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Written by RichWithey

Collecting You

My eyes darken on the horizon as 3am draws in

and I watch the fires ignite on the shoreline

It’s nearly time...

I walk the beach beyond the broken boardwalk

Seething with the nights compulsion

Sharpened to every heartbeat

In tune with every soul

A silhouette of a ripped and stained frame

Satined with danger

My ashen demeanour, tense and alert

Broken and berserk

I’m a lived-in character

You could say…

But I confess to you that mortality is a lie

If you decide not to die

and those shadows that you fear

Is a sanctuary for your tears

While darkened angels watch over you

Voyeurs in a fabricated garden

Never free from fantasy

A product of your insanity… Perhaps

Stuck between the ragged seams of the living and the dead

But supercharged beyond all you’ve read

Darkened angels ready to pursue

It’s nearly time...

To come for you...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

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Written by RichWithey
Collecting You
My eyes darken on the horizon as 3am draws in
and I watch the fires ignite on the shoreline
It’s nearly time...

I walk the beach beyond the broken boardwalk
Seething with the nights compulsion
Sharpened to every heartbeat
In tune with every soul

A silhouette of a ripped and stained frame
Satined with danger
My ashen demeanour, tense and alert
Broken and berserk
I’m a lived-in character

You could say…

But I confess to you that mortality is a lie
If you decide not to die
and those shadows that you fear
Is a sanctuary for your tears
While darkened angels watch over you
Voyeurs in a fabricated garden
Never free from fantasy
A product of your insanity… Perhaps
Stuck between the ragged seams of the living and the dead
But supercharged beyond all you’ve read

Darkened angels ready to pursue
It’s nearly time...

To come for you...


© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.
#horror  #mystery  #spirituality  #culture  #nightdwellers 
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Written by PaulDChambers in portal Simon & Schuster

Murder Most Posh. Part I.

Asking for the gravy had never before felt so entrenched in danger.

It should have been a simple act, one not laced with menace. Instead, delicious, thick gravy with a generous side of abject dread. And I certainly shouldn’t have felt the prickling of fear at the back of my neck whilst sat in such pleasant surroundings, the overwhelming sense of being trapped in Instagram-worthy opulence. I can see it now - #murder 

So, I just styled it out to the best of my abilities. Theatre studies from way back in college finally coming to some use. I plumped for Stanislavski's approach, naturally. I was sure they didn't have any sort of inkling as to my rumbling of their cunning game.

I assume it’s some sort of game. That’s what it sounded like when I accidentally happened to eavesdrop upon them reiterating the rules to each other, huddled and cohesive in their bitter and bloody resolve. If it hadn’t been for my combination of good manners and forgetfulness, I’d still be oblivious of attack right now.

They’d thought the flushing toilet was a sign that I was still in the bathroom washing my hands. That I was still cloaked in the swooshing, all-consuming watery noise; that it provided a brief, yet safe time for a guaranteed spy-free family collusion. But I’d actually forgotten to flush in the standard pee/flush/wash hands/leave way and, having already washed and dried my hands like the good lad I am, I simply leaned back in through the still open doorway, flipped the handle on the toilet and walked away from the sound.

And that was when I walked past the slightly ajar door of the study where they were discussing how to kill me. Correction – how to kill me fairly. In line with the rules.

Ok, let me back up a bit. I’m being confusing. Tad vague thus far.

It all started with the sublimely beguiling Clarissa Hamilton. A stunning young woman that had seen, or so I had thought, some potential in the slightly older, and much rougher human that was me. Clarissa is my girlfriend. Was my girlfriend. Well, we’ll see how that pans out after today. Tall, elegant, long chestnut coloured hair that she seemed to always effortlessly pile on top of her head in a messy, yet damn sexy way. Delicate features, a smattering of freckles and a face that rarely needed make up. Athletic build, long legs. As sexy dressed down in jogging bottoms as she was dressed up, or even better, undressed. 

Man, she was my type. Toned, slim, naturally pretty, and posh.

OK, she was one of my many types, but she fit perfectly the mould of my favourite type. 

She was posh and gorgeous. She was also bloody funny, hugely intelligent and damned sexy when she wanted to be. Which was nearly all the time behind closed doors. She was fairly filthy, in fact. Finger up the bum filthy to be precise. Too much too soon? Sorry.

