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So Young Yet So Childish
Written by: mmm... ice

And as we walked she said
Dear we reek of sex and caviar
As I replied we were soaked by chamapgne rain
I only managed to mutter well we should be caged

Don't say you care because only I do
Don't remember me i'm easily forgetable
I'm a poet who is deaf, dumb and blind
I was left standing for a while so I turned and decided to melt

And if you would like to know
I was surprised at the calmness of this broken man
It shocked me more then killed me
But I still can't blink and breathe

But believe me I did it because you shouldn't know
But I still like you just not as much as anyother
I find it funny that you walked out like that
You didn't need to I would have held the door

And honey dear tell my friend to come on up
Ignore us we'll be swell, dandy and fine
You have to go out give me my independence
It's just you can't see us together
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

I am Painting and Annette is an Artist
Written by: ScarredFaith

There's a place between the hostess stand
And table three
Where I used to hold Annette's hand
The consequences be damned
And it is true
That I was bold, once
When she was cold I would hand her my coat
And suffer in the winter air
And if I ever shivered it was because of her
Well, I saw Annette yesterday
She came into work to talk to a friend of hers
But I am not a friend
I am a mural of a memory of what it was like to be cold
And have someone care enough
To shiver for you

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Dead or Dreaming
Written by: LOOKtheskyfell!

Every night when I lay my head these silhouettes won?t let me rest
They toss and turn into my dreams they make me see they?re good enough for me
They catch themselves within the brook that handles my hair and cuddles my books
With words and phrases that I don?t mean and imperfect conceptions of the birds and the bees

And every night in my dreams these little vermin run around
Making sounds and going down in history as one of the scariest sights in town

Then every day when I wake up, I smell the scent of love
Because when you?re dead or dreaming, there?s no one you can trust

Every room across the earth is colored the same shade of s.hit
And all the children from Juno to Perth are convinced that ghosts don?t exist
Well you try falling for a moving target, a girl who dates in the grocery market
A derailed train insane in the brain with a passionate kiss to make a couch a tryst
And then you?ll see that ghosts are real and monsters too can make you feel
Sometimes and somewhere, somehow and someway
These little thoughts will escape on a subway
And jump aboard a suicide car soon to enter your head and exit my heart
This is what was determined right from the start when I kissed her on the cheek and I kissed her hard

And every night in my dreams these fairies wave their wands
Making fantasies out of wishes and skyscrapers out of swamps

Then every day when I wake up, I smell the scent of death
Because when you?re dead or dreaming, there?s only false living left

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Breath and Cigarettes
Written by: Ad*Astra

The most graceful thing I'd ever met,
slender, out of breath and cigarettes.
In the dark, whispering phantoms
from her cold and die cut silhouette,
she says, "I've got a few regrets
I wouldn't trade for the world."

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Marrow Ocean
Written by: rushmore

When the ship started sinking; we were there holding our
lunch boxes, skipping stones, talking about staying a float
and we didn't know why our tongue tied declarations came
out sounding like hot air balloons deflating, but someone
told us to stop shooting shit and get our bodies on deck.

So we commandeered the tugboat in the middle of a marrow
ocean anchored with empty bones tied to telephone poles
connecting the north and south dakotas but no one else in between.
Tin can telephones, wrinkled roots with no mouths just beaks
holding up the trees, steadfast and easy, you won't last trust me its freezing.
A petticoat dreams of stitched seams but all you've got is rags and
thread but no needles just limbs that you've forgotten how to use.
So you sit all day pretending life is a contest and that you're winning
but really you're just waiting
for someone to sweep you off your feet.

