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Taste Strength 


Insufferable silence, the kind that clouds your ears

Brings pulse to the surface, floods the drums,

Static crackles in the clear.

Initial calculations, rudimentary predictions,

A tiny peak behind the curtain.
Complementary forces fight foe and foul.

Dismiss burning wounds as acts of valor.

The deafening screams, the horrendous pleasure.

Submit by force. Taste the power.

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Nothing Wrong With Me

Painting and poem by me. 


Touch me. Fight me. Fuck me. 

You wanted to unzip, see the dragon

That hides in the closet, the messy darkness

Where I breath fire in a corner

So not to burn anyone. 

There’s nothing wrong with me

Your skin is too soft for my scales 

So stand back, admire from a distance

Or approach. It’s your call. 

If you light me up, enjoy it, because 

There will undoubtedly be a mess

And everyone knows,

I’m not one to clean. 

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Painting As An Aries 

I peer into the bright side

In side, a glass eye, encrusted

With Chrystaline, blinking between

The beating muscle and thinking time.

 
I drag my colour across dry

Terrain, layers and rapidity

Revealing my potency without a

Dam I flow in a series of

Microscopic bursts of catastrophe

 
Catalyzing without direction, trusting

The will, the compass compelling

To create, anew, a self sustaining

feeler of wounds, a site for

light to stain the darkness.

 A view.

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