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The sound of thunder - red
3 50%
From the smae mouth as a eulogy - navy
3 50%
I Caught You Spirit-moth! Now Give Me Your Gold! - green
0 0%
Spicy - purple
0 0%
Voters: 6.
#1
The sound of thunder

a hush;

the stars decay,
spilling mercury on cataracts
like aurora borealis.
the sky turns comatose,
and for a second,
the world becomes stagnant.

but you quiver.

the clouds are choked
without a murmur.

and then, an arabesque;

two trains coalesce
with the grind of twisted metal
and the sound of railway sleepers.
suddenly, the earth shivers,
and for a second,
the air tastes arid.

and then it all ends
with a hush;

hush.

there's something beautiful about a storm:
the way it leaves your face weathered,
feeling like tangerine skins;
the way it leaves the air smelling
so threadbare and stale;
the way it feels like the world could end
at any moment with the sound of thunder,
and a dismal, haunting hush.

and there's something so incredibly comforting
about knowing that it didn't.



From the same mouth as a eulogy

Breached from Augustine climbs,
clasped palms systematically perforate
pin-
holes for presbyter masses.
Wanting to glide my fingers across your thighs in
church, and
waiting for the whisper to
stop.
She moves like the sea;
a perception so inclined to continue with tides.
It’s nothing but a sentiment, a shallow
measurement of adulation,
the concentration of raindrops in a puddle
as a sign of unification;
I’m only here because she is.
I balance the looks to my sides, once left to
pretend the life is falling out the sky, twice right to
catch a glimpse and smile at
some lady sharing lemon sherbets to pass the time.
For me
existence is a chequer board of
nights and days, where
destiny with human for pieces plays;
for I still cant reason why I’m here,
I wasn’t looking for saviour here behind this soapbox,
but she found me anyway.



I Caught You Spirit-moth! Now Give Me Your Gold!

I followed a pair of wings through a magnified memory, taking note in my ears of
Falling hemlocks, birch bark, and oaks,
As they beat the dust out of the dry leaves and smelled of cinnamon.
[They reminded me of soaked forest moons]
Half-hearts hanging like shrouds covering menagerie twinkle – nothing else could
Be heard that night.
I watched again as the flutter darted and I snapped under the pressure of the solstice,
Still howling, still tasting, lips still puckered,
Still feeding off the deceased wing beat,
And I sense the sky still weeping, still throbbing, sun kissing me asleep.



Spicy

My words are losing relevancy. I turn short stories into screenplays because the American public needs imagery. I lose interest, contrast, and comparisons. Painting pictures on canvas but only using different shades of gray. {Not truly that effective}. I didn’t paint, I wrote about me painting and hoped that would create a picture {It doesn’t} I’ve lost the people. People want pictures and I’ve never been able to draw. What does that make me a failure, or a loss of life? So I talk. I persuade people to change their views because of the loss of an education. You have an opinion and I change that to mine. Throwing oil companies, political terms, and ethnic backgrounds you have no opinion on. You lose, relevant or not. I’m not right, I’m wrong, but I prove your wrong so that makes me right. I shed guilt through pores of shame and money. Making you feel that tension until you break and lose your free speech cause you really don’t know what to say. I’m the anti-republic. I’m the lobbyist twelve year old who has an opinion on the way Mrs. DuPhree teaches her class. She’s losing enthusiasm and needs the flask {Burns all the way down}. I feed on indecision. Volume, more volume, bass. All you hear is those hundred year old doors moving. I record the conversation and you watch the reel roll, it’s the only thing you’re completely aware of. {I attack}. I watched discovery when I was eight and learned of predation and the will to survive, survival of the fittest. I incorporate that into every day life. I’m the legal murderer who gives you the new stack on life. Your life is a loss, and I just made them more evident. .
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
#5
I wasn't sure if I was awake.
As I stumbled around my house,
I only saw an unfamiliar shade


and began coughing air out.
The room echoed and mirrored
it. I was frightened by the sound.


I remembered the smell of sugar
and bitter pangs on my tongue
but I couldn't recall it's color.


Specks floated weightless and spun
and like me, the clock seemed dazed
for it's hands slowed as if stunned.


I then grasped for a broom and swept all day
But when the dustpan was full, the room was still gray.