[x]

pneumonia is heartbreaks twini) scrawled a laundry list of everything i want for christmas
and the new year
and my next 34 birthdays
and every holiday in the dictionary

they all rhyme with either
must,
or
apart,
or
never,

but mostly i want to open a specially gift-wrapped pronoun
to love and to hold, to cherish and other typical weddingvowbullshit;

we'd watch leaves fall during chinese autumns,
and watch sunflowers blossom during french springs.
in summer we'd go surfing at californian beaches,
and in winter we'd go sk

ii) ng through canadian mountains.

even from african grasslands to italian canals,
i would still cherish the pronoun.
to the fields of

returning my body to its owner i'm taping these words
on the back of my finger;
i'll wear them like a bandage,
and superglue them to brick walls
vandalized with spraypaint tattoos.

i'm stapling my ears behind my head
and cracking every bone in my body
at least seven times – not stopping
until graffiti pours out my skin
in hemophilic hues – vivid colors,
which are nothing more than light.

i'm writing with the arm of a lunatic;
i'm loving with the heart of a savage.
i'm deauthorizing the public opinion,
and auctioning my tongue off on ebay.

i'm but a crescent moon on a zit of the world's ass

i'm seeing through other people's eyes,

to throw up on a dream catcherI threw my sighs away when
I threw my sight your way
when you caught my eyes
like a mottephobic butterfly catcher,
so you could throw them in the ocean, where

no matter how many times I throw a line,
I can never catch another fish of the sea:
not because it's unflavored,
but because I'm too allergic
to face your sea
or see your face;
but i would,

if i could...
I'd throw myself into your arms,
but you wouldn't catch that,
since you're too busy catching
everything else.

Caught at the crime scene -–
hands as red as blood spatter –
my wish, your disappointment:
I stole your attention,
you stole my affection;
like K

a taxidermist in my spare timeit's always the last week of november when i'm making up statistics to say how awfully uncomprehensible i am. and it's always at exactly a quarter to eleven when i'm writing about nothing except for the vomit in your eyes or the blood in your mouth or another cliche of how pissed off/upset/overdramatic

i am

not in love,
and i am not dressing corpses in your clothes,
and i am not in love,
and i am not lying to 500 strangers right now,
and i am not in love,
and i am not pretending that the sweat in your hair or the vomit on your skin or the blood on our tongues is anything other than some absurd metaphor for

fuck you

ugly hearts of beautiful poets"Oh, how shattered thou hast made me;
thine eyes circumvent mine,
and my archaic tongue fears thy truth so much,
it's hiding from thee in the early 1600s"

and this is the part where you say:

I'm sorry, but look on the brightside

what bright side?

I may not love you, but broken hearts create lovely words

empty lightbulbs are bad ideaspower on

i remember that ever-so somber spiral staircase of a storm; oh, don't think i'll ever forget the macabre sequence of high-voltage events that forever scarred my luminosity: your weathered rhetoric tripped the stratosphere, and The Sky slid down a flight of frightening silhouettes. thunderclouds climbed through our ozone layer, precipitating the downfall of us. your capricious bolts overcharged and crashed into my murky plane-of-thought. i'm afraid of the grotesque shadows surging through our intertwined veins, yet the whimsical flashes of (im)possibility only blind my hexed eyes from subtle verity.

how many romantic addicts does

Simple Method to Get PublishedTHREE EASY STEPS TO GET YOUR BOOK PUBLISHED:

I) Write book as fast and as sloppy as you can; make sure to not spend any time thinking about it.

II) Find Stephanie Meyers' publisher, and send her your manuscript.

III) Enjoy irrational fame.

vicarious lust beyond page 287Cassie was an artist. With charcoal pastels, she painted masterpieces on last year’s newspapers; every Sunday night she watched film noir cartoons on her vintage television; every Monday morning, she stressed over the unfinished projects due that day. She found disgrace in beauty and believed color was only for the shallow. When it rained, she'd stare at the nimbus clouds and trace her grey sunset in the gloomy sky. Rain was her muse, her inspiration, her best friend. And melancholy weather was her lover. To settle her depression, she went to the library; she closed her ey

my thought bubbles are on marsskysky ooooyousky
cloud HE^ADcloud
zipperlips//caviteeth/lonely mouth//gapingjaw

n.
,e
c,
.k

$cAr$ {lustful< 3ribcage} . . . s c a r s cars scar tche scra scar tche scars
[wasted space for organs]
-left hipbone, right hipbone-
(western thigh--your past--eastern thigh)
Left Foot; Right Foot
Ground
1
2
3
4
5
feeefeetfeetfeetfeetfeefeett;defeat

satan threw me a slumber partyi’m tired
of you, and
i’m tired of
Miss Irony;

i’m tired of OCD,
i’m tired of poetry,
i’m tired of counting
and miscounting sheep,

i’m tired of losing my mind
to cosmetic con artists who make
more money than banks,
who make more sense
than a vending machine;
who make their mind up,
down,
not minding their dirty,
shady business.

