Nadine #2

Full lips, grabbing hips,
good tips, rubbing tits.
Ice eyes, man's demise,
cock rise, sexy surprise.
Pucker up, bitch.

'Ode' to Sister Salvation

Dancing through you
with a view to start
anew; call her Dru
or Magdalene,
she will always
remain the same:
vivacious vixen with
claws in mittens and
a healthy love for
poodles and kittens.

Odyssey

Test, test, testing,
April is the cruellest month,
cruellest month.
Lilacs in the warm rain
blossom on Yorick's skull,
summer days are all the same.

And here we sit, we of
sullen posture and eternal
night sky; always wondering
why, yet never having the
courage to ask the Right People.
We, the next generation!

We're a stone's throw from
the answer, clutching a map
with no names; thus no
beginning and no end.
Without words there was
never anything there at all.

The fall, the fall is steep, the
hole is deep; and down we
creep. Down where there's
nothing but perpetual black
and post-modern pseudo-
-Ginsbergian literary charlatans.

You! You, with your insufferable
pessimism and ridiculous
adjectives! You, with your split
of disorganised free-verse
and trite abab rhymes;
No harmonised blend for you.

Deceivers!
Contraveners!
Blasphemers!

The silence of a thousand
sons was broken in a vast
cataclysmic blast of energy;
Supernova Jehovah. But, what
is this demon? This sphinx?
The beast known as language?!

Communication is the new black,
that is a fact. Attack. React.
Imagine as though nothing is
lacked. Attack! React! Society
demands that you react! Seek
the word to discover the fact!

And this is our indeterminable
existence; dawn or dusk,
positive or negative, beginning
or end; all is one under the
warm summer rain in the lilac
eyes of the demon; language.

Synergism

My soul was strewn across the page,
yet nothing had been said,

The silence turned my gaze inward,
my fragmented mind there to be read.

The wrath was warm, and damp,
and still - a tiger tethered fast,

Striped emotions: dead and alive -
life's duality - first and last.

Still comes the languid curtain call,
our make-up smudged and garish.

Mascara streams down our faces; I've never
seen such beauty, but I wish, oh how I wish

the veil would disintegrate,
skeletal clarity etched on your retinae;

Sight and sound meld as one;
solar-flared sonic booms concuss our lungs;
fire for hire.

Modesty forced and synergy coaxed;
binds start to chafe,

Struggling to break this beautiful bondage,
100% cotton bites into our skin - the
mind's eye inverted, time to die...

...And death is release and the heat makes us shrink.
Inversion, coersion, dispersion,
goodbye.

author of inline stanzas: jen bolton

Yuriy Toyolanov's Demise

Emendation of the intellect,
Yuriy sat down to introspect.
He planned and plotted an intricate design
for a flying machine that follows The Line.

The Line emerged from Baker Street
beneath all of the bustling feet,
and it reaches up right into the sky
beyond all the clouds - even the most high.

His aim was to chase this Line to the End
or the top, where none could pretend
or lie, or act, there all was fact,
and the search for this purity left his mind wracked.

For the End was myth, and urban legend,
but no one had actually reached the end,
so in fact, it could well be real,
this turned Yuriy's resolve into solid steel.

He was determined it would seem,
to reach the end and fulfill his dream;
of which he wasn't entirely sure,
but knew was there as he always wanted more.

So he sat and though, he thought and thought,
then he passed out because his mind was so wrought!
He later woke up after ten hours of sleep
and drove straight to the lab in his cherokee jeep.

Now in his deep sleep, Yuriy had found
the missing link; it wasn't a sight or a sound,
nor was it a smell, or something to taste,
and you couldn't touch it as it had no place!

It was something else, some kind of aether,
he then met a woman with a tortoise benath her.
"I am the end" she scornfully said,
she then sat on Yuriy until he was dead.