Anyway, I’d been riding a wave of euphoria and disbelief in the three months since she approached me in the spit-and-sawdust pub down the road from me. I love an empowered woman and I delight in being pulled by them. She had plucked me out of my OK life in front of my slack-jawed beered up mates and led me away to hedonistic times involving matching underwear. Bra and knickers that were the same pattern! 

I had tried to take each day as it had come, and not get too hooked; believing it was a finite thing, doomed to fail. Yet it had burned brighter each day, the bond both mentally and sexually growing ever permanent. I had thrown entire weekends away, previously planned with mates; guiltless eating, drinking and fucking up a sweat in her beautiful pad. Somewhere along the line I’d fallen hook, line and sinker for her and had readily agreed to meet her parents at the city apartment on this fateful day.

Yes. Specifically their city apartment. They were so damn rich that each of their properties had a prefix. City apartment. Country house. Holiday home. Spanish villa. Needless to say, I’d felt like a pauper just knowing that and had rocked up this morning with Clarissa, more than a little nervous, yet armed with all of my Ps and Qs. Dressed in my best ‘grown up but not staid’ cloth and finery. Shiny brogues. Best face. Manicured and neat. My phone had been confiscated so that I didn't slip off somewhere to check Twitter or some such thing. Clever, that. I was a buffered, smart and phone free suckling pig to the feast.

“Just be yourself” Clarissa had reiterated downstairs as I craned my neck looking up at the huge slab of prime London bricks and mortar that towered in front of me. Gargoyles peered down, mocking my social standing. A supercar roared by, voicing its throaty disapproval at my very presence in this choice postcode. I was pond life writ large.

“Ha. Yeah, that’ll do it” I muttered back, overawed, despite Clarissa’s gentle unfolding of the facts regarding her family’s wealth over the previous few days. She had very unhurriedly eased me into the full story, and I thought I’d got it, that I’d got my head around the huge them-and-us-ness of it all. I’d thought I could get by in their company, using the charm and wit that were my tools. That was until I’d seen this building, this huge block of apartments, each of which was easily worth seven figures. No, I really hadn’t got it up until I stood agape at the front of the affluent edifice.

Still, I slapped the grin back on my face, and scattered my charm bullets as if from a Gatling gun at each person I came across. The doorman. The lift monkey. The housekeeper. And then finally, Daddy, Mummy and Bro. Even at 27 that is what she called them all. 

Posh girls, eh? They'll be the death of me.

My fears were soon made smooth in a gentle tide of perfectly polished social etiquette that engulfed and embraced me. Daddy (call me Johnathan, old boy) had rained upon me many a friendly back slap and chumly arm punch. Mummy (Eddie, shot for Edwina, sweetie) had held my gaze with an almost flirty, mischievous glint, a constant subtext of humour or horniness. Robert (call me Bobby, buddy, everybody does) had engaged in energetic talk of music and gigs that we’d both been to. Common ground deftly found. 

Nicely done, bro.

To put it simply, bonding had been extremely swift and efficient. Craft beer and heady, good wine had flowed freely, lubricating the afternoon through to evening, and I was held in a bubble of bliss. But then the sobering smack around the face as I’d slid past the door, when their errant words of skulduggery had befallen my ears. Talk of your imminent death will do that to a good mood. Bit of a buzz kill.

The subsequent immediate and logical doubt at what I’d heard had been crushed when I saw them reflected in a mirror beside them, all brandishing their chosen weapons. The angle of their heads meant they hadn’t seen me; but I had certainly seen them, and more importantly, the large butcher’s knife, lethal looking ice pick, what I assumed was a nail-gun and a bloody metal baseball bat. Who even has those in England?

There was none of that “..and I was rooted to the spot in fear” malarkey you read so much about. No, screw that. The human brain moves damn fast when it needs to. Without another thought I’d slid away, plush carpet footfalls almost soundless toward the front door, only to find it bolstered and bolted through with two huge metal bars that spanned the door’s width and disappeared with a sense of finality, into the door frame.

Necessity is the mother of invention, so I’d decided at that point to play it out and have the element of surprise on my side. What else could I do?

Their false smiles matched mine as we congregated back in the lounge when dinner was announced with a demure shake of a hand bell. And here we were, sat in front of chestnut, stilton and truffle soup with a cloud of expectation raining silently down upon us. The tinkle of fine cutlery on lavish crockery accompanied our perfectly poised small talk and soothing laughter. We existed under a mist of treachery, time ticking by toward inevitability.