Duck your head before the drawbridge because we're drawing close
and the archers are shooting with bullets not arrows.
Hallelujah its easier said than done,
searching for salvation not seeking revenge is the best way to waste your life.
So come sit here with me and think about nothing before the
plane starts crashing or the
ship starts sinking or you waste anymore of your life alone.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Trading Blows for Highway Crashes
Written by: We Have Sound

A cocaine explosion rocks the delicately structured back alleys,
and an epic battle ensues.
Flames lick the snow and tender toxic fumes spread wide.
Take a deep breath. Prepare for heaven.
But don't die yet.
Lay back under sweet sweet blankets of unconsciousness.
Watch the black sun and the black sky fight,
for control of the contrast.
For your focus. Give it. Raging demons crush the panorama,
and the stand off ends,
with neither side capturing colour.
Sea blue, see red, watch the flames lick. Lick.
This Mr. Hyde takes a bite of the steroid ridden love machine,
and ends up loving love itself, in a very violent attack.
Spin circles in dust with white fingers.
Try and fathom the place your mind lingers.

Can't work it out say **** **** where am I? Watch the orange.
Peel. Like, away, at the broken skin. Skeeeeen.
**** I said shiiit, gotta come up, gotta surface.

A submarine's ups and downs make you sick,
but you don't remember.
Sail the sea looking for a lost memory,
but its buried on the island not marked "X".
It shouldn't be hard to find.
It's the only one.

This angel wears his tuxedo like a cloak of light,
and fights evil all around the globe, all over sky.
He fights satan in an astral boxing ring
and wins round after round after round.
Thoughs of the afterlife. Oh my, we're in trouble now.
God throws junkies out of heaven like rats,
like rats.
So crawl around on all fours and beg for forgiveness,
while around you the city works,
its after-dark allure keeping many ill faithed citizens awake.
The scum walk the trade routes,
pass judgement on the product. This, now this,
this is what we would call a problem.
Hear the noises.
Bring her up, captain.

Pilot the craft with care, i said care, you know. I told you not to burn her out,
and now it hurts, man, **** it hurts. Things come back slowly,
like rising out of the dark pitch and **** all I know now is this hurts.
Sounds like cars drive into my ears and, damn, its loud.
But I don't wanna lose this now baby, don't wanna sink again.
I'm cold, cold like the concrete against my cheek. Eyes, check,
we have visual. This is dank. man, dank.

Gotta get up. Can't stay here, no no no. Got stuff to do, you know ?
Gotta get out, about, anywhere.

Gotta find the next hit, so I can sink all over again.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Written by: Peeno

WordsLetters, symbols
fall apart in the wake of
the sun. Days gone undone
(suddenbreath), for some.

Hardened on the cold ground
by a Moon's wonderful love.
brought to Life by morninglight
:hopefull, bright.

Parchd to dust, figure retains
by ultraRed stars of noon.

Falling apart in the wake, again.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Feast of the Necromancer
Written by: Daemonika

The Doorkeeper whispered a wise word in my ear
but the beating of the timpanis muffled them.
They became no more than an annoying haze
of forgotten days. Wellsmen bore holes in to
the ground, searching for the water they
hadn’t seen before. I lifted an eyebrow at their practices,
not because they were bad, but because they existed.

A bird flew from a blue bush, a burning bush, a dying bush.
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, said the priest, although
he was looking elsewhere. He had his gaze skyward,
expectant for a miracle. It never came; do they ever when they’re asked for?

The green sea sank below the horizon, hidden by mountains,
snowy and tall. The Masked Marauder on a red horse flew
with a flaming sword in its hilt. I could smell
his charring flesh as he went by. It was appetising.
From the cave, dark as night, the beast emerged, white fangs
dripped blood, thick, upon the rocky ground. The Masked Marauder
pulled out his sword and swung it at the neck of the beast, severing
its head from its body. The Doorkeeper whispered again,
and this time I heard what he said.
He said, The smartest men are the men who can play fools
and never be noticed; they are smart men.

The wishing well was overflowing and the Wellsmen celebrated,
drinking themselves to near-death. The deceased rose up
and jumped and sang. On top of the highest mountain
the Widowmaker sneered. ‘Twas a black smile,
and his snake-tongue licked the cold air.
His child had been felled by a fool on a red horse.
What greater warning for a God-fearing people than a dead priest
on the church steps?
The Widowmaker sat patiently, waiting, until the celebrations ceased
and the priest locked up the church.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

My Name is Henry Thomas
Written by: SixTwentySeven

He said
"Hey, man.
My name is Henry Thomas."