oh, how i envy those poisoned Disney Princesses

i’m tired of blitzkrieg alarm clocks that snooze louder than me,
and
i’m tired of vinyl pinups (un)dressing up my hypnophobic lids
and
i’m tired of the poltergeist who keeps fucking up cushion clouds
and

i fell in love with the miragei don't believe in numbers.
i don't believe in language.
i don't believe in religion.
i don't believe in science.

because

hypocrites invented math,
and letters are fabricated.
fairytales are for children,
and chemicals don't exist.

i don't believe in art
i don't believe in love
i don't believe in life,
and i sure as hell don't
believe in death,

because

my eyes reflect light, not color.
my brain controls my emotions.
existence is a fucking nightmare
only a coffin can wake me from.

i'm just an imaginary poet;
faithless but not Fateless,
chimeric but not apathetic
(though i love to pretend)

i don't believe in anything,
in

honestly i double dog dare you

hey girl, let’s play truth or dare.
well, i’m never honest but okay. truth.
how do you feel about me?
uh, i meant dare.
i dare you to tell the truth
how about you go first?
okay, truth.

truth: when you toss quarters into kitchen sinks, do you wish i would die in your arms just so you could brag at my funeral how you were the last person to hold me?
no, i wish all your clothes would turn to trash and your tears turn into the sandbox beach under my naked toes. truth or dare?
dare.

dare: i dare you to kidnap jejune jewelry from clamorous clamshells and request luxury via newspaper ransom notes.
my bl

but they glue-gunned the pins,the circus is in town,
so maybe if i knock
down bowling pins,
i'll win a cheap prize.

and maybe if i trade in
enough prizes,
i'll find a soul
to share;

but rigged carnivals
and poisoned apples
and trick mirrors,
they don't quench my hunger
or raise my self-esteem.

--

if i took you,
well, i'd pretend we meant more
than cotton candy that tastes like hair
and funnel cake that goes straight to your thighs,
but i know a fair is anything but . . .

the moon looks beautiful tonight,
you'd say in your most Tragic accent.
it's got nothing on you,
i'd lie to you just to lie with you,
and kiss you at the top of the ferris wheel.

b

the witch's tapers are eroticTongues don't think;
thoughts don't speak;
words don't dance;
and legs don't talk.

Yet somehow,
my tongue pressed up against your chapped thighs;
my cracked lips bit through the cracks of your hips--
crackedcrackedcracked
like the scrambled eggs
in the picnic basket
Little Red Riding Hood
gave the malnourished wolf.

Fangs are harmless, but oh dear,
it seems the eggshells are walking on me
like I'm some kind of unvacuumed carpet.

The piling dirt syndicate ganged up on me,
set aflame my summer snowmen,
impeached my Conscience's Chief Cricket;

Oh, my diet lacks relevance and coherence,
but my appetite swallows clinquant harbin

to err is to learn is to love:i'll be your spelllcheck,
if you keep making mistakes
you want me to fix.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 2.0 KB more ▶

More from ~ChloroformBoy

you entranced me near the exithow fascinating,
how captivating,
how entrancing,
how enchanting
you look tonight

ravishing,
lavishing,
dressed in a spellbinding fashion
like some European opera singer
or Parisian supermodel -- trendy
with a waist smaller than E. Coli,
you sure seem more dangerous.

double, double, toil and trouble

so haute couture
so hoe, cut your
bewitching tongue
because you put
the EW in BITCH.

you are charmful to my health.
i am enamoured with glamour.
you've cursed me with rhymes
like "hex" and "sex" and "ex";
you've cursed me with poetry;
you've cursed me with shame;
you've cursed me with curses;
you've cursed and cussed me,

after the world stops spinningawkward:
i must be the letter K.
for kiss me in the rainforest.
for kill me with your honesty.
for keep me in my clothes.
in suspense. in (your) control.

and you, well, you're the surrounding W's.
just for the record, i hate W's.
too many syllables. not even two U's to use.
so pretentious, i'm pretentious.
you're pretentious. no you're not;
you don't even know
what pretentious means.