Clarissa sat next to me with her hand on my left thigh, and I would wager, the butcher knife in her left hand. We were sat on the long section of the slab of mahogany that was the dining room table, as was her brother, sat opposite us. He’d had the contraption that I’d clocked as a nail gun. He’d have to go first if I was to stand a chance. Mater and Pater were at each head of the table either end, so unless they had swapped, I had a baseball bat to my right and an ice pick to my left, on the other side of my beautiful and treacherous Clarissa. I looked at her angelic face. Fucking evil bitch. 

Time stretched languidly, laden with untold duplicity.

Staff silently took the soup smeared bowls, and replaced them with plates of what would normally have had my taste buds in rapture. Talk around the table took a turn towards what was done in the name of fun. Or rather, what I did. Did I do any sports? Did I lift weights? Any martial arts? Could I handle myself when the great unwashed inevitably rioted down the pub on a Friday night? 

Of course, I could see where it was going, but kept an innocent air about me and my abilities. They didn’t need to know that I could handle myself. No one really knew that.

Sideways glances and meaningful looks cut through the airspace above the table, missiles over the slick small talk that bounced around beneath, superficially innocent, rolling below the razor steel peeks.

I was a coiled spring below my neck. A powerful engine, warmed and ready to roar. I was a storm coming. A smile played on my face, words, flowing and friendly fell from my mouth, maintaining the frothy pretense that all was well; my head lighthoused those assembled and armed around me. All five of us were talking, yet saying nothing. Eyes darting. Looks meaningful. Hands busy. The air felt as if it was crackling.

I asked for the gravy.

It was like the puff of dust that lifts off the ground and seems to hang, suspended momentarily, when a nuclear weapon detonates in the distance. A sign that all hell was about to break loose.

And then the lights went out. And all hell broke loose.

...

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Written by PaulDChambers in portal Simon & Schuster
Murder Most Posh. Part I.
Asking for the gravy had never before felt so entrenched in danger.

It should have been a simple act, one not laced with menace. Instead, delicious, thick gravy with a generous side of abject dread. And I certainly shouldn’t have felt the prickling of fear at the back of my neck whilst sat in such pleasant surroundings, the overwhelming sense of being trapped in Instagram-worthy opulence. I can see it now - #murder 

So, I just styled it out to the best of my abilities. Theatre studies from way back in college finally coming to some use. I plumped for Stanislavski's approach, naturally. I was sure they didn't have any sort of inkling as to my rumbling of their cunning game.

I assume it’s some sort of game. That’s what it sounded like when I accidentally happened to eavesdrop upon them reiterating the rules to each other, huddled and cohesive in their bitter and bloody resolve. If it hadn’t been for my combination of good manners and forgetfulness, I’d still be oblivious of attack right now.

They’d thought the flushing toilet was a sign that I was still in the bathroom washing my hands. That I was still cloaked in the swooshing, all-consuming watery noise; that it provided a brief, yet safe time for a guaranteed spy-free family collusion. But I’d actually forgotten to flush in the standard pee/flush/wash hands/leave way and, having already washed and dried my hands like the good lad I am, I simply leaned back in through the still open doorway, flipped the handle on the toilet and walked away from the sound.

And that was when I walked past the slightly ajar door of the study where they were discussing how to kill me. Correction – how to kill me fairly. In line with the rules.

Ok, let me back up a bit. I’m being confusing. Tad vague thus far.

It all started with the sublimely beguiling Clarissa Hamilton. A stunning young woman that had seen, or so I had thought, some potential in the slightly older, and much rougher human that was me. Clarissa is my girlfriend. Was my girlfriend. Well, we’ll see how that pans out after today. Tall, elegant, long chestnut coloured hair that she seemed to always effortlessly pile on top of her head in a messy, yet damn sexy way. Delicate features, a smattering of freckles and a face that rarely needed make up. Athletic build, long legs. As sexy dressed down in jogging bottoms as she was dressed up, or even better, undressed. 

Man, she was my type. Toned, slim, naturally pretty, and posh.

OK, she was one of my many types, but she fit perfectly the mould of my favourite type. 

She was posh and gorgeous. She was also bloody funny, hugely intelligent and damned sexy when she wanted to be. Which was nearly all the time behind closed doors. She was fairly filthy, in fact. Finger up the bum filthy to be precise. Too much too soon? Sorry.

