Poll: Apple Cinnamon Cheerios = King. This is not a democracy. It is a cheerocracy.
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View poll results: Apple Cinnamon Cheerios = King. This is not a democracy. It is a cheerocracy.
lipgloss love and broken rubber eraser flirtation
0 0%
this king of machines.
2 15%
I Have Kissed Bayonets.
8 62%
Sun Bears Pre-Quills [Spine 3 of 9]
2 15%
Off-center
1 8%
Voters: 13.
#1
lipgloss love and broken rubber eraser flirtation

we met unconventionally by accident,
for the boy behind the screams, holding beating sticks
and a virgin soul. unappreciation never
looked so sincere. you smiled shy and red. i wonder how
it tastes; lipgloss love and rasberry tongues.
I am envy. we never spoke past introduction.
months get lost in time; slashes, paper cut numbers.
when the leaves were dry and footprint stained we'd meet again
and draw on marble, graphite implications.
empty portfolios, unfinished art, broken rubber eraser flirtation.
it would end. scribbles through my name on that case that
you carry; all your mind survives me. sticky palms
holding electronic bounds, sending your box
a ringing sound. a tongue making common sensical
noises, advising your face of adoration.
but i never say what i want to say. your smile
is still a grey scale photo, a colored taste, graphed
out unsmudgable in lonely hopeful memories.



this king of machines.

this king of machines,
wed seventeen times to the cobblestone streets,
wrapped his pedigree wounds in saline tourniquets.
his crutch of snakes,
lips split with somnolence, lowered him into his grave.
an eighteenth skeletal angel eclipsed these failed ribs.
her aura sentenced the crow's feet to the gallows.
perforated, she would still outshine the brightest of purples.

when she opened her mouth, her words would slide out
through her lips like ribbons,
and they'd suture stiletto wounds in his anaemic lungs.
derailed by whispers, he would speak in anagrams:
disguised as a cypher, his words would read:
"i'm in love."

this king of machines
severed seventeen nooses with the guillotine.
but she faltered; trees grabbed at her ankles and lashed at her throat.
this one-eyed serpent,
restless in malachite, she breathed like a cavalcade;
her marbled desires had turned themselves into forked tongues,
and for this, she sentenced herself to the gallows.
her womb became unshackled once again, and she was free.

and the crows would peck at the hole in her neck
until she fell to ribbons,
and they'd syphon the warmth from inside his anaemic lungs.
her atonement proved lachrymal, and he wept cryptography.
his tears were deciphered, and they read:
"i'm in love."

this king of machines
wed eighteen times to the guillotine.
the dagger became a source of escape,
and he whispered his last words to its blade:
"i'm in love."



I Have Kissed Bayonets.

There is something incredibly appealing about cigarettes. I can't really explain it, but whenever I see someone leave a restaurant to take a smoke, I feel like they're superior to me. Anyone that can use a product that has a huge label warning that said product causes lung cancer (subsequently leading to death) and still uses it has balls. I mean, he's a badass. There's a social aspect to it, as well. I don't smoke, I'd never think about smoking, but even I know the rule: If you have a lighter, and are letting someone bum a smoke off of you, you light theirs first. However, if you're using a match, you light yours first, because there's a ton of sulfur and shit coming off that match, and you inhale it rather than them. It's almost romantic. I'd light a match and light mine first. At first she might think I'm rude, but I'd explain it to her, and she would thank me for being so thoughtful. And we would both die on the same deathbed, making love like cigarettes. And I take one final drag, and extinguish myself in a brunette ashtray.



Sun Bears Pre-Quills [Spine 3 of 9]
What if the spindles and threads that
Made up our dove-print pillows and stain-glass beds [Sorry]
Didn’t stop each time they finished sewing a contemporary beauty. [But]
String me up with braids and web and your arms—
Well then, we might sit next to each other perpetually rocking, [Do]
If we’re quiet then the willows and robins won’t glimpse us—
Well then, String me up before I fall this far and melt into the carpet,
String me up with legs and your neck and your arms—
What if the spindles and threads that [know]
Make up our crow-print pillows and stain-glass beds [you?]
Didn’t stop each time they finished sewing a contemporary us. [Do]
String me up with your gasp and your chest and your arms—
Well then, we might just figure out that we need each other
To keep our bodies shivering and to keep our clothes so innocently pretty. [Really?]



Off-center

Nightingales caught in the wind,
with snow-capped wings,
plummet like hope.
Two indents pressed
to pallid cheeks,
anemic, frail,
waiver in the breeze,
feint indifference
like sun-stroke sails.

When commitment is a ring,
beauty is tied in a gown.


Like pedals drowned
in the stream
and as a sleeve
caught in the thorns
we will cement wings
and paint ourselves
in the image of birds.
Valiant attempts at escape.
These portraits capture
us in embrace
perfection.
#9
Quote by punchupatatigge
shutup synth

more votes.


What is your problem?

Whenever someone expresses like/dislike for something that you don't necessarily agree with, you tell them to shut up.

They can voice their opinion in here, it's the point of a competition. It's not steering the vote one way or the other.

Cheer up, it's a silly comp. on a silly forum.
#12
i realize that i was being offensive.

i apologize synth, for i hath sinned.

retribution, your observations of my personality flaw leads me to say these words
shut up
Last edited by punchupatatigge at Feb 23, 2007,