A Haunting we will go....

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Mature Content

Daddy? by Jompie
     Daniela by Arthur-Ramsey     Lormet-Holiday-0906sml by Lormet-Images     Everyone needs a hobby.. by Exparte-se     Casual Passers by Gloom82


The Scarlet Hour II by nina-Y   if we were to never speak again.In silence absolute
I almost forgot you,
I almost remembered to forget
you, lonely afternoon
of naked breath,
the softness of sunset
as it rakes along my skin.
The nonchalance of the sky
almost unbearably falters
an outbreak of tears
weigh down my hair
memory of your touch,
memory of your heart,
eyes blinking through the rain
glimpses of turquoise-
blue souls dancing, but
not quite entwined.
This dignity
claws into my brows,
furrows the flesh
rivulets of thought
that tear through my nervous system
fingers twitching
cellular tinnitus, reverberations
of you
in my spinal column,
raising mountains from
my body, darklight clouds
ghosting in the peripheries
of my vision
memory of your touch,
memory of your heart,
a lyrical tattoo
of ripened countryside
a vibrant concerto
idyllic
washed between us
tidal colour drowning,
drowning, sinking
from your sweet humour
to my aching sternum
the cliffs fall away
and autumn breaks in upon us,
unwelcome, love,
staining window-panes
auburn sorrows of light
     Dark House by Lensar   Homewe craved for solitude in silence
the scent of September moss
sand falling between the fingers
~
what we found was
post-war wooden house geometry
secrets between floorboards
typography decades out of date
texture only found in old books
the touch on the softest of skin
falling into the night while watching the snow
~
the labyrinth of steel and stone
where words did not come easy
is now abandoned
    We poetsAs a young boy, I looked up.
Up to this towering man that I wanted to be just like.
With bulging muscles and an expansive vocabulary of macho-induced lingo such as:
crescent wrench, car jack, oil filters, sinkers and bobbers, and Budlight.
Keeping up was a fight.
A fight to remember which a Phillips head was and which was the other.
On more than one occasion, even bringing him an Allen wrench by mistake.
I had to soak in the let down face of my father with every wrong tool that I brought.
Each. And every.Damn. Time.
I could not be taught.
Was he taking this as a sign?
My lack of interest in fishing and boxing.
Eventually, to stop asking for my help in the garage and instead seeking out my younger brother.
Always hearing of fishing stories where I had been uninvited.
I didn’t miss the grease, but then again, I wasn’t in it for that
I helped him with childlike enthusiasm, because I loved the bonding.
The bonding of father and son, not so much the bonding of metals by the weld




These Small ThingsIf
In moments
I have been bold
Had courage grip me
And done great things
No matter how small
Or unseen
By others...
If
For a moment
I have loved and cared
For family and friends
And those who mattered
If I looked into the eyes
Of the small
And made them
My whole world...
If
The words
I have written
Or spoken to others
Have made a difference for good
Even just a little...
...I pray these things,
These small things,
Are remembered.
   Just a Story by Enamorte   The DoorEach door is a different color,
Painted one way or another by each stamp on my memories,
Every connection made with other places,
Rooms of each experience
Guiding our lost souls as we stumble.
Choose a door to step through
And glide into a free fall
Toward someone you were then.
When the seasons pass too slow,
You return again,
Again,
The cycle repeating like the merry-go-round
Cleverly hiding behind the blue door.
   <da:thumb id="488413716"/>   BlackoutI’m a black star
Walking with no lights
The saddest lands
Away from you.
(25/9/14)




Mature Content

  

Mature Content

Carnivore by NickSachos
   True Story by AmadeoCristobal   The Voices In Her Head by FictionChick  