Anyway, I’d been riding a wave of euphoria and disbelief in the three months since she approached me in the spit-and-sawdust pub down the road from me. I love an empowered woman and I delight in being pulled by them. She had plucked me out of my OK life in front of my slack-jawed beered up mates and led me away to hedonistic times involving matching underwear. Bra and knickers that were the same pattern! 

I had tried to take each day as it had come, and not get too hooked; believing it was a finite thing, doomed to fail. Yet it had burned brighter each day, the bond both mentally and sexually growing ever permanent. I had thrown entire weekends away, previously planned with mates; guiltless eating, drinking and fucking up a sweat in her beautiful pad. Somewhere along the line I’d fallen hook, line and sinker for her and had readily agreed to meet her parents at the city apartment on this fateful day.

Yes. Specifically their city apartment. They were so damn rich that each of their properties had a prefix. City apartment. Country house. Holiday home. Spanish villa. Needless to say, I’d felt like a pauper just knowing that and had rocked up this morning with Clarissa, more than a little nervous, yet armed with all of my Ps and Qs. Dressed in my best ‘grown up but not staid’ cloth and finery. Shiny brogues. Best face. Manicured and neat. My phone had been confiscated so that I didn't slip off somewhere to check Twitter or some such thing. Clever, that. I was a buffered, smart and phone free suckling pig to the feast.

“Just be yourself” Clarissa had reiterated downstairs as I craned my neck looking up at the huge slab of prime London bricks and mortar that towered in front of me. Gargoyles peered down, mocking my social standing. A supercar roared by, voicing its throaty disapproval at my very presence in this choice postcode. I was pond life writ large.

“Ha. Yeah, that’ll do it” I muttered back, overawed, despite Clarissa’s gentle unfolding of the facts regarding her family’s wealth over the previous few days. She had very unhurriedly eased me into the full story, and I thought I’d got it, that I’d got my head around the huge them-and-us-ness of it all. I’d thought I could get by in their company, using the charm and wit that were my tools. That was until I’d seen this building, this huge block of apartments, each of which was easily worth seven figures. No, I really hadn’t got it up until I stood agape at the front of the affluent edifice.

Still, I slapped the grin back on my face, and scattered my charm bullets as if from a Gatling gun at each person I came across. The doorman. The lift monkey. The housekeeper. And then finally, Daddy, Mummy and Bro. Even at 27 that is what she called them all. 

Posh girls, eh? They'll be the death of me.

My fears were soon made smooth in a gentle tide of perfectly polished social etiquette that engulfed and embraced me. Daddy (call me Johnathan, old boy) had rained upon me many a friendly back slap and chumly arm punch. Mummy (Eddie, shot for Edwina, sweetie) had held my gaze with an almost flirty, mischievous glint, a constant subtext of humour or horniness. Robert (call me Bobby, buddy, everybody does) had engaged in energetic talk of music and gigs that we’d both been to. Common ground deftly found. 

Nicely done, bro.

To put it simply, bonding had been extremely swift and efficient. Craft beer and heady, good wine had flowed freely, lubricating the afternoon through to evening, and I was held in a bubble of bliss. But then the sobering smack around the face as I’d slid past the door, when their errant words of skulduggery had befallen my ears. Talk of your imminent death will do that to a good mood. Bit of a buzz kill.

The subsequent immediate and logical doubt at what I’d heard had been crushed when I saw them reflected in a mirror beside them, all brandishing their chosen weapons. The angle of their heads meant they hadn’t seen me; but I had certainly seen them, and more importantly, the large butcher’s knife, lethal looking ice pick, what I assumed was a nail-gun and a bloody metal baseball bat. Who even has those in England?

There was none of that “..and I was rooted to the spot in fear” malarkey you read so much about. No, screw that. The human brain moves damn fast when it needs to. Without another thought I’d slid away, plush carpet footfalls almost soundless toward the front door, only to find it bolstered and bolted through with two huge metal bars that spanned the door’s width and disappeared with a sense of finality, into the door frame.

Necessity is the mother of invention, so I’d decided at that point to play it out and have the element of surprise on my side. What else could I do?

