcoholic And the whore He drinks the words And asks for more She is the rhythm UpWhat is poetry?
Up
Down &nbs
by ~pink-bullet
PassionThe light breaks in shafts, sections across carpets and tables, as he waits to begin but then stops himself. He shakes as he dreams, as the music pours into his ears then out his mouth. It’s all recycled. He wants to make her feel, that doesn’t mean she will. He begins. Slow. Her body stiff, she can’t move because her mind forces her still, quiet. He moves over her, faster now. He wants her to make sounds so he tugs at her. Her eyes grow wide, but she still doesn’t speak, or moan, or move. Friction forces its way between themPassion
by ~pink-bullet
A tentative memory 10Light The light it quivers and refracts, while chasing objects in its playful vibrance. A crescendo of colour, giving life, the mother of a beautiful calm dawn. A tenuous illumination of the earth, its sons and daughters. Dramatic, theatrical, in its glow. This is a light that breathes birth at sunrise in crystal shimmers and diamond symmetry. It chimes and plucks its strings, its shafts of light, like an instrument, musing in a new day, scintillant in the sky. The light, it shines, illuminating all the jewels of the garden, the emerald grass and ruby petals, the glass deA tentative memory 10
by ~pink-bullet
Favourites
Tender Is The RSVPClocks don’t tick anymore Not like those old-fashionedTender Is The RSVP
Mahogany stained Punctually pained Dongs I’d hear at my grandmother’s. But god I wish they did.
I know the hands fixate On my fixate They anxiously bolt as though irate But only when I am not looking! When I want it to last forever It just won’t.
But right now, right here, I know who I am Developed by some curricular scam I shroud the pile of disapprovals Or fantasise the class removal And visualise you as the hub, The ebbing core of love.
Your overlong speeche
by ~QuotidianAubergine
Smushby ~DeadEyedDoll
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Falmouth
- Interests: poetry, prose, music, film, drink, smokes
- Favourite movie: Secretary/Amelie
- Favourite band or musician: Radiohead, Ani Difranco, The Smiths
- Favourite genre of music: Anti-Folk, Electronica
- Favourite poet or writer: William Blake/Angela Carter/Arthur Nersesian/Iain Banks/F Scott Fitzgerald/Bret Easton Ellis
- Favourite photographer: Henri Cartier-Bresson/Manray
- MP3 player of choice: Creative/ Sony Walkman
- Tools of the Trade: Cigarette ash, imagination, oh and a PEN
- Email: jerbiltea@gmail.com
- MSN: jenfar@gmail.com
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Hope you have a great time here
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Insanity on a silver platter.
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~it's always best in the lion's den~
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