I don’t want to share. This
burden of dishonour is only mine
to bear.  Do I bleed, scream, or
just die right here on screen?
No lines between what
is near yet unseen. Unkempt.
These halls of indifference
I’ve swept.  Don’t you feel
me  s  c r  e a  m i  n g
         for   you..
Needing to be heard.
Fuck this spoken word.
This escape.  You should
find me awake.  Unrested.
A thorough nuisance. 
Barely, but
I’m breathing.

The poets eye
forms things unknown,

Methods of a scholar.
Coloured into art.

Setting lines to stone
when worlds are apart.

Why then does she linger,
without cup?

It’s domination with
the wit from thy tongue.

Ignotum per ignotius.
Our kingdom of one.

Though this nature burns
it’s ever quenchless fire,

the jargon of alchemy
leaves it’s stench in the mire.

Miss Ginger Vaughn..  You flatter me so.  I’m glad to see you here, your selection of bare bodies is always a treat to ogle.  :)

This is a spilling of soup and ink.

in sunless air the clocks
bell twelve, while the still hearts
of stone find attention to delve.
burning horizons stare,
stubborn horse and cart,
and the reigns twirl around the fingers,
doer of hat nonchalance,
sits south facing,
inner shores crash away. 
for fallen under the fibs are 
theirs, not his. when such duels 
infect, for the sounding of a 
sonant they haven’t yet.
and the dusk for one
molten earth a frame, forget 
the labyrinth and ignore the crux.
the rector an agent 
bearing witness to just.

More or another, the unpoemed stone.
Among the weary body of witness, she

Ripens untongued.
A sanctum to service lip and limb.

Still the swallows of
Dust and advert.

The blood that runs cosmetic
Between the belly of the self,

Is this the last glimmer of
Mans atrocities?

Such innocence grows
Apart like the white lines

On a blueprint.
A courtship.

A collaboration between daggry and eyeshotandywarhol.

the sun is shining 
the neck pain’s gone, 
sun lotions missing , 
my skin is done 

you need ink to
survive, 
i need you to
survive 

this little something’s
just cpr,
amateur babbling
i hope you go on

go on to breathe
to go on to see,
survival of the fittest 
is the survival of she.

getting to see
the inky
side of 
thee

is a little something
i crave, your
amateur rambling
is all i needed to stay. 

Current confident
on the rivers of morrow,
sure to meet the sun. 

Little olive feet,
nightly and she balances.
Up on the tightrope. 

your second skin, the pulse that 
beats true inside a body of sin.  Do tell
of the device that drives you within.
Silence the pressure and the system
of time, where the difference between
is how to fall and when to climb.  It is
so that we stand in a little fugue, when
the sailors words sound of salt and sinew.

When we finally spoke 
it was the sound of stirring,

Indestructible. 
An extravagant madness

Coloured to prime.
Such blessings,

In a library of dreaming.
Apple, peach and citrus trees,

Our opus of ash.
The great stasis between.

You are tear stained
and still the mouth, it
swims in repose. Where is
the place that it smolders
unstrung, pen to a page
with it’s trammels undone.

Rags into riches and 
your tap dancing hue,
waste not of nothing
I drink deep
of your stew.
One want of a you.

Scenery old still new.

Let me relapse.
And should the veil stir

Let the miles evaporate.
Our ears burn dark  

And blood red beats
Unleash the spark.

Earthborn between
The tick of the clock.

It’s a sanctuary,
taking root as cradles rock.

A collaboration between eyeshotandywarhol and whisperedverse.

Under the hammer of
your every noun, within your 
verbs. .. is where i make sound.
 
So sweet, so sublime, to
gently touch you where your soul lives,
lying between your lines.
 
On pages peppered, with
the seed of your verse. It’s an acquisition
of pages made of lascivious words.
 
Through lines and letters, 
we shed the fetters that bind, and 
unveil souls destined to twine.

The body’s made blind
with always a something,
something to mind.. So
yes please, reign over me.
And I will be the force,
the fuck, the feed.

A collaboration between whisperedverse and eyeshotandywarhol.

With lidded eyes, and open mind,
the dreamer seeks what’s been left behind,
joy that subconscious thought’s designed;
how it hides through the light of day.

But he would rather be an upheaval,
embellished in a blanket of lurid Nin.
Touched warm and lucid, dreaming of sin;
fixed in a tailstream of fleshes in play.

Grasping vainly at these visions
through insanity’s divisions,
through morning light’s vile revisions,
he fights to keep reality at bay.

It happens. This inevitable eventide,
how it curses with it’s spectral sight;
where bodies barely renounce the night,
for into sleep is where they would stay.