Pieces of Me         Deeply
   into the basins
   that my hands have become
      unstable ghostly
   shadows collapse between the margins
   that used to be your smile
         Landslides
   I can not hold your face... no more
   not even the memories of you
      nothing is... like it was before
   clouded by tears
   salty as the sea
                          in me
*K
MARCH
*Y
© copyright of KAY MARCH - All Rights Reserved.
   The Count by BohoGoth   Dream a Reachunsilence the words
that your tongue
can't find or form
sing something new
sing an angel's wing
from tongue to sky
shake the undone and fly
like a dead jesus
(like me)
i speak in tongues
less true than infinite
because, universally
we dream unguided
only between
the eras and acts
that we hold up
as our crowning
drowning
achievements
(before we can fly)
i burn another pocket
into the side of the fire
inhabitable, but captive
i put my hand in
my life in
and faith, i pound you
into every hole
and cosmic pore
between atoms and reactions
(so i can fly)
a broken sky
has dropped its fire
over eternity's shipwreck
and i sweat
alien notes, tempos
i wish and whisper
my wings
into the only air pocket
left on earth
(so it can fly)
and i'm back
within the deep again
of this heavy unbreathing
mask sewn shut
i still, and forever,
dream a reach, flight
into a safe sky
a sunrise, sunset,
a sun-something
with wings
(that i can remember)
   All of MeA red storm
consumes the whole behind my eyes,
the precision of lightning strikes
scramble thoughts,
a wayward swarm of consciousness
pouring through my lips
in blackened chunks of truth
spit upon my plate,
white space smeared in ink.
I am a wasteland,
a ghost town of bone and sinew,
dust gathers
and veins spread like vines,
crawling over my limbs
and strangling the life that remains --
there is nothing here to see,
no mystery to solve,
my body is but the abandoned remnant
of a time quickly forgotten
naively believing
it was ever worthy of remembrance.
Disposable, I am,
a mere fleck of shadow
beneath this blanket of night
where children laugh
behind the glow of yellowed window panes,
I am in the cold
watching from the street,
never invited
to join the warmth within the light
I merge with the background,
a poorly written line
tangled up and scratched out.
Typewriter fingertips
pound faded messages on ashen skin,
a series of dots and dashes
from an analog heart
lost in the digital age,
t
   <da:thumb id="486527013"/>


   [08]-she will sit
 at the edge of
 this cliff until
 the sun rises
 and sets
 watching
 fires die
 silently
 burning away
 the remaining
 ashes
(dreams
 gathered
 forgotten
 and
 dispersed)-
   <da:thumb id="487185525"/>   WitchcraftCall me Sarah
was all she said
and I had the uncomfortable
feeling of being haunted.
I let her legs
and red nails
do the talking -
stories I grew up
not believing in,
silver spoons and moons
hung so low
I could taste them,
and autumn lost
between her shoulders.
I never said the right words
and night retreated
when she turned her head
and smiled.
We let the candles burn -
rich foliage of air
and stars
the only traces left.
   Lighting a Matchstick Against the Howling WindI’ve seen an angel stitch a wing with a harp string.
Aviation swerving down to catch its reflection cleansed itself in the undercurrent.
Walking bones could steal the breath from a newborn’s lung
Quicker than you could put a hand over mouth to protest a slippery tongue.
Recluse covered in a blanket of cobwebs, bury a part of itself deep under a fingernail.
Pencil stroked alpha to the zed smeared canvas filling the belly of Atlantis.
Some are rusty dirt aqualung bottom feeders while some back up against the surface with that blowfish kiss.
Mother earth split the seven seas and Father Time’s hourglass cracked leaky salt along the path.
You see, karma’s not a bitch. She is just a lousy maidservant, who just so happened to watch you make your bed, but wasn’t willing to lay in it with you.




Better Luck Never by dillonpringle   Field of the Scarecrow by dark-spider      Barn by will-jum   Storm Warning by Emerald-Depths   The black beauty by Marco-art  



Spell by Daniele-Serra    greenhouse by Eastcoasthardcore   Chain SmokerYou string cigarette butts
around your neck
to remember the girls
you've broken--
chain-smoke relationships
crushed like still-lit cherries
beneath the steel toes
of your boots.
  EnoughI just
             want to
                              be enough
   <da:thumb id="483143880"/>


Howling Mountains by alexandre-deschaumes   Blue by peter-san   After Deathyour hand rests
on the edge
of the kitchen table
there is no
silence here
only the light fading
like the slow
leaking of breath
an apple sits
on the counter
soft lines curving
into the white
shadow of the wall
we take the curtain
turning like a page
in restless sleep
and the sound
of the rain
murmurs cold against
the window
      



