Posted by Erik Moshe on Saturday, April 7, 2012 Under: Rhymed Verses
Notebook & Vulgar.
seeking beauty in pulled strings...
Tight-rope around the trachea.
Caught inside of your hold, your rounded labia.
Throat without escape and lust has grown profound and makeshift, love the choking sound so tainted,
it's the toneless shout a sadist wants.
You can coat my clouds with pain and blood.
I feed off of the open mouth with papercuts.
The corners of these lips stretched by the Chelsea Grin delusionist.
Held me in the lucid bliss then bent the creases left between the emptiness and cluelessness; tempted the illusion,
now it's death that keeps intruding this as Heaven seems to lose its grip.
What's your fetish here, Ventriloquist?
Lended fear within a kiss and plenty smears of lipstick,
cringe whenever we're the intimate couple that bare syringes,
and frankly, I cannot seem to stomach your share of sickness.
The art of when false hope is caught on the cross-road, mauled by the lost souls and then tossed in a dark hole.
But, it's as if I overloaded my nostrils with raw coke.
A rush, but the stabilizer's a sauna of pot smoke.
Such a masochistic cubicle.
"Dance and fix this suitable."
The black elixir soothes the throat but damages the crucible.
Grasp and misconstrue this whole detachment of my human soul.
Re-create reality and pass it off as beautiful.
Wash this desperation out with bags of pharmaceuticals.
Carved my expiration down - an act that's marked as "usual."
Tied my body up and sipped your sugar-coated Ginseg.
took control of Syntex and pushed me over this edge -
expectancy: hopes that I just wouldn't float and live anymore,
sink to the floor, remain a puppet prone to shipwreck.
I guess I've learned to swim instead of drowning in the red tide.
Content at disadvantage or a prowess that I live by?
Showering in red dye - surrounded by the dead bodies,
empowering my sex-drive in a town that doesn't shed light.
Back in the box I go. Dismembered, aching, I bleed slow.
Unexpected sleep from the medicated placebo.
and with guilt as an eclipse...
What if he mastered the madness, became as rapid with the ratchets & clanks
To expose the machinery of drunken Bacchus and his bastardous angst
Each Avalon court jester took a blind stab at the savage’s ranks
Retaliated with caches of catch phrases… the method of mindfuck: unimaginable rape?
The reaper was enamored with wraiths. Defeated before the ballot was weighed.
Medieval in his fallible ways. In a cathedral surrounded by countless renegades -
demonstrating how to besiege a city with their limbs under paralysis… wait.
He’d have every out-of-towner stripped… consumed with hatred that he tried to avoid.
He glided through voids with a glycerin administering the timid vanilla scents… of ignorance.
The village is, a holographic sunny day unless you KILL it with diligence.
Watch it split into a trillion tidbits - really an insidious pilgrimage, of incapacitating images.
Now, how about the amount of AJAX that’s frothing from the colons and nape sacs?
Strolling in moments of payback when you should tug-a-rope the sole control of your fate back
The soul console had a bad break, all because you couldn’t embrace the solace of ASAP
Concrete debris fields a weak teal - swollen sunlight’s corroding the gray slabs.
It’s a shame, they spiritually deported you through fortitude - deprived of old or new
You’d be able to see the strings that supported you if they really like…‘supported’ you
Don’t put on your V for Vendetta masks and be cordial (that’s horrible)
So much for a peaceful transition to Shangri La if your corpse is groomed in torched saloons
Cords forcibly torqued in an absorbent gloom, the smell of reality quite unsettling.
Dead seriousness with a hint of morgue perfume. Sabotage the door to the moon.
Merge the energy of ancient spiders with vague memories of scotch tape and wires
Synced together with your great desires - and that’s not phlegm your swallowing
you’re merely gulping down a medley of disintegrated bladed fibers
The enemy never surrendered - he just had the sudden ache to retire.
Playwrights praise the nation of tainted ailments and raise the paganist pyre.
Just be lucky they forgot to put your precious porcelain fuckin’ face in the fire
we're left to wither inside of it all.
In : Rhymed Verses