There was something
In the way he said,
"I'm not from around here"
that told me he was.
He said
"My car...
Broke down."
His eyes made
A perfect circle
Through the back of his mind

"I'm just looking
For a little something
To get me out of here."

I handed him less than a dollar in change, and thought
"You and me both."

Yeah, you and me both, Hank.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Muffled Snakes Coil Into Rocks
Written by: NevermorePsalm

I once fell down and discovered the other side of the earth
But I only thought of it as a learning experience
As we only grow due to the scrapes on our knees
And we only learn to hum because of the bee's
Although I then thought of all the birds
And came to the conclusion I've never had that talk
So I sowed shut my mouth and died,
Just as we began to walk.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Written by: Alk 3 addict

I climbed up a street lamp,
to sit on the top.
Reassuring myself with
"Hey, you're now fifteen feet
closer to the stars."
Stars that I could hardly see,
no one turns their lights out
in suburbia.

Maybe I don't want to be
an astronaut, anyways,
I'm just tired of the routines
and, well, this place.

I tie my shoes to the lamp
and promise that tomorrow,
I'll climb right back up,
but my memory's never been
too reliable. I'll probably just sleep,
that's all I'm capable of, now.

I guess I'd rather sit and dream,
than see the planets, first-hand.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

I Hate Tourists
Written by: NGD1313

So I spent this last week away from home
Someplace foreign, I guess
If you could call it that

The sun was unbearable
I don't know why people like it so much
All it ever does is kill you anyway

The people were even worse
Why is it so crazy that I didn't live there?
We can't all live in the same place

I suppose it's interesting when someone who's seen something you haven't shows up
I don't get it, but they did, you can bet they did
I hate tourists

I spent six hours on a plane
There wasn't any screaming babies or slutty stewardesses
I don't believe everything I see in movies anyway

When I got back, my whole family was waiting
This girl I'm sorta in love with was there, she was crying
She's pretty when she cries

I asked her what was wrong, she said she'd missed me
Can't imagine why she did though
It's not like I'm all that great

Everyone else had questions
"Was the weather ok?"
"Did you see any sights?"
"How was your flight?"
I didn't get what the big fuss was about
I suppose it's interesting when someone who's seen something you haven't shows up
But I didn't answer any of their questions
I hate tourists
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Written by: Jammydude44

We'd spent our time together,
with cement-covered hands
and trowels and mixers
building our wall, brick by brick.
We had taken down the
scaffolding poles and planks-
the wall was finished;
they held no use.

Into summer, when the sun
caresses the sky into
a warming smile, our wall
stood proudly amongst others.
They were just pretenders
compared to ours, we thought.

Predictably, the thunderstorms
came, blustering and pounding
upon the solid stature. Exploding
in the sky, cannoning, destroying
what we'd crafted together. The
aftermath left us open mouthed.

Neither of us moved to fix it.
I saw you stare, as I did, at the
large pile of rubble on the ground.
It remained like that for many months;
passers-by flashing a rue smile
at our obvious, poor workmanship.

I spoke first- let's rebuild.

So having learned from past mistakes
we built this wall with better bricks,
and many storms have blown and gone
but our wall stands, now tall and strong.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Poem on the Back of Your Wallet Photograph
Written by: *Truly Ninja*

I am sure you would appreciate
That you hold my place in books.
After all, I always attempted to woo
You with the written word.

What I won't admit is this:
Every time you tumble from the pages
Onto my bedsheets, I softly pinch the
Corner and I lift you to my lips.

