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Stolen Leash

THE BODY IS A TEMPLE, MY TEMPLE IS STRONG

THE BODY IS A TEMPLE, MY TEMPLE IS STRONG

THE BODY IS A TEMPLE, MY TEMPLE IS STRONG…

 

Unholy declarations devour even the purist of minds

When the purest of minds have been consumed by unholy declarations…SALVATION becomes TAINTED at best…

 

When FATWAS are SERVED,

SEPPUKU covets Psychology… {Trembling, quivering, convulsing about} THERE IS NO ENTRY…  ONLY EXITS

 

HELL HATH NO FURY, LIKE A DOMINATRIX SCORNED…

LASH, WHIP, CRACK, SCREECH, TEAR, SEAR, SINGE, ASPHYXIATION…GUARANTEED…there is no entrance…only out

 

Open yet oblivious. Lines of discourse dissolve into melting pots of fear—Regions fade into non-existence, strangulated by the sinewy cord of what’s been told as REAL…Dimensions shatter…as nomadic mantras infect…{coursing through UNSTABLE veins}… PULSATING…until PULSE is no longer yours alone to share…

 

Windows, SMASHED by invisible rocks…siding, TORN by limbs unseen…basements FLOODED by the tears of gods…foundations CRUMBLE unattended…there is no entry, only a terrifying SOLUTION…. AN EXIT out

 

YET THERE IS SANCTUARY AMIDST OBLITERATION         …and it DWELLS DEEP

 

Within the framework of

The internal PAUSE…

 

the body is a tempest, my tempest is STRONG

the body is a tempest, my tempest is STRONG

the body is a tempest, my tempest is STro…

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Pores Deceive

Photogenic perspiration,

Seeping through pores of deception,

That details the countless agonies,

Hidden beneath this life’s parade

At The Track

The PA system crackled.  The walk-around was complete.  Those in the stands clung onto their tickets tightly. They had that that hopeful glow all about them.  There’s always something magical about horseracing. The Gamblers, while most would leave the track with far less money than they had before arriving, each and all, had the possibility to hit it big, and that was what kept each of them coming back.  This was what made the anticipation so great.

 

The Announcer started rattling off each horse:  A Ghost Named Rain….Therefore, Contagious…Marty’s Martian Landlord…Felicity’s Dancing Dominatrix…Mike’s Vulgar Rainbow…Somewhere over the Backstop….Dream, Dream Patchwork Innocence and Sweet Cake and Rum to round out the field.

Eight chances to cross the finish line Win, Place or Show…

 

The Starting gun was pointed…shot…and they were off.

 

Marty’s Martian Landlord pulled up lame just moments after the quarter-mile.  Sweet Cake and Rum, the odds on favorite, was lagging bad.  Neither would be claiming victory this night, taking their 4 to 1 and 2 to 1 odds with them respectively.

 

Six remained and the odds increased.

 

Therefore Contagioushad five strides between his back shoe and A Ghost Named Rain, who was followed closely by Mike’s Vulgar Rainbow, Felicity’s Dancing Dominatrix and Dream, Dream Patchwork Innocence.   Following the pack, just a few strides back, was the other 4 to 1 horse, Somewhere Over the Backstop.

 

Dirt kicked up high.  Faces strained in the stands.  Three separated themselves, leaving hope to balance out over the final section of track.

 

Sweat was dripping from brows about…yelling,”C’mon, C’mon” and the like, phrases heard easily a thousand times over in a little over a minutes time…

 

In the end…Mike’s Vulgar Rainbow Won, Therefore, Contagious Placed and Dream, Dream Patchwork Innocence Showed.  80 to 1, 65 to 1 and 9 to 1 respectively

 

This Big White-Haired man screamed some reveling words and fainted flat over the bleacher seats…

 

“Paramedics, Paramedics,” a gangly, weasel looking of a man shouted loudly…seconds before he pried the winning trifecta from the old man’s pudgy finger and thumb.

 

I tried setting things straight, but nobody would listen….I felt bad, but at least I had a really nice Show.

Twenty-Six Prevarications

Alternative axioms affirm
Barefaced bedrock’s backbones

Corruption contemptuously condemning contumely—
Degradations dance, descends…

Euphoric entities enable
False friendships forever

Guileful gargoyles gaze
Hauntingly harassing happiness

Inserting imposing inquisitions
Jocund joviality jarring—

Killing Kismets kilns—
Living Luxurious lies—

Multiplying mayhems map—
Neither-named nor numbered

Openly obliterating Obligation’s
Poignantly plotted plan—
Questioning quelled quinellas
Revealing rudimentary rapscallions
Saintly severed strands

Trauma’s tears taught
Unilaterally under ubiquities
Vexed visual vulgarities
Wisdom weeps writhingly

X-raying Xanthus xenophobes
Youthful Yahwistic yearning
Zephyrs zestfully zigzag

One pain
Two promises
Three Penances
Four Paragons
Five Paradigms
Six Parapets
Seven Partitions
Eight Pandemics
Nine Portents
Ten Poltergeists
Eleven Problems
Twelve Puzzles
Thirteen Prophesies
Fourteen Parasites
Fifteen Plebes
Sixteen Personalities
Seventeen Panoramas
Eighteen Placards
Nineteen Postulates
Twenty Princesses
Twenty-One Plans
Twenty-Two Plots
Twenty-Three Pollutions
Twenty-Four Privacies
Twenty-Five Pleas
Twenty-Six Prevarications

Subtext and Chicanery

Subtext beneath the words
Forever framed in tone
Context of what resides
To the left and to the right
Ever masking the importance
Covered by the selected terms
Chosen to deliberately disguise

Artifacts and relics
Do not need to be
Draped in the timelines
Attached to those of
Antiquity.

And as you bathe the scent from your skin
Remember all the fantasies you conjured in
Dismay—recall each of the swollen lips you
Pursed with corresponding eye-lids in puffy
Display—dream in pine sol—scrub away the
Grime before it stains, that which is what it
Was about, even in those moments, where you
Yourself, never truly understood what the
Reactions you perfectly portrayed, were none other
Than spectacular reactions to the lemony scent to
Which our entireties have thus been named.

Scar Chamber

Scar chamber,
scars, chambers in white

of what is,
and of all that’s been-
constantly rekindling
each reminder deep
within

never molting,
for shedding only renews
the fresh felt deepening
of this ever-shaded hue,
only leaving unearthed
plots for each these
flesh built tombs

Wounds, remain alive beneath facades
the dermis dreams upon, falsities
redirected by each fleck of skin, revealing
nothing but dead depictions
of caricatures, that have never been

echoic, forever
alive in the undercurrents
of your thoughts; destined
to forever grace, the hesitations
near the heart

I shall not dilute
what I’ve yet to learn,
romanticizing the
directions life can turn

for, perhaps and maybe’s,
have never been too just with me