Their false smiles matched mine as we congregated back in the lounge when dinner was announced with a demure shake of a hand bell. And here we were, sat in front of chestnut, stilton and truffle soup with a cloud of expectation raining silently down upon us. The tinkle of fine cutlery on lavish crockery accompanied our perfectly poised small talk and soothing laughter. We existed under a mist of treachery, time ticking by toward inevitability.

Clarissa sat next to me with her hand on my left thigh, and I would wager, the butcher knife in her left hand. We were sat on the long section of the slab of mahogany that was the dining room table, as was her brother, sat opposite us. He’d had the contraption that I’d clocked as a nail gun. He’d have to go first if I was to stand a chance. Mater and Pater were at each head of the table either end, so unless they had swapped, I had a baseball bat to my right and an ice pick to my left, on the other side of my beautiful and treacherous Clarissa. I looked at her angelic face. Fucking evil bitch. 

Time stretched languidly, laden with untold duplicity.

Staff silently took the soup smeared bowls, and replaced them with plates of what would normally have had my taste buds in rapture. Talk around the table took a turn towards what was done in the name of fun. Or rather, what I did. Did I do any sports? Did I lift weights? Any martial arts? Could I handle myself when the great unwashed inevitably rioted down the pub on a Friday night? 

Of course, I could see where it was going, but kept an innocent air about me and my abilities. They didn’t need to know that I could handle myself. No one really knew that.

Sideways glances and meaningful looks cut through the airspace above the table, missiles over the slick small talk that bounced around beneath, superficially innocent, rolling below the razor steel peeks.

I was a coiled spring below my neck. A powerful engine, warmed and ready to roar. I was a storm coming. A smile played on my face, words, flowing and friendly fell from my mouth, maintaining the frothy pretense that all was well; my head lighthoused those assembled and armed around me. All five of us were talking, yet saying nothing. Eyes darting. Looks meaningful. Hands busy. The air felt as if it was crackling.

I asked for the gravy.

It was like the puff of dust that lifts off the ground and seems to hang, suspended momentarily, when a nuclear weapon detonates in the distance. A sign that all hell was about to break loose.

And then the lights went out. And all hell broke loose.

...
#fiction  #horror  #culture  #murder  #opinion 
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Written by dustygrein in portal Haiku

Eternal Love ~a senryu sequence~

Look inside my soul,

Gaze deeply within my heart;

Tell me what you see.

Can you see my love,

The glowing fire of passion

Burning there for you?

My desire for you

Is deeper than the ocean.

You make my heart soar.

There are times I feel

Overcome with dizziness

Looking in your eyes.

The day I found you

My life became more complete

Than it was before.

Come lie down with me;

Let your worries fade away,

Safe within my arms.

(c) 2015 - dustygrein

** Note: I know this is a portal for haiku, but the senryu is structurally a cousin, and both can be done in sequences. I love exploring human emotions in these series of verses, as opposed to seasons and the natural world, hence the senryu instead of the traditional haiku.

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Written by dustygrein in portal Haiku
Eternal Love ~a senryu sequence~
Look inside my soul,
Gaze deeply within my heart;
Tell me what you see.

Can you see my love,
The glowing fire of passion
Burning there for you?

My desire for you
Is deeper than the ocean.
You make my heart soar.

There are times I feel
Overcome with dizziness
Looking in your eyes.

The day I found you
My life became more complete
Than it was before.

Come lie down with me;
Let your worries fade away,
Safe within my arms.

(c) 2015 - dustygrein

** Note: I know this is a portal for haiku, but the senryu is structurally a cousin, and both can be done in sequences. I love exploring human emotions in these series of verses, as opposed to seasons and the natural world, hence the senryu instead of the traditional haiku.
#romance  #poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #culture 
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Written by Soulhearts in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The House I Live In

I live in a place where the walls are

uniformly lined Evergreens.

The ceiling is of white

puffy pillowy cumulus clouds

painting the cerulean sky.

The floors are made of moist green grass dotted with

pink and yellow wildflowers.

The air is a scented mix of freshly watered earth and sweet lavender.

Where the birds chirp a constant lullaby and the wind blows whispers

to the tune of the rustling leaves.

Butterflies and fireflies

are frolicking lovers here.

Never tiring, prancing till dusk.

Where the sun daily rises

to dance and play with lights and shadows.

I drink from a cold running brook

that refreshes my spirit

and eat freshly plucked blossoms

that perfumes my soul.

I sleep to the sound of rolling ripples,

set in a minuet of moonbeams.