Your cautious smile overtook me
Once, and I did it without thinking.
I've always done it since--Tradition
Mingled with dying desire.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

On California
Written by: pixiesfanyo

tether awkward glances
above a satisfied reprise.
i cut my futures out of paper.
placed them into a river bed.
cast line into my prospects.
but my father keeps taking my hand,
his breath heavy with cheap beer
and saturated fats.
his fingers over mine
guiding that feeble line
i clutch with blushed palms.

switch to a crowded dinner table.
i itch in uncontrollable lonesome.
packaging letters in my mind.
the conversations around me
reek of politics and pop culture
but, i’m just counting days
until i see yr chicory frame.
would you write me back
and tell me what it is like to be in love?
because stale liquors and broken tabs
only seem to go so far.

i have my knees curled to my chest
with ease on the dock.
my hands ripe with labor
feeling faded in yet another summer’s
endless choke.
my eyes heavy with stray change
i sit making paper crowns
from torn fates with my feet
dipped in an endless pond
of my own construction.

wondering if my reel has been spent
like a boy, if i let that catch back to sea.
and with baited hooks
i trace every moon line
hoping to forget myself
in the amusement of tasks.
but every evening my rod lays in reflection.
laid in empty harbors
my own lace of self entrapment unravels
and i stare doe-eyed into my desolation.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

The Little Things Controlled by the Breeze
Written by: Trig Function

The smoke swayed with the bend of the waves
I felt stranger in the warmth of the days.
Hard to breathe, can't believe
I saw my eyes floating in the crest of the reeds.

But maybe, if i began to see
the little things controlled be the breeze
I'd know, willows can swirl
next to the hazy tides of the world.

And in deep, far beneath
I watched my body fall away with the sea.
Beat down, tossed around
I didn't feel pain until I'd already drowned.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

The Chiffarobe
Written by: Chak

He was haunted with an overbearing
commitment to make me feel worthless.
A joker amongst kings, their collars
studded with beryl and corundum. He
felt empowered, fueled with synthetic
freedom, but everything he touched
turned immediately to stone. More
gray then the mourning of the Sun,
but if its light warms my skin perhaps
I can retain a shred of hope.

I have yet to see this compromise
that holds me captive to uncertainty.
And I already held more guilt than
I could handle, struck with the chord
of fragrant restraint. His anger felt the
mark of scrutiny, townspeople fretted in
obligatory hunger for the truth. But loyalty
proves more powerful than honesty. A
pinprick mapping the base of my spine
sends signals for my hair to stand on end.

I was in awe. His shadow proved more
enchanting than my father’s unrequited
respect. He was the faith in which I granted
my cautious attention. Wanted in a world I did
not belong. He made me feel like the most
translucent of diamonds, felt patterns within
my soul and reflected them through starlight.
I felt breathless, invincible. Immersed in the
compliance of my naivety, which I overcame with
error in my ways. And I became a traitor that day.

Regret thudded hard against my ribcage.
Bruised. And I looked past my father to truth,
where my answer predictably fell short.
I condemned him to a life that was undeserved,
cast him into the shadow of shame. My failure
is refracted within the barrel of a gun, used to
destroy acceptance among people I could never
know. Strangers, not quite friends, in which
I trusted more than blood.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Written by: The Hurt Within

I stood. A luminary.
Against a viscous tide of shallow breaths
smut rolls wonder from a tableau -
attentive eyes cater a silent pyre
in crest-fallen skies,
while cantering souls lead past a simoniac
gifting Ayin Ha'ra to spurious followers.

I knelt. In twilight.
Upon schema-conduits of barren soles,
Khamsin winds scour laden plains -
committed minds cater a boundless pyre
in downcast hearts,
while cantering souls present a sacrifice
- with extremis apt - to the edge of Hell's throat.

I leapt. A martyr.
Towards the uncharted depths of Earth's crux
Gehenna's limbs entwine my body -
destined fingers cater an infinite pyre
with expectant reach,
while cantering souls lift future offerings
above the smouldering sands, ready to let go.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

Written by: Bassbeat77

I'd been found in a flood once before,
but I came out herringbone dry.
With a flatter line than the Arctic horizon,
and a deeper soul than the faultline dividing,
I had felt like I could walk amongst
the sea snails forever.

Then Summer came as an infernal wave,
tipping and toe-ing and taking it's time,
blowing it's whistle to speed things along.
Spreading kisses like dried cement,
and too self-righteous for it's own good.