Homeless warrior by francoclun    Water by Nelleke    AfterNo ears to hear
Nor eyes to see,
No more fear
Or empathy. 
The world's gone quiet,
Blissful, dark and still;
Bones to ash, this is it:
Forget me like a moment's thrill.
   Adult Ribs Breaktoddler on the table
bleeding out from
a .22 to the gut
nicking the aorta
and bursting open
but there’s no blood
not yet
not with the hurried
bandage and stitches
covering a brutal incision
6 inches long
the surgeon rips
through the gauze
and the blood pool
spills and his intestines
gleam deep sickly mauve
shoved aside for
gloved hands that plunge
deep into the cavity
fingers slipping
over the vessel
applying pressure
a tech starts CPR
hoping to squeeze
a heart back to life
and you can feel
the little rib cage
bending
and you can feel it
against the aorta
beneath your finger tips
pumping pumping
for over 20 minutes
in vain
   night in the forest by HelaLe



Things I Would Tell HerI want to tell her the things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
Her hands
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
to flutter,
to fly.
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
this fourteen-year-old
now woman,
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
   Things I would Tell Her--C.I want to tell her the things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
Her hands
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
to flutter,
to fly.
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
this fourteen-year-old
now woman,
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
    71 daysyou are still an
unmarked grave
   It Was There by Spiritofdarkness   one day we will remember. by BPuig



<da:thumb id="427307376"/>   Bad Habits Never Change by Van-Syl-Production       Mischief by Mavrosh    .:Into The Blue:. by LT-Arts



Seventy-FiveWhen spring is impossible to recall
except in the eyes of fresh-hearted young
I will seek a new tale in the grey autumn woods.
    Enchantment by nina-Y   <da:thumb id="325981903"/>   <da:thumb id="337358260"/>    Hole by ChadRouthier



Deep forest by Mr-Bastos   Men who walks alone... by nahsough   Masquerade sepia clouds by faerykisses   Wicklow Graveyard 03 by RGDart    lonely -house by nurtanrioven



A Face. by annygreen    Jaded by Sum1Good by Sum1Good    Vlad the Impaler by gildeneye    duty by calis    Werewolf by pmoodie



<da:thumb id="37374191"/>   Oubliette by Weissglut    An Evening Stroll by anarchistprophet    <da:thumb id="86709485"/>   Pearl Necklace by Karaliina



sweet naked hellhell must be like this.
flies licking ecstasy from blood oases.
laying their eggs in tiny living rooms.
the desert is a sprawling hibernation.
a naked, arid body which never ends.
the reptile's silent condemnation.
stretching skin, an ocean of hair.
she licks him and he begins to rise.
red and parched, crying for star-milk.
stolen bullets, barrelful of whispers.
severity punctuates a dead clock-face.
bristles puncture skin, eyes overflow.
sad song, the mad hint of a lullaby.
patient vultures circle high overhead.
they take pieces of the sun as they pass.
somewhere a cave echoes things unsaid.
water hides in the bellies of dreams.
rocks caressed by indigenous fingerprints.
the coarse rustle of cloth, a dry cough.
the memory of a ghost a second too late.
approximate a curse and call it medicine.
cosmic nap, an elevator full of sand.
neon snakes crawl across the rough ceiling.
words heal wounds in temporal nakedness.
we call for thunderstorms and honey.
      

Mature Content

   SCARECROWYou may have seen her, clasped in a
drift of lengthening Shadows and Light
that faded into a mellow memory, the
Wind rose and fell, rising and falling
like a breath exhaled upon the beloved
land, leaves blew crisp in the Silence,
scattering burgundy-gold memoirs far
and away, but it only took a single
leaf to draw attention to her, nothing
else moved in this space occupied by
one gilded leaf and one gilded scarecrow,
but you may have seen her standing still
and silent in a field of Autumn's over-
growth, amidst the tall stalks of corn
there she will be, swaying proudly
in the late September Morn.
A halo of golden light reflected off
the wide brim hat she wore, her blackest
black tresses fell about her, filtering
out too much light from penetrating the
veil of shadows that was her lonely
delight, the crows sought her out,
perching on her shoulders while they
nibbled on the burnt-gold straw reaching
out of the tatters of her rustic dress,
once upon a time her dress was bright
red-but now
   

© 2014 - 2024 eqlrytes
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TornStitches's avatar
Well, thank you.  That sure was a blast from the past.  And seeing your name, as well.  Much appreciated; I'm tickled you thought to add my work; and from three years ago!