Now, Lie In It.

Now, Lie In It.

Americana Injustica

Broken sockets in both of his eyes
While you undoubtedly stood right by
Beaten to bits with his own Maglite
How do you live with such oversight?
The last standing of your Champions
The only one left to allow you back in
And this is your reward to him
While his eyes may never see again.
And the last things they saw were certainly
Your friends taking off with his phone and money
As you had the nerve to play your victimology
He laid alone, bleeding out in the street
I can honestly and openly say
That I didn’t raise you to turn out this way
Your drama comes through like a tidal wave
And hurts the ones whose blood is the same
I will stand up with my heels both dug in
Stand the ground that surrounds my closest kin
There’s no way in Hell or in Heaven

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Journey Into The Voice Of A Stranger


Fiorella Giordano

8:25 A.M. in speed of steel and train coming, coffee in hand and 30 minutes of longing to Seattle. Every face is a stranger, and every voice cracks a silence. I wait… for breath and vibration. Each voice tells a story, heart and soul- survival.

I withdraw into my thoughts, I am listening… I am lost… in the listening, simultaneous wanderings, coffee, and the music of these people’s ease and labor. Souls thriving and absent. And I am thinking about my youngest nephew, whose depths hide me, how his little peace hides me, all of his 17 months staring at me. He is dark space and fresh stars, in an unborn morning.

I remember I am anxious. I brush it away. I look over my shoulder, there is a tiny rainbow breathing in between clouds. I do not want to believe, today. I am tired.

The physics of all these…

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Venice Diaries

In the delicate nuances
Of our love
Lie its ruins
Your unspoken truths
Casual caresses
Whispered purposes, purposeful whispers
Meaningful kisses
Mixtures of heat and lies
Textures of our history
Covered in glances
An exposé
Waiting to be written
We can’t betray
Betrayals we can’t conceal
I hide in corners
Of my mind
Those same truths
And know our love
Won’t survive

©Cate Derham

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Red Swan and Elk Tree

Jennifer Calvert Author

Red Swan. | Editorial | Pinterest Red Swan. | Editorial | Pinterest

Against the backdrop of crimson skies,
She looks beyond the gravesite,
The leaves of goldenrod and olive notes,
Scatter and crush under toe,
The dead and buried, the few still walking the night,
Churchyard and skulls,

Damsel and knight,
A red swan under an elk tree,
Snow white velvet and ferny duress  is she, Heart broken and veiled,
A hornet’s nest swinging above,
Inflamed in smile,
Intoxicated, debris,

Melting tallow candle, Dipped in suffocating breath,
Smouldering light flickering,
Deep rooted,
Underground she sleeps,

Among the living and dead.

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touch me there


Touch me right there

Oh yes. Yes. There

Your hands

God I love your hands

On me

Under me

In me

Touch me right there

Oh yes. Yes. There

God I love your fingers

Trace me

Brace me

Delight me

Touch me right there

Oh yes. Yes. There

Your tongue

God I love your tongue

Taste me

Tease me

Inhale me

Slick sweetness

As you cup me

Wet as rain

Smooth as silk

Touch me

Shape me

Yes. Oh yes

There. Right there

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fall is cumming


unmistakable, the raunchy scent of female musk permeates the thick air

deceptively wanton, clean, natural, filthy, begging for the soured sweat,

the pumping throb of ejaculation, to foul it’s perfect bouquet into a sexual bog

fecund and rich, trails of slime leave shiny snail paths along glistening thighs

as if my cunt was your garden and your cock the stamen which pollinated it

you need to immerse yourself, plunging into the dirty filth of me to heal erotically

surrounded by the wafting vapors and salacious scents of mans creation

churning inside of your tightening ballsack until you spew your pungent snot

into the miasma of fluids sluicing between us like a sudden deluge of rain

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