It lifted me out of my algal residency,
where salt and salty sentiments
were what I brought into my lungs.
Where longitude and latitude
were the only blueprints that I needed
to build castles out of sand bars
and not-so-hidden treasure.

Until finally I choked. And since then
every Summer has made me wish
that maybe my hindsight wasn't 20/20.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

The End
Written by: less than that

out of sight on my mind
duct taped over Check Engine light.
all the street signs in this town
say the same thing "Get Out"
not now, not now.

foolhardy fugue to visit you
feels like I have to sneeze when I don't want to.

back to the daily grinding my teeth.
chew a new hole through my tongue.
blood on the windshield; where did it come from?
the sun gets all spun around as I
try to take the guardrail down.

triple A, my mom, the police,
they'll all come and make the scene.
but for now I'm part of a peculiar peace
no broken glass or bones
what do you know? what do you know? what do you know?

wonder if what's wrong with us is contagious.
sit and listen to the radiator's rattlesnake hiss
then check to see how bad it is.

front of the car like the
end result of a trick cigar.
its contorted metal
gets me all pseudocidal.
something green drips into the street.
I stare for a while at the DieHard battery
then call you to say I'm not coming.
I know an omen when I see one.

glad it however hapless happened
the best bad idea I ever had.

the calm collapse of the anticlimax.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

and I drift away
Written by: Alk 3 addict

From this height, the ocean looked as a sheet, slightly ruffled. Reminding me that I hadn't had a restful night in ages. It is this hot air balloon, the color of a wilted rose, that carries me out over the abyss, they never said that adventure had to be carried out in style. Then I cut it from the clouds, a portrait of beauty and salvation, and wrapped myself in a dirty blanket. I figured that I would, at least for tonight, let life take me where it would. I shut my eyes, and drift towards the sounds of a west-bound breeze, like a voiceless choir and a faceless future. Dreams lost all shape, and became scribbles upon clouds, basking inches above my head. It was the fingerless man playing violin in front of a crowd of three thousand, the blind man finding freedom through surrender, the rubble of a city being juxtaposed into a makeshift miracle, the golden ring placed on the finger of a skeletal bride, yet I just could not grasp the plot of this story. Suddenly like the impact of a bullet it struck me, as my eyes jerked open just in time to watch the air around me ignite. I'm sure that from the shore I looked like a star, burning brightly, the most beautiful thing I could have ever imagined. A jet-stream of blue and white flame, and it is the end.
This is not a pipe

Written by: #1 synth

I, capitalized, full
I, looking like a snowfall as I come crying,
Gazing at your feet,
I need a savior, someone strong, someone invisible,
I, groveling inside a neighborhood, licking my lips inside a city,
I, silent inside a man holding a megaphone outside of planned parenthood,
I, sinew, cells, and fate,
I, immaculate-- impossible to--
"Amazing the lightning is dont you think?"
I pour down as the thunder after wonderment,
Listen to me then, echoeing off the mountains, off the churches and fountains,
I smell like the day before a breakup, rich with mildew, cold and dirty.

My clothing is getting so heavy with mold that I'm finding it harder to fly.

I, underneath a state, an ocean, a lover panting hard (a dream),
I, underneath a bow, a bow, and a bow of a ship as it roars
Across the fairgrounds in tight circles,
I, the words needed to accurately describe--
I and a miraculous sunset, holding hands into the inevitable.

I, the opposite... of what? Life is to being forgotten.
Sunrise is to death and everything else is to a kiss.

