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those burning nights in parisif paris is easy, then easythose burning nights in paris by ~Mercury-the-Queen
is the way i like my love.
there are souls folded into cafe corners,
there are lives we'd like to taste and try on.
(whose empty eyes? whose wrists are these?)
and they will beg of you
"oublie moi, chers amis."
and you will forget them.
paris is easy.
i have probed her underbelly,
felt the warm rumble of the coming rain, and
she has shown me her metropolitan drunkards,
stray cats and
women of the night:
the girls who slither through back doors,
(a feather lost floats softly,
kisses the ground and blows away.
"c'est la vie," she croaks,
and in her voice i hear diamonds,
wine bottles and a hundred
the wind that snakes between the legs of
the eiffel tower
has whispered wicked words to me,
she has teased the braille on my tongue and i
learned to read the love in a pain au chocolat, le foie gras,
le vin blanc.
i have learned that pastry chefs
are the worst kind of
paris has been my lover. i have traced
...and so i gave you thisyou asked me for a poem....and so i gave you this by ~Mercury-the-Queen
sometimes i fall in love with words
and wish that words
would fall for me.
you want a poem? how about the darkness of the morning
when the sun still rubs the night from his eyes,
the dew on the grass and how your feet jump from the itch.
how about the laughter of a creek or the roar of the ocean,
there, that's a poem.
you want a poem?
ask me about watermelon kisses
or how a blackberry whispers love to the backs of my teeth.
ask me how my lips know every curve of my knees
and my spine knows the unyielding wall,
ask me about sunsets and the giants who paint them,
who gave the frog his croak, and why,
why the ravens never seem to cackle
on those dark and maddening nights.
how about the way the muse and i do things
that make her a saint and i a sinner?
how about the soft hiss of my breath when my mouth falls open,
the crust that sleeps in my eyes until i scrape it away.
this too is a poem.
you asked for a poem?
the way honey drips off a spoon,
you are my eyessince i met you i have fallenyou are my eyes by ~Mercury-the-Queen
for the way my fingers curl around a pen.
you told me once that my poems kept you breathing,
and if these pinkish branches keep your heart beating
then i love them and i love them
and i love them.
(you said my eyes were cornflower, forget-me-not,
blue jean shorts on a summer night.
you said my eyes were oceans, not for the blue
but because the sirens on my lashes
fell on your cheeks and sang to you.)
and my stomach has held a hundred moons
but you never told me that the blood i shed
even slumped on the floor when i cried in the night
you held me and told me not to be afraid,
you kissed my face and said that i was beautiful,
held my hand when my ribs became
good company, wouldn't let me count them
but fell asleep with your fingers just above the one we nicknamed
knees knocking, i cried when he disappeared from view.
you told me that he left like all good friends tend to do,
that his absence said 'healthy' and that
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DevourerNot even the world;Devourer by ~OuroborosRagnarok
all that glitters –
all that's gold.
to sate, to fill
the emptiness inside.
So long as
the stars should shine,
and the moon above glows –
will never be
enough to fulfill.
BitterDark coffee and cigarette smoke clung to his clothes like an unwelcome former lover. . Blood-shot eyes, and scars – some self-inflicted, and others not so much – hid behind dark glasses and black leather. But the mental scars were harder to hide. Maybe not visible, but very much so apparent.Bitter by ~OuroborosRagnarok
The bell chimed as his bestubbled visage entered into the shop. Without a word, he took his usual seat – the one just to the left of the entryway, facing it. He mused about how he could see anyone entering before they'd notice him. He mused about how he could also make a hasty exit, if need be through that selfsame door. These thoughts occupied him, distracted him from what was really on his mind.
A waitress came over with his cup of coffee. Black, two sugars. Just how Cole liked it. How he'd been having it since he was a prepubescent little shit in mother's apartment. Even then he was an addict. Coffee, soda, anything with caffeine would do for him back then. Nicotine was his dru
ColdHer touch turned to frost those who had sought to warm her icy heart. But that never stopped anyone from trying. In truth, all she wanted was some warm coffee and a place to call home. If “home” was where the heart is, she was sure that she'd rather remain homeless.Cold by ~OuroborosRagnarok
Her chocolate brown skin was dimpled with gooseflesh. Cold as she may fancy her heart, the human body isn't meant to handle certain temperatures. She wished she'd kept her coat a few months ago. She'd planned on heading south by this time of year. Unintentionally, she wrinkled her broad nose.
The image of Lady Godiva came to mind. A thick-lipped smirk found her otherwise graceful features. Never did learn to ride... She thought, almost muttered under her breath. That very same breath that ancient peoples of the north once believed was a man's soul escaping. That wispy air they maintained to keep within themselves at all costs. Beneath the fluorescent lights of the station, she found the thought at odds. <
RetirementThey called me a cosmic killer. Unable to love, to care, to think. Maybe they're right. Or maybe not. Maybe I do love. Maybe I do care. Maybe I do think. On a different wavelength. A different light. Different priorities. Not everyone can rest easy every night. Not everyone can kill without being haunted by a ghost. A ghost of love. A ghost of life. A ghost that never was.Retirement by ~OuroborosRagnarok
They called me a cosmic killer. And they tried to take my strength. They didn't know what it was. Where it was. Or even if I still had it at all. I coiled it deep inside; swallowed it whole. They wouldn't have what was mine. Those few centimeters of space between my ears. They can have my body, they can have my soul. But my mind is pure, clean, free. And that's how it's going to stay.
Spider-like veins trace around my eyes. Old age catching up to an old soldier. One who didn't ever fight for love. I didn't fight for glory. I fought because it was all I knew how to do. And I never grew tired. I was the cosmic killer,
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