This is your house

The house I love

The house I live in

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Written by Soulhearts in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The House I Live In
I live in a place where the walls are
uniformly lined Evergreens.
The ceiling is of white
puffy pillowy cumulus clouds
painting the cerulean sky.
The floors are made of moist green grass dotted with
pink and yellow wildflowers.

The air is a scented mix of freshly watered earth and sweet lavender.
Where the birds chirp a constant lullaby and the wind blows whispers
to the tune of the rustling leaves.

Butterflies and fireflies
are frolicking lovers here.
Never tiring, prancing till dusk.
Where the sun daily rises
to dance and play with lights and shadows.

I drink from a cold running brook
that refreshes my spirit
and eat freshly plucked blossoms
that perfumes my soul.
I sleep to the sound of rolling ripples,
set in a minuet of moonbeams.

This is your house
The house I love
The house I live in
#fantasy  #poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #culture 
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Write about a terrible character—a monster, a villain, the worst person you have ever known—and make that character sympathetic to readers.
Written by AlSalehi

The Dawn of the Night

Hush be still

and let me in;

You I’ll hold

and place within.

Open Yourself

as this is my Day;

This is my Time

prepare for my Play.

Constricting your vision

thus blinding your sight;

Completing my mission

as Darkness mates Light.

I am the One

who commits this Rape,

Whilst drowning your Sun

beneath my cape…

As no arm of Law,

has the reach of claw,

To escape,

my Escape.

Now I mean no harm

as I may seem dark;

But blame me not

for absorbing your spark.

Alas I’m held captive

in an equation;

By an ‘Empty Set’

that solves for Salvation.

Without you beneath me

I am potential in a womb;

For your being gives birth

to my arousal to consume.

I shall take your drought

and relieve all your fears;

As I rain upon you

with oceans of tears.

Should you elect to breathe

underneath my blinds;

It shall be by a bond

that forever binds…

Me onto you

with few tears left to cry;

Leaving you wet

with no warmth to help dry.

Succumb now to this slave

of Nature’s whimsical yearning;

For I’ve many visits to make

whilst this Earth keeps turning.

Hush my beloved

be laid tranquil and light;

For ‘at the end of the Day’

I am, the Night!

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Write about a terrible character—a monster, a villain, the worst person you have ever known—and make that character sympathetic to readers.
Written by AlSalehi
The Dawn of the Night
Hush be still
and let me in;
You I’ll hold
and place within.

Open Yourself
as this is my Day;
This is my Time
prepare for my Play.

Constricting your vision
thus blinding your sight;
Completing my mission
as Darkness mates Light.

I am the One
who commits this Rape,
Whilst drowning your Sun
beneath my cape…
As no arm of Law,
has the reach of claw,
To escape,
my Escape.

Now I mean no harm
as I may seem dark;
But blame me not
for absorbing your spark.

Alas I’m held captive
in an equation;
By an ‘Empty Set’
that solves for Salvation.

Without you beneath me
I am potential in a womb;
For your being gives birth
to my arousal to consume.

I shall take your drought
and relieve all your fears;
As I rain upon you
with oceans of tears.

Should you elect to breathe
underneath my blinds;
It shall be by a bond
that forever binds…

Me onto you
with few tears left to cry;
Leaving you wet
with no warmth to help dry.

Succumb now to this slave
of Nature’s whimsical yearning;
For I’ve many visits to make
whilst this Earth keeps turning.

Hush my beloved
be laid tranquil and light;
For ‘at the end of the Day’
I am, the Night!


Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #politics  #spirituality  #culture  #lyrics 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Later, Chris.

     Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight. 

Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.

     In Rome no one cares who you are. 

     Quite a beautiful feeling.    

     Rome is different.

    Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection. 

     But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome. 

     

     I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen. 

     This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?

     Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family. 

     Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.

     Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs. 

     Outside it's grey and bright and warm. 

     

     

     

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Later, Chris.
     Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight. 
Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.
     In Rome no one cares who you are. 
     Quite a beautiful feeling.    
     Rome is different.
    Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection. 
     But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome. 
     
     I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen. 

     This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?
     Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family. 
     Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.

     Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs. 

     Outside it's grey and bright and warm. 
     
     

     
#culture 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

White rabbit.

      Austin, 2014. An idea was born into the streets. Two men walking, teeth dry from the ways of liquor. One stares in front. Downtown festival. Talks to the city ahead, but to the one walking next to him.

