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Voters: 6.
Vote for the best PAIR of poems.


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, fuelled 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.


Sixteen sixteens and I'm stumbling
in for more. Hoping another precious
drop of alcohol will spark up the

Boring subject.
Could have been interesting,
she just didn't know how to
teach it.
I'll re-write the books.
If Neon ****s Xenon,
we'll all do dances to Uranium's
acid dense rain.

Sixteen Spanish speeches.
My only thought:
"Donde estan los Sneeches"
I'd be a star-belly,
if Dr. Seuss was a
tatoo artist.

Twelve-point-four miles to Hell.
Michigan's too damn cold during January.
I wish I was a bear...
I'd hibernate through tomorrow.
She always told me I was special,
that I'd find the right girl someday.
Then she went and hid in her casket-
cherub, boney cheeks
grinning as she
finally sailed
the muddy

Mr. Sister

There’s a man, who,
with a ribbon in her hair
pays tribute to
overcoat cares
the moon-drenched streets, with
their parking lot peep shows
and wherever we go
he will be there
so just try to play fair
just try to pay fares

There’s this girl, who,
with a bowtie ‘round his throat
taps his cane to his shoe,
sheds her overcoat
looking for romance
and a lampost to dance ‘round
yeah, wherever that sound
is, he’s there too
so just tell him to share
just tell her to share

the trees won’t sing alone tonight
Mr. Sister breathes out moonlight
sweeps off his hat and takes a bow,
curtsies just to show the girls how
He is fine.
She is mine.

There’s this sir, who
when her pocket meets her hand
he begins to lose
the will to understand
looking for romance
and a lamppost to dance ‘round
yeah, wherever that sound
is, she’s there too
so just tell her to share
just tell him to share


So it’s back to that room,
where with a sigh and a broom
they beat the demons out
but with the demons go the wings
of angels and kings
so you sigh and die and do without
but it don’t have to be (this way)
she’ll make it right you’ll see (just stay)
with all the broken colors
picture frames and thoughtless mothers
and in with the din and like
Oh, I found her face in moonlight
I found it all in moon’s light

The district sleeps alone tonight,
the dear sister’s out, inventing new sights
pulls a gun from her bag
as all the dogs’ tongues wag
he goes, and shoots at the sky
calls the wounds stars
and drinks in their light
So just tell him to share
tell her “be fair”


We bathed in the backlash of
a single ruptured lung;
her spit a pantheons' fist,
her fist a mnemonic graft.
And whilst she stumbled,
her arms outstretched,
we dodged.

The coughing waned and
her voice struck our spines,
as saliently as the rain
beats against our calloused skin.
We coat our hands in lye;
bury them in alchemists’ soil,
and sprout limbs that cannot
handle the synthesis of aging.
We cling to bones
being worn throughout the seasons;
as the bells atop tulip stems
pendulate until they break -
the weight of their existence
a toll many cannot take.

We shroud this land in jaded plooms,
a battalion of bloom,
as defeatist as we are conceited
in our verdant hoards,
her fortified limbs become
the veils that launder light instead.
Our presence is constant,
yet our roots have no backgrounds,
for there's nothing more unnatural
than a mother burying her son.

Her fingers wrap their way around
our embodied boughs,
and in a single breath she lifts us
from the dirt to scatter our kindling
on the Earth for yet another year.
Last edited by bassbeat77 at Jun 18, 2008,