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mongrels at noon and other.grocery bags filled with vomit. there are ways of the world, and then there are the crocodiles. we eat eat eat, eat eat eat. you think zymosis is so spectacular, maybe you should feel the octonary blues.mongrels at noon and other.
by *nighttimebeautiful
slightly, 4 o'clock.(i never knew milk could curdle so manyslightly, 4 o'clock.
ways, until the sun began to set at noon)
i know i am safe in November because i lay down on the fingers of
delicate grass and i know that no ants will decide to come and socialize.
everybody loves funny poems, because they are safe like chocolate chip cookies and pepsi-cola at a shindig, or party. but i do not think November is very funny.
i like to write about how the leaves seem to fall too early in the summer time, and the smell of beryl, teeming grass. things like these are not easy to find always. no, not ever ever in N
by *nighttimebeautiful
the quarry of nettle.small, envious motes of blood on my knees, like the satire of old melodic movies.the quarry of nettle.
I serve you cold breakfast beneath your fingernails,
with pansies in your salad and mangled nettle. Others praise me because my skin is clean. You say i need to sleep more often. I tell you everyday that the knots in my hair have become un welcomed quandaries, and you shake your teeth, telling me you do not know what a quandary is. I wrap you in ribbon blankets and send you to the white room where there is cold egyptian tea and carnal stars of red. I stand beneath you. the brisk shee
by *nighttimebeautiful
in repetition,she licked every pebble from his thirty eight eyelashes and said, "your cheeks are soft like the petals of white daises" and he never heard her speak again.in repetition,
by *nighttimebeautiful
sound in relation to the heart(paint on my palms, skin, like wax. melt. melt. melt.)sound in relation to the heart
i have a fever and you tell my mother i will die.
but i have water stuck to the walls of my throat and inside each strand of hair. i tell you.
i am drowning.
by *nighttimebeautiful
Steve.dear Steven;Steve.
i did what you said and spread blood on my ceiling, but the christians spat on me and said things quite profane. then i took off all my clothes and did a rain dance, just like you showed me, the cops called me on that one too, though. remember that time you thought it would be a good idea if i sacrificed a black bear during the full moon? yeah, well, my mom was pretty pissed off when she had to get a new carpet. the other day i asked a tree permission before i climbed it, like you told me i HAD to. the neighbor saw and told my mom that if we didn't give us all the rhubarb from our garden that he'd get me locked up (n
by *nighttimebeautiful
english.english, like summer, rainingenglish.
mayflies in a locket of radiant hairs, shine like june(bugs) in a voice of twine and (egyptian) sheets. counting in spanish counting in french
counting in russian english, like counting down. forfeit your (new) coming; for old ways.
because i am young again like i have always been. in fields of daffodils and June bugs, wrapped in egyptian cotton with wings like a moth. and no one speaks english. no one speaks english no one speaks english. no one speaks english.
timeless, s
by *nighttimebeautiful
the taste of winter."the sky is your favorite colour" "i know."the taste of winter.
we have tongues like cinnamon, and
i tell you that i dont believe you anymore
because your eyes are like noon, and i
hate noon. and i want you to know that
i dont trust you anymore because you
keep me in purgatory when all i need is
clarity, whether it be in heaven or hell.
but our tongues are of cinnamon. and i
need to mourn, but you keep me alive,
alive like fresh coffee and cold air, but all
i want is sleep. and i need to tell you that
i cant breathe anymore, because my skin
is like sand, and i
by *nighttimebeautiful
mispronunciation.i am far from where boundaries create me.mispronunciation.
breathe.
i saw you undress during a july storm. where notions of life became irrelevant.
here, i believed that the stars were small. here, where it was believed that i was small. breathe. i heard you sing to life itself, under the maple trees. where your music makes me erratic. here, i create for the ones who can not. here, where creating is lavender, and gold. breathe. i tasted your sense of love, harmony kept. where induced memories become unwritten. here, i survive. here, where i collect th
by *nighttimebeautiful
portraiture
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by *LenaAkhumovadeviantID
good music, good art. 
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