I, that kiss, I, under your foot, yep, there we are.
I, the smile of knowing where we are, at the corner of 20th and stark,
Indefinite, lost in a thunderstorm.
This is not a pipe

Awaiting Exile (Parting with This Auburn Sky) - Writing of the Week
Written by: Z_cup_boy

This silver blade speaks each dissonant phrase
In place of where we would intertwine as lovers
Limbs breathing the same leaves
Kissing the lips tinted of the reddest wine
Each tip serving as a spear
Each incision as a counting finger for time
The depth of all daylight mirrors a tainted slab of flesh
Pest ridden, discriminated against the cleanest carcass I could kill
Death did I intend?
I think not, for I have yet to cleans these hands
As I await exile, I have never felt so damned
Excreting the salt in my wound; I am an infant
Immersed into the beauty of this day after dusk
The darkness after twilight
As I await exile
To part with this auburn sky
This is not a pipe

24 14 4+4+6 2 1 sonnet 1 2 6+4+4 14 24
Written by: Gurgle!Argh!

i tore through the fabric concealing this clock.
oh hands i forgot, oh quick marching step,
sixth harshad times met, a moment at rest,
that moment most blessed when hands interlock.

i pulled at its hands and hoped they might give,
that time does not live, but is bound to our pull,
that the beat may be null, that hands may be wrought,
thus 'gainst time i fought, to dissonance omit.

but iron once wrought will be wrought no more
and fabric once torn will always be scarred.
times unsleeping pull, it always pulls on,
with a force which endures, unmoved by our lore.
so i'll count out each moment across these fanned hands,
til hands may be one, now thru time's accord.
This is not a pipe

Perilous Machine
Written by: we have sound

I can't hear a word you are saying
above the noise of this perilous machine
winging its way cross country.
What a travesty.
Agencies to the alliance, we engage in diplomacy with
"Let's stop and ****!" and
"Not yet baby, I'm ballin' this jack another hundred"
but we stop and **** anyway,
just to kill time.
But the loud pedal aches and the country is barren so
soon enough, we're back on the road again.
Not a piss stop, and not maritime baby this is a real motor,
and what a noise.
Straight and true, no swaying here,
just a gaping cavernous wonderful powerful grill,
eating up the miles.
I watch the white lines flash past for a while,
grab a beer from the back
and you give me that look - but it's hot and I'm thirsty
and what I say goes.
I juggle the can and wheel like an acrobat,
lob the empty, watch the scenery.
Heat haze like an angels halo around a cross
high up on the rocks. Trust the Spanish.
If a girl fell from those rocks and split her head,
I reckon you'd see soul.
This is not a pipe

Foxy Foxy & Rory Have Their First Kiss
Written by: Something_Vague

He'll pack up and pack out, he's an
artist who spells his name "Are test."
He's a prince who spells his name
"Prints." Coughed up like folded
paper, he'll pay her with
origami swans, stories about
Tokyo streets and transparent
women who died in their sleep
and loved in his arms.

Rory's first kiss was in the third grade.
Ever since then he's been building
walls with his "ABC" blocks
and the only thing big enough
to look over is his own
sky high ego. All the while my grin
is so admirable the teeth from my
tiger cut falsies, are stained
pearly, pearly red. And the blemish
on my laugh is a gaping horizon,
swallowing every plane and bird
that he throws in the air.

Rory is thinking about the last time
he honestly loved someone. I know it from the
crystal glimmer in his silly stare. That
over-due whimper between the bite and
bone. Pay her with folded paper.
Foxy Foxy legs, and Foxy Foxy limbs,
Foxy Foxy climbs and Foxy Foxy lives.
Foxy Foxy teeths, and Foxy Foxy mouths
Foxy Foxy eats and
Foxy Foxy ****s out.
This is not a pipe

Written by: NGD1313

I’ve bled the stone of prosperity in a lonely alleyway
And stained my hands red, painting a peaceful town.
Killed a Tokyo Rose because her sallow lips were bringing me down.
I stumbled down the courtyard calling my God’s name,
And kissed the Virgin Mary
Because her hallowed hips couldn’t bear my pain.
Drank Christ's blood for 40 days
And christened myself a God-damned saint.
This is not a pipe

Gallows Humor
Written by: less than that

Shut up. Let me finish.

I hadn't had dinner yet;
Sucked down cigarettes instead
to the filters, warmth ate its way
down to my fingers:
Replacement addictions.

Shut up, I said.