     I have an idea for an app. 

    Small city, the grey heat. Overcast no match. No hope to burn off the film from the damage last night. Hotel lounge, hair of the dog. The city had grown, and they were strangers now, each waiting to leave there, one by plane, one by car and dog. Talks of Prose., the font. Talks of why it would work, a family the size of a world. Strangers yet not quite. Revolt against apathy. Earned things, lost in paces too fast to retain soul, to keep their light. Drinks and words, the lobby bar turned museum for the old death of the words eaten by technology. A way out through a way back in. 

     We are all here now. 

     Thank you for being here with us. 

     Thank you.  

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
White rabbit.
      Austin, 2014. An idea was born into the streets. Two men walking, teeth dry from the ways of liquor. One stares in front. Downtown festival. Talks to the city ahead, but to the one walking next to him.
     I have an idea for an app. 
    Small city, the grey heat. Overcast no match. No hope to burn off the film from the damage last night. Hotel lounge, hair of the dog. The city had grown, and they were strangers now, each waiting to leave there, one by plane, one by car and dog. Talks of Prose., the font. Talks of why it would work, a family the size of a world. Strangers yet not quite. Revolt against apathy. Earned things, lost in paces too fast to retain soul, to keep their light. Drinks and words, the lobby bar turned museum for the old death of the words eaten by technology. A way out through a way back in. 
     We are all here now. 
     Thank you for being here with us. 
     Thank you.  
#prose  #culture 
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Written by manto in portal Poetry & Free Verse

RIP Chris Cornell

I stole your metaphors

and built my understanding of my life

You saw yourself as darkness but I grew

in your light

Ten years later at the other end of the sea

I've weathered my storms

and I look back to see

Pieces of the lifeboat

that had once carried me

Farewell, brother in arms

Your voice will be the speed in my arrows

And your words the strength in my shield

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Written by manto in portal Poetry & Free Verse
RIP Chris Cornell
I stole your metaphors
and built my understanding of my life
You saw yourself as darkness but I grew
in your light
Ten years later at the other end of the sea
I've weathered my storms
and I look back to see
Pieces of the lifeboat
that had once carried me
Farewell, brother in arms
Your voice will be the speed in my arrows
And your words the strength in my shield

#nonfiction  #poetry  #news  #culture  #lyrics 
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Written by SelfTitled

Sober Up.

Because Andre stood there, waiting for the bus for arrive.

It was early in the morning. A winter's sunrise, just barely peaking over the clouds. Not enough. And Andre wore dark clothes that couldn't reflect a single bit of light off of them.

He took the heat of the crash when the car popped the curb. It was a long weekend. A little drink or too wasn't so bad at first. Maybe the sobering was too much for the guy. He panicked, tried to shake bleeding, tire-burnt Andre awake, cursed up a storm, and sped away as fast as he could.

The neighborhood kids avoid that tree because it's too close to oncoming traffic. Too close to a world that could just slam into them and trap them in something they were not ready for. Too close to Ms. Jackson's mortified sobs. Too close to the skid marks staining Andre's once smiling face. Too close to call. Far too close.

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Written by SelfTitled
Sober Up.
Because Andre stood there, waiting for the bus for arrive.

It was early in the morning. A winter's sunrise, just barely peaking over the clouds. Not enough. And Andre wore dark clothes that couldn't reflect a single bit of light off of them.

He took the heat of the crash when the car popped the curb. It was a long weekend. A little drink or too wasn't so bad at first. Maybe the sobering was too much for the guy. He panicked, tried to shake bleeding, tire-burnt Andre awake, cursed up a storm, and sped away as fast as he could.

The neighborhood kids avoid that tree because it's too close to oncoming traffic. Too close to a world that could just slam into them and trap them in something they were not ready for. Too close to Ms. Jackson's mortified sobs. Too close to the skid marks staining Andre's once smiling face. Too close to call. Far too close.
#nonfiction  #education  #culture  #DontDrinkAndDrive 
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Written by brieannekt in portal Poetry & Free Verse

E -go

Cotton candy hair

Soft soul matter, ego flair

Regresses back to lair

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Written by brieannekt in portal Poetry & Free Verse
E -go
Cotton candy hair
Soft soul matter, ego flair
Regresses back to lair
#poetry  #culture 
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