Genel Yönetici GERGE Mesaj tarihi: Temmuz 20, 2007 Genel Yönetici Paylaş Mesaj tarihi: Temmuz 20, 2007 Pretty in her plague; she makes her statements in prologue - a rolling wave of sugary mold; she takes my neck, stiff, holds. Or the wholes in her face; defacing my optimism - a world, like an oyster, or the cunt of her cruelty, moister in the moment of clarity (I smile when I hear that he fucked you, and left you and now you find yourself oh, so, sad.) Pretty in her plague, army postpartum; witless verbatim, and now what? I listen to you take words and rape them clumsily like a virgin would, a thousand insults that dance across my ear lobes; down my chandelier ear rings, across the scar on my neck; underneath my breasts that flaunt your unflattering flatness. And now what? Pretty in her plagiarism; in her romanticism. In her scowl at my reaction. Elevated from her contraction of innocence. The plague, she says is pretty; like fireworks, like infants and infidels, like smirks. Pretty in her post haste wasting of this poem. Pretty in my prominent position of gaining the upper hand in this always happily argument spent pacing. I want to watch you sweat out your fears until it puddles in riddles. (In the end, I send these words to you, for who else would fear them so, although you deserve nothing, I have something to hold over you.) Pretty in her punishment; abstinent, pinch, and flake the raw odor of her eye lids - empty her fibs across her face like tears, tracing the tartaric glom, an under layer of assayers. Pretty? No, nothing more then a jar of piss to pour her plagues through. Link to comment Sosyal ağlarda paylaş Daha fazla paylaşım seçeneği…
Antimodes52 Mesaj tarihi: Temmuz 20, 2007 Paylaş Mesaj tarihi: Temmuz 20, 2007 Takip ediyorum bir süredir yazılarını da, çok karanlık yazıyorsun be. Yani ne bileyim, betimlemelerinden kaynaklanıyor sanırım. Her ne kadar güzel olsalar da beni açmıyor çok. Link to comment Sosyal ağlarda paylaş Daha fazla paylaşım seçeneği…
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