My hate's so hard.
Rocks in my pockets,
stones in the souls of my shoes.
I heard the good news-
still I let my laugh crack,
cackle through the gallows.
Silence -- Impassible.

and your words come to me as wounded birds
sex smile. bedroom eyes. kissing my hands.
I know where I stand.

wounded birds
stupid and beautiful

Shut up, I said
Shut up shut up shut up.
This is not a pipe

The Circle Re-Connects
Written by: BigFatSandwich

At first it all seemed heaven-sent,
But you haven't seen heaven since
He took your hand and mislead you down the aisle.
Blue eyed girl in the long white dress,
Your head's not right and your heart's a mess,
And it's been that way for such a long while.
You're always looking for love where love doesn't exist
In bars and beds under strangers' hips
And accepting all their lies as the truth.
Well, it's a false sense of security, but it's security, nonetheless...
So what is she supposed to do when insecurities get the best
Of her? She's only human, just like me and you,
So of course she broke down when she first got the news.
But I can't fault you, you did what you had to do.
You decided to keep it and keep him with you.

And those first few weeks were happiness
And no one can deny...
But he couldn't love you
He didn't have the time.

He's not what you need,
Just a figure of a father.
So you left him and then
Gave birth to your daughter.

And you'll raise her by yourself, you don't need him to love her
But oh my god, you've become your mother.
Your mother, your mother, you've become your mother,
Your mother, your mother, you're just like your mother.
This is not a pipe

Written by: Carmel

At mornings, going past
the same eroded homeless man that
disagrees with this idea
of him; he has a bin to keep
his clothes in, and he fumbles
when by his bench, on the corner of the square,
there are students, or some other
section of society, demonstrating
over this or that.
And I’m passing by, on the way
to higher education, higher population;

And I drink out with my friends, listen
when they say, “You see too much.”
I laugh and then I stop. I say:
“Sometimes I wish I was
more blind.”
I wouldn’t mind not seeing
the homeless man,
crying for his clothes, after
the sanitation people came and took away
everything he owned,
when he was driven away,
away from his home,
by student asking for
better human rights.
This is not a pipe

Waxman and the Museum of Wicks
Written by: Snowblind 911

the pretty waxmen
and their flawless, aching smiles.
picture perfect postures caricatured
on pin-up perceptions.

we place feathers under
candle kings like we place the
madcap over the face
of a newly crowned widow and
her faded red finger-painted dress.
even though the children
can’t fashion pieces so full of
unabashed emotion we’re happy
to force smiles and label them modern Picassos
anyway. and then we wonder why the
walls end up painted in blood.

chickens have feathers.

ironic? probably not.
This is not a pipe

flutterby butterfly
Written by: Arthur Curry

your limbs, your skin, my water wings,
and do you know words were made to sing?
planetary dust makes a planetary ring.

a thousand cocoons make me nervous,
and you're my sunday morning service;
when the choir sings they tickle me and burst open.

they burst and they go,
circling my soul.
small explosions in me,
x-rays of a firework show.

now i see me in your eyes,
staring at you, staring at me;
stars are reachable and ripe.

i think this is what it feels like to die.
i mean i hope this is what it feels like to die.
This is not a pipe

Written by: Grovermans

i think it was the unusual juxtaposition
of my relative sobriety, and the rest of the room's
inebriated stupor that caused me to realize
just how ****ed up this world can be, filled
to the neck with so much meaningless matter,
like a bottle of cheaply brewed,
but expensively sold beer.
and when i was finally able to pry the cap
from its factory-blown glass neck,
i could have sworn i heard something crack
after feebly attempting to hold its own.
my first thought was that it was simply the sound
of my clockwork shifting, but i didn't break routine;
routine broke me, and i'm not sure whether it's through
some sort of newly-acquired wisdom or clarity,
or if it's merely through my own overwhelming vanity
that i've deemed myself too modest to be put back together.
so i lie here contemplating human existence,
a broken bottle spilling all my addictions
and problems on the overpriced carpeting
that covers the earth like a layer of skin.

skin; we are simply skin surrounding
a decadent structure of muscle and bone.
we are the fabric that protects the earth's
delicate hardwood floor,
but we are nothing more than that;
we don't create, we only claim
nature's inventions as our own.
the wheel was never made by man,
yet we still declare it was
forged by our hand;
there's no such thing
as true human genius,
there only exists
the fools who believe in it.
the human race is merely matter,
and i've come to the conclusion that
matter doesn't really matter at all.


