bloodied verse

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Blue-blood poet
cold at heart
large, 
your ego, 
this swell night,
 
She’s a tourist
in wild dreams
of word orgies
blood verse 
streams,
 
Both, 
crossed lovers
madness feigned,
vintage statues
They remained

Wordplay 
artists,
starry 
nights,
warm-blood poet—

S t a y 
      t h e 
n i g h t

new seas she sails

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New seas she sails
with wet, wet eyes
cold, purple lips
a wild, wild heart

A fighting mind
one fateful tune
one fresh start
a blinding light

New poems read
with tired eyes
a stunning feat
those rhyming lines

Warm, purple ink
a healing heart
she will, one day,
recover might

A writing sword
on stormy fields
she will in dreams
all battles fight

And conquer will
those seas she sails
those dry, dry lines
a fighting mind

She starts to sail
she longs to write -
new poems, wild,
they will take flight

New seas she sails
a bright new night
with drier eyes
h e r
s  o  l  o
w  r  i  t  e  s 

killer stanza

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with his
singers 
and 
dancers 
she could
not
c o m p e t e

as she had only 
killer words
to offer—
to be 
licked and
s a v o u r e d

dark 
chocolate 
bites
for lyrically
sophisticated
t a s t e b u d s

he now wished
he’d gotten an earlier
taste—but was
already perishing
with languid 
b r e a t h

just as he’d 
swallowed
the very last
lyrical mouthful
of her poisoned
s t a n z a

for she only had 
killer words
to offer—
to be 
licked and
s a v o u r e d

dark chocolate
dessert for 
his sweet
and sultry
cabaret
s o i r é e

tambourine

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D
    r      D
      u       r
    m            u
                       m ,

little women's army
splatter walls—
dressed in
war face
p     a     i     n    t
                        
magic hands
can turn out
wonders, 
now they're sleeping—
shan't be
awoken
y     e     t

close 
the shutters,
no light 
streaming—
they deserve
a darkened
dreaming
b     e     d

D
    r      D
      u       r
    m            u
                       m ,

little women's army—
splatter walls
dressed in
war face
p    a    i    n    t

collector’s bird

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you plucked
out
too many
of my
cyan-tinted
f e a t h e r s

while 
modelling
me into a
stuffed 
poetic
b i r d

wings
got too
heavy with
your lyrically
infused
f e a r s

so i couldn’t 
fly away
from your
collector’s
palace—
y e t

until tonight—
when i 
slide out
of this darkened 
room of
n i g h t m a r e s

leaving you behind,
sleeping,
in your
tortuous,
silent,

o d d
   r  h  y  m  e  d 
 b        e        d

verse vampire

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i stop
feeding
your brain's
licking
w o r d
o b s e s s i o n

deliberately 
discarding
this needless 
w i s h 
f o r  v e r s e

trying to 
become
r h y m e 
a v e r s e

draining
the room’s
letter
h i d d e n
c h e s t

yet, while
averse,
i still
s p e a k ,
i n  v e r s e

so I 
do me
and 
y o u
d o  y o u

so 
very
word
l i c k e r
y o u

lil’

v
         a
e               m
          
r                    p

s               i
        r
e  

literary glimpses

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those true
identities
w e  c a m e  t o
i   n   h   a   b   i   t

yet only
lived
i n  l i t e r a r y
w   o   r   l   d   s

unwritten
stories
of our 
t r u e 
d   e   s   i   r   e   s

in rhyme
embellished
nice pace,
s w i f t
w   o   r   d   s 

identity-
empty
f i c t i o n a l ,
i   m   a   g   i   n   e   d

lyrically
beautiful,
ghostly,
s a v a g e d ,
f   o   r   c   e   d

those true
identities
w e  c a m e  t o
i   n   h   a   b   i   t

yet only
glimpsed
through
d  a  r  k
t   h   i   c   k
s    m     o     k    e    

dark smoke verse

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Smoking 
French 
     poetry whore 
cigarettes
o n e,  
         a f t e r  
       t h e  
o t h e r

i wet my lips,
i puff—
frail
particles of
d i f f u s e d 
s   m   o   k   e

                                 S
                    d                       u

               n            m    e            r 

                    u                        r 
                                 o
       
i bat my eyelids,
i stare away.
and puff—
o n e 
        a f t e r 
    t h e 
o t h e r

still no
words, yet
i perceive
some 
d a r k 
v e r s e  
s  m  o  k  e

has subtly 
embraced
— p  o  s  s  e  s  s  e  d —
my  f e a t h e r e d
d  r  e  a  m  s
 
and, 
while
i type
a widowed
v e r s e —

for a poem
i may
have dreamed—
but will
never, in ink,
b i r t h

smoking 
French 
     poetry whore 
cigarettes
 o n e,  
         a f t e r  
       t h e  
o t h e r

a drunken 
song
waltzes 
  around
  i n 
      m y 
            h  e  a  d 

                  “they’re not good for you.
              he’s not good for you.
             stop wasting
                     y   o  u  r 
           b      r      e    a   t    h
                     a            w            a            y 

remember—
smoking
      ain’t good
for 
    the 
l i v i n g .”

   i     n      h       a       l       e.
 e       x       h       a       l       e.
s  m  o  k  i  n  g
   o n e , 
        a f t e r 
   t h e 
o t h e r

         a
       subtly
    s o o t h i n g
               d a r k ,
      s  m  o  k  e  d
                v   e   r   s   e

                                 e
                    s                       m

                e           m    e            b 

                    c                        r 
                                 a