Here,
it’s cold again. The snow falls; I think I’ve grown fatter than I’ve ever been and it breaks my heavy heart to think once, I’d shiver terribly in this but now, with the fat encasing me, I can only think ‘it’s cold again’.
RMH
Misplaced Lens Cap
trying on a metaphor

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@post-articulation
Here,
it’s cold again. The snow falls; I think I’ve grown fatter than I’ve ever been and it breaks my heavy heart to think once, I’d shiver terribly in this but now, with the fat encasing me, I can only think ‘it’s cold again’.

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British Werewolf in London
A lonely cigarette turned into a part drunk,
Part enraged charade of false turns and promises
On a park bench on a rainy April day
After we call it a day.
They come, they go, they stay
But nothing compares to that picture
Of you with my lungs on a platter
And heart on a plate.
Don’t turn away when the moon is a chipped
Saucer in the sky and I show you my change;
Don’t be alarmed that I seek meaning in stars
As the wax and the wane is the rhythm
Of a drum banging on once a month
After month.
The Things we’ve Done
We’ve spun gold from straw;
made milk from cum.
We’ve distilled wine from spit,
boiled the marrow of our bones
to feed scraps to waifs and strays.
We’ve coagulated blood to have black
pudding for lunch and we’ve borrowed,
begged and stolen brush strokes of integrity
to remember we made our blankets of skin,
that biting that apple was the ultimate sin
and we whored out our hearts to replace them with tin.
You’re a bolt of lightning striking fire in the hearts of those lost in the coldest forest. You’re a quickly beating heart, sweaty palms, stumbled words expressed in rhythm only we can understand. You’re the calm in the storm, the mercy that we need. And I write to you today in anonymity no favor earned just purest admiration thanks for feeling as my heart speaks. It means a lot.
That... well thank you anonymous. Goodness gracious, I’m tearing up!
Thank you @meader for giving me the little bit of confidence I needed to post the sort of thing I’m working on nowadays. It’s rough and ready as always but I like this colourful experiment. t. x

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Confession
I’ve become too scared to post my own writing and thus, am contemplating quotes.
Oh Vincent, you’re my babe ❤️
“I will fall across your body when night spreads its greedy magnetic lust and power.”
— Miguel Hernández, from Selected Poems; “Child of Light and Shadow,”
I’m looking at everything I’ve ever written and it’s all just hyperbolic, overblown bullshit.

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Guess what?
I’d rather be Satan’s slut than God’s cunt.
Wistful
I categorically want the radio
boomboxing ballads of love;
I want to leave this empty,
thrusting silence
in the kitchen sink and blink
on the taps to wash off my blood
with soap sudding tallied cuts and nicks
to a dirty pool of a pierced cysts pus.
You’re
aching to touch; vibrating
your vibrato of pain in the brush
of a finger as you measure
my threshold and train me up
to tolerate your drama.
Lullaby
These words will lull
magnetic waves of terrible
frequency
to placidity; to submission;
to a supernova taking over
the halls of Valhalla;
to a mouth stretching open
to a black, black hole and teeth, spat
out; to a sky, trussed with pearls.
Life Lessons
Don’t kick a gift horse
in the mouth when it’s canter
is the sound of greatness
to come.
You probably shouldn’t
break your arm in a door
to get a bit of time off so try
- please try - not to do it.
I don’t recommend trying
to displace me; my job here
is not done and I am more (am I more?)
than a master of none;
I brine in pickle juice
to keep myself young and the blood
of virginity is the course I drip-feed
you month after month.
Under no circumstances should I or you
disagree; our hips must melt
esoteric waves of motion (or hands
in gloves) or the universe, spinning.

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17:06 GMT+1
Suddenly lonely, you bite
your lower lip to imagine the nip
of incisors piercing skin or the cupped
suction of a hickey on a collarbone
that rears up every time you arch
your pretty neck and pretend - just pretend -
that somewhere - someplace - there are hands
that could crush the living daylight
out of it
until you blink because no tears will come
because you want no one at all.
Spellbinding
You’ve opened your mouth again; opened it wide. Now you’ve a fat lip. The shame of it will drop from your stomach to nestle a face between your thighs.
Autumn turns winter, spring turns summer as monthly, you bleed - as monthly, you chap lips, as monthly, you suck the nail beds of your fingertips as cupped palms smack your cracked backside.