[windowface] i am a big savage bastard for you i am a rough greasy dangerous stolen vehicle pressed against your tailbone in a crowded bathroom for you i am a loud dirty kite for you i am a paper dragon that sighs once and incinerates itself for you i am an unfinished masterpiece of particles for you i am forty three sexually explicit novels for you i am the square wheel of a car that drives away from you i am the director's cut of an eighties movie about you i am fifteen swimming pools deep in you i am days long in the dirt of you i am a blind child's colourful toy with you i am a widow crying on newly wedded floors for you i am a drunk chess piece on the national grid of you i am a decaying horse in a glue crisis for you i am an alternative source of fuel for you i am a heavy warm musical illness for you i am madly and deeply in discount with you i am a divorced dad's baby seat without you i am a moody shoe box of barometers under you i am raining tiny animals against you i am a shy spider with seven broken legs in a vacuum cleaner factory for you i am nine hundred and ninety nine cow hearts beating in one manic puppet moments before a wood shortage for you. Everything feels sexier at a wake, sweetie. If you have never looked into the abyss of an approaching truck with one temple pressed against a spiked wall and the other under the floorboards of a lunatic and their whim If you have never landed in a pile of wet gears and shattered like a Picasso piñata yet still wearily collected every piece of yourself so that birds wouldn't choke on them If you have never drunkenly talked to yourself in the reflection of a dented toaster and shaken it upside down for the smallest of crumbs If you have never adopted dust bunnies naming and folding them into envelopes as you danced barefoot in a stranger's bedroom If your torso has never been grateful to provide the surface for a last minute late night feast If your head has never been rammed through a cracked kaleidoscope of splinters from wasting a month’s worth of energy trying to hoard someone else's gravity If you've never taken a bullet to the chest and genuinely believed bullets hurt less if they are kissed before someone takes aim then in your dying breath inhaled the smoke that rises from the wound just because it was from them then you have no fucking business telling anyone about love. Poem where I cry watching Child's Play 2 Andy Barclay is my hero He has no friends he has no family everyone he loves is gone When he meets people the first thing he thinks is 'Don’t love this person. One day they will die.’ Then he’s alone again An unstoppable darkness pursues Andy all he wants is to feel part of something A family, a friendship a fucking birthday present that won’t try to possess him and steal his soul Can you imagine how tough that would be for a boy? The violence he has seen A child's need to be loved unable to let love need him Why the fuck do you think he wanted that doll so badly? When you hug it, it says ‘I’m your friend to the end’ He’s scared. He’s confused. He’s too sensitive for this world everything is too loud and cruel He needed a companion that would never judge or abuse him and be there no matter how bad his moods became He needed someone to say they'd never leave him and mean it And what does the doll do? It whispers lies in his ear It tells him he's useless It tries to take his body When it can’t do that, it kills everyone he cared about What do you think that does to a child? Do you think it’s easy, growing up around so much violence? He should have been skipping to school with a packed lunch He should have been cared for That’s what a child is for You don’t attack them with knives you don’t hurt them for your amusement or make them feel unworthy of love He did nothing to deserve this He is terrified of becoming that same evil he has been raised in The people who promised to protect him dismissing him like the defective child they see him as Defective, just like the doll How many times can that curse keep doing this before that same curse becomes the only real family he has? His legs will become tired He will stop running He will allow the evil in Just to feel something other than fear and isolation Someone help him Where is home, Andy? 'Cus I have no fucking idea. Bio: Dean Rhetoric has poetry in Sea Foam, Nauseated Drive, Ghostland, Picaroon and others. He currently hides out in East London and says things here: https://twitter.com/dean_rhetoric
Alexis Bates
6/11/2017 08:37:04 am
These poems are rocking my world. Excellently crafted and such intense images. Wonderful.
V wordgasm2
11/6/2017 07:56:34 pm
I love your words and the depth and darkness behind those eyes of yours! You're always fucking amazing to me.. Especially licking cookie mix whilst wearing your underpants and jacket! Comments are closed.
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