Written by: Jammydude44

Curling toes between
taut socks
and hands blown
and rubbed together.
Crisp and sparse air,
dry to the touch and the tongue.
Green-white grass stands strong
in the wild winter wind.
Blue-green people fall

into foggy, misty conversation,
"it should be warmer tomorrow"
warmer but wetter we'll find.
Every ten degree turn is frozen
to the spot as the ice pane
closes in; nowhere to go,
nowhere to shuffle away to.

Outside seems a good option
than staying here, in bed,
robbed of my duvet.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.

"Christmas Western, 1917"
Written by: stellar_legs

Texted you a picture of a miseltoe that I made with my fingers.
It read: "Happenin' party happenin' at my house right now!"
I donned my best Vittorio Ray jacket, shaved dollar signs into my
sideburns, put on a Frou Frou album and chilled the red wine.
"Jesus may have been sea-sectioned into existence tonight, but he
doesn't exist, so the gettin's all mine!"
A thick skinned Post-Post-Post Hardcore/Post Rock nerd chic band played from the
living room.
They were an optomotrist's dream.
The Pot Brigade even made an appearance.
Arts and crafts with Ted.
Pictionary with Dan K. Bud.
Shedded my skin, let my gaurd down, instilled disapointment in my best
female friends and penis envy in my best guy friends:
With my Vincent Price Egg Magic kit I coated the shaft of
my **** with yuletide colors.
Rob Sheffield himself would've came to this event if it weren't just me
forcing a millenia of religous influence into a Mason jar in the cabinet while
Dayton's future sat on my furniture,
Drank my alcohol,
Used the bedrooms,
Cried over seasonal suicides from seasonal depression,
and said not one word as Arnold and Sinbad fought over the last Turbo Man
doll (coming from MY television)
while I pranced about bull****ting myself, their intelligence
and three wisemen who shot their ****ing camel in the leg
to get out of coming.
How many green and red socks was I pulling before this was all mine?
How many jobs did I work before I settled for over the Rhine?
How long does it take for eight eggnogs to transcend space and time,
expose everything I know to be false, and slap me in my bed,
Merry and fine?

Last edited by The Hurt Within at Jan 19, 2008,

The Inevitability
Written by: Daemonika

Warriors of words with their books as their weapons
wait with patience for the end. Others, with goals unfulfilled,
run around in panic, cutting circles into the mud and bones
of those they emulate. The patient ones will feel no pain.

The verisimilitude of the inevitability is what gets them the most,
with the world as yet unprepared for a man who can never pass,
forced to watch humanity waste away to nothing, until
he truly is the last man standing (cf. purgatory).

Yet, what no one can really see, we are in this together,
that the inevitability affects us all, will take us away
to somewhere full of darkness. Nyctophobes should be afraid,
but as it comes at any time, the Dorian Grays should rejoice.

There are many words for this process, yet they all inspire fear,
apart from the one mentioned twice, as it is much too vague
to be declared as solely a synonym for the word, the end.
But maybe we are yet to live, with the inevitability the beginning.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
Last edited by The Hurt Within at Jan 19, 2008,

Barcelona, Summer '07
Written by: We Have Sound

We rolled into the heart of the city,
road-mad and dirty down the wrong side of la Rambla.
And we found a bar on the beach,
sat in the sun and survived the heat,
only just.
We were free, and we drank till we cried,
with all the responsibilities of birds -
we knew we could fly if we wanted to.
But for then it was evening cocktails
still sat out by the rocks
that lead down to the water.
It was crystal clear and I
poured a little liquid in,
almost as an offering.
It swirled slowly downwards,
and radiated.

Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
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