PLACES
TO GO
By PK
(couldn't
get over the past allow a place of madness)
sorry trust fund
baby
majority
monitor
timing
there will be a time
when i will talk about it
you are a head
of yourself
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IMPRESSIONS
OF THE DAMNED IN THE CITY OF DREAMS
By A.J.
Savage
Eyes
survey the boulevard
Like a firing squad
waiting for the command.
Dispassionate glances
on the damned.
The cold chill
makes them shuffle their feet
Their faces have one thing in common:
Defeat.
These dreamers
that come to cities
propelled by hope
floating on the naive bubbles of youth
But then stripped of dignity.
They stand, like empty eyed dolls
wondering why the wind
has blown them off course.
In the street,
an exiled angel walks with uncertainty;
like a cat balancing on a rooftop gutter
Will she fall?
Will she close her eyes
and love them all?
These disgusting men
That reek of cigarettes
And the pungent odour of loneliness
That follows them like a cloud
To a damp bedsitting room
Where they ask the actress
To show her performing skills
"Get on the bed!
Don't talk!
Don't get intimate!
Don't give me your life story
I don't want to know!
Here's a cigarette!
Smoke it like a slut!
Honey I just want
THE WHOLE DIRTY SHOW!
"The audition for dreams is over
The director never called back
The empty coffee cup seems to mock you
The ash tray there: the funeral of your beauty
So this is it?
The big city dreams
leave you empty and cold:
A Russian winter in the heart.
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YOUR
PURPOSE
By Mcintosh
Bazile
when
nothing matters but the black and white, the careless
colors that are left away in the burdens of time,
a centuries of black faded into the cement, where
all the burdens crawl out the caucus of disparity
relinquish through the dust, until the gods call
loud enough for you to awake your purpose; your
heart cracks and snares its first pitch to your
dreams desire unwinds the cursive tones that ached
its awakening, you crave the moment, a envied addiction
the claws you into the morning that finds you out
your dreams, the reason your heart ticks the beat...Its
the dream, the purpose, the reason the suns reminds
you of morning where everything is only left in
this ocean of inevitable moments. Unlimited. Desperate.
When you find the reason of your awakening, the
birth of your purpose, you strive until nothing
matters till the moments that gave you this purpose...
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PIMP
By Carol
Ann Bond
Arbiter
of hot flesh,
Something for everyone,
Tall ones, short ones, black ones, white ones.
A panoply of Pussy,
Love that is fast and cheap as bubble gum.
High stepping, finger snapping, lover of Cadillacs
and diamond rings.
You never, ever get your manicured nails dirty.
Your teeth gleam like sharpened pearls.
Your suits expensive and dapper,
Make you look like the King of Wall Street, a captain
of industry.
Only your kingdom is the Coinage of Flesh,
The High Finance of Pussy.
Whores stained with too much dirty love,
Poor wilted roses, adore you. And think you feel
the same.
Oh, Big Daddy of the Streets,
Protector of the lost and forlorn.
Your face so pristine an sharp is a face any mother
could love.
But inside your heart is a cool, green lizard,
Devouring its own tail.
But in your dark eyes there is something that does
not move.
A kind of death that measures the worth of dirty,
luscious flesh.
The kind of man who likes life raw and fast.
You know not where you will go and care not.
For there will be enough whores and cadillacs in
Hell.
For a man such as you.
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