You're Next to Me.

I sit here. Dwelling. Thinking. Listening. Breathing.
The warmth hits my frost bitten toes, my frost bitten face, my frost bitten
Heart?
Hm, well...that's something of a stretch.
"Shut me out"
Her voice says, screams, echoes, chimes,
Somehow it speaks to me.
Something about this girl's high pitched whining says something.
Something meaningful. something full of want. Full of craving.
Full of music. Full of the gusto I wish I could muster.

Reading between the lines is a great thing,
Especially if your a writer.
Like me.
If I told you how I felt straight up, you'd laugh at me.
You'd make fun of me for trying to talk to you.
You'd poke at me with that stick of ignorance your parents gave you.

Aphroditie and Lancelot. (Oh... How good are you.)

Highest point of the night,
Swiping at my card,
Grasping at my lips, my jeans, my cunt.
My wallet couldn't be further away;
The little pills I need to feast upon are too much for me to bear!

This raw dick grazing the insides of my lustfully inclined soul.
(call me vulgar all you wish,
But you sick bastards pray that I'm the dish
You sink your fingertips, your mushroom tip and tongue tip
Into.)
It's so hot,
It's so warm,
It's so strong.
Compared to my weak and pathetic craving of his thick long cock.

Am I reduced to this?
A wanton woman of carnal glee?
Or am I love-starved?
Fiendish intentions are clawing at my back.
The base of my brain, BURNS
For this delicious phrase of Love.

Whisper your sweet nothings down my throat,
To the swell of my breath,
To the arch of my back,
and down into my heart,
Like the sweat that pours from your face and
The palms of my hands.
Kiss them like pearls
FEAST on me as though I were your last meal!

I need it.
Your love, like a coke-head scrounging up for change.
make me yours.
devour me.
eat this soul wrapped in cashmere sheets of skin.


xx

Supercalafragalisticexpialadocious.

I can't being to start rattling off.
My mental capacity of random information,
Like a verbal mouse, squeaking and scurrying like
The fabric of the soles of your shoes.

These pants feel tight,
This ring feels like it's eating my thumb
In a hungry notion of a ravished child of African
Natures.
Mothering his extended stomache like a fowl Stillborn
Ingrown fetal matter to the side of your guts.

This, child, so to speak;
Is the bane of my poetical mind.
This,
Child.
Green and leafy, like they should be
Total rapture in its' caress.
Like a ragged silken rope
Tightening around your neck, reminding you
Of

Corprate necktie wearing
Jurers that make this malcontent thing of beauty
Die.
Wither
Like the waters of the mother's afterbirth placenta.