we're mismatched clothes--
the ones not on your floor,
but i'm not trendy enough.
you're two hip for me;
your two hips (aren't) for me.

we're compatible,
but in all the wrong ways.
evil percent signs trick us;
we'r

politics and nonsense and andsI was King of the Psychopaths:
Mussolini and I crashed dozens
of parties full of technoblasting
stereos, hard liquor, neonlights,
dirty lingerie, and graverobbers.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
We broke every law of physics-
we defied gravity, split an atom,
defied the spacetime continuum
with our heads hanging over my
fireplace, sparing seven minutes
as we returned to 1850 to throw
a banquet with the Roman Gods.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I am not an ampersand I am not
a run-on sentence I am not your
best lover I am not your lover at
all I am not anybody's lover I am
not missing punctuation I am not
missing my eyes I am not missin

oh, if i could live in my headthe worst part about loving you
is loving you

the only thing worse than that:
you loving me,
me waking up.

your pseudonym should be BLANKyour name tastes like another reverie.
i split your soubriquet in seven
shamefulless segments,
s c a t t e r e d
on each continent.

i shall declare your new moniker:
" "
named after the saids i never said,
the thoughts i never thought,
the knows i never knew,
the mouth i never entered;

the accumulating nevers i never evered,
the could haves i could have could had,
the maybes i maybe could'

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: November 13, 2009
File Size: 2.0 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 164
Favourites: 47 [who?]
Views: 957 (1 today)
Downloads: 9 (0 today)

[x]

I was Hercules in a past life,

by ~ChloroformBoy, Nov 13, 2009, 5:42:59 PM
Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Surrealism

Set the clocks four years back?
Check.
Turn the fucking television off?
Check.
Adjust the volume on the radio?
Check.
Know what it's like to be you?

Well, let's not get carried away...

--

Yesterday,
I invented English;
I discovered Spain
in a hot air balloon
and drove to clinics
to patent electricity.

Yesterday,
I channel surfed the English channel
and developed an allergy to royalty.
And even though I had everything,
I still went bankrupt over medicine
you told my pharmacist I deserved.

--

Today,
I am the King of Clovers
and the Emperor of China.
I am the laziest kind of poet
and the worst liar since Socrates.

Today,
I am the son of two virgins,
neither one qualified to adopt,
for I died in a vagrant's womb.
I've hatched from misconception,
yet I was aborted when I was six.

--

Tonight,
I will wrap the moon around your right clavicle,
and teach myself languages that don't exist yet.

Tonight,
my tongue will foxtrot in Hellenistic alphabets;
my body will scream sans circadian frequencies
in a way that only the heir to a magician would.

--

Tomorrow,
I will be born to a Greek God.
I will marry Athena at sunrise
and make love to a mermaid.

Tomorrow,
Even the serpents will be scared
when I fuck Medusa's heart out,
whimpering in coils of dandruff.
But I will not, for I have lived
in the center of the universe,
and there is nothing my legs
can't slither away from.

--

My daughter is Artemis,
and my son is Chaucer,
and I'm drunk on absinthe.
No, I am not a philosopher,
but I sure as fuck can pretend.

I was Hercules in a past life,by ~ChloroformBoy

Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Surrealism

©2009-2013 ~ChloroformBoy

)poison for the president's ancestors(

--

Don't ask me what this means,
because for once I don't know.

{except maybe it's melissa-esque}
[and for bekkia's [link] contest]

~AnnamaeTezuka Jul 20, 2010

That was pretty cool and a bit surreal. I liked the bit about channel surfing the English channel. That made me lol XD

Reply

~ChloroformBoy Aug 1, 2010

♥

Reply

~IrishIleana Feb 19, 2010

I want to quote my favourite part . . . 'cept this is too awesome.

Reply

~ChloroformBoy Feb 19, 2010

haha

Reply

!Lilahtov Dec 22, 2009

I don't understand what this is about.
Tell me, what inspires you when you write.
plz.
kthx. =]

Reply

~ChloroformBoy Dec 22, 2009

(certain) people inspire me

Reply

!Lilahtov Dec 22, 2009

haha.
Like me, you shouldn't have.

Reply

~xxkisa-chanxx Dec 11, 2009 Hobbyist Writer

I like this.

Specially the end.

Reply

~ChloroformBoy Dec 11, 2009

thank you !

Reply

!xxtenebrousxx Dec 7, 2009

Wow, simply,
amazing.

Reply