Two by two, the dead walked out of the sea,

the tired waters swinging in a steel gate tempo.

Barefoot shadows spread on white sand -

fistfuls of water running in rivulets of sorrow.

Hair dripping and eyes glazed, struggling

into the silence of promising light beckoning

ocean’s tent covered sins, washed bones,

sea sweating and soaking their brows,

broken fingernails and wrinkled skin.

Ocean waxed calm and hearts answered,

the dead contained in bubbles of sea eyes

as they trudged through turtle shell seas,

butterscotch moon’s scaffold sheltering

fetid whisky breath and rheumy eyes,

meeting maker in drops of nevermore -

death a companion of watery guests.

Her hair

hung yellow

stung

by honey bees

Lips swollen

Forgotten stamped

in red

on her forehead

Black bike

heavyweight

with her

two pound pup

She stood beautiful

flaunting her

young death

I envy her

homeless

high

careless

Nectar pouring from

her purple eye

Her hands

powder blue

Rain trickled down your nose and found it’s way to your lips. An embrace harsh, hurting, heard from far away. I wish my mouth could finds it’s way to yours, maybe if the sun stopped chasing the night for a while. Years dawn and die, I wish them to continue flickering. I hope more rain runs down your cheeks so I can carry on sharing my clouds.

i want someone to hurt me, to violate me and destroy me. i want someone to kill me, someone to mess me up so that my body matches my heart. these desires, they're all wrong, aren't they? but it's fine. i'm filthy, so i need to be cleansed. i want to show the world the hate and the dirt trapped inside of me. i feel so disgusting. i hate this. i hate this. kill me.

feel free to ignore this post

i must've been high on depression

They can't move in anymore, they're touching her soul

They've hit the inner wall, it's making her weep

The feeling we both is as though we've lost all control

My tongue laces her body as she looks me in the eye

That look she gives, is pleasure written on her face she begins to cry

Intimacy lies, not just with touch but with connection

Her and I together, make love, it's true perfection

I sit here watching dragon flies buzz around

Water is bursting from the fountain with a thunderous sound

They chase each other with wings of fury

There's a lonely mallard duck drifting with the breeze

Me on a simple park bench alone amongst the trees

They fly by me to check me out

I extend my hand at waters edge

There is undeniably major doubt

That duck is just floating there with not a care in world

While I sit here and stare and think of what could and should be

My hands at waters edge reaching for a chance

In hopes they fly by and give me just one glance

This captain no longer lost

His sea siren no longer sullen

Alive with passion and desire

Her hand reaches his

Lips breath new life in each

He saves her from the depths

And she from drowning in sorrow

Now they chart a new course

Together they sail the sea of love

My thoughts aren't always pretty, really, they can be cruel and relentless. They can be droll and demonic. My mind is making me turn myself into all the things I never wanted to be. I like to say, "what an actress" to myself, as I fill desolate rooms with life and character, laughter, a euphoria of jubilation - when I'm "an actress" around a horde of people, friends, Loved Ones, The Ones Nearest and Dearest to My Heart. They gaggle, like a flock of geese, and when your mind is pounding, with a swollen brain, you try to forget; the things that can never love you back, the things that haunt me in varying intervals, etc --- only one person can make me feel my version of Normal, where my humanity of normalcy comes to play --- where I'm up to par with my getting myself together, and, you, being the 3 tablespoons of olive oil, 2 cups of warm water, and 1 cup of apple cider vinegar that heals my dry cracked hands. That's YOU. You're my peach, I beseech you with fervent fever for your innocuous intimacy; we enmesh and evoke in ease, we please the plead we need. There's fickleness whim, in the way our soul cases analog; we allow stymie in the progression of our relationship and we allocate adornment. I'm the sin of sacrilegious sacrilege, the sin of my lips sipping your pureness out of a chalice; but, yet, I wear white. I want you to breathe in my arousal, breathe in my lust, touch my yearned wants and needs, touch my hankering hands, kiss my passion, kiss my pain, coition - on my mother-naked body, be the fabric that nukes my raw reprehensible physique, let's (both) be sinful, spiteful, senseless in the way we drape. Be my contour, be the silhouette that invokes my earnestly and summons my evoked despondent deity, bring vigor and satisfactory vengeance.

(K.M.M.)