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My IdiomThis is my idiom,
not to be shared with the masochists pretention,
not to go to the ridicule of the conformists,
not to be degraded by some slut.
This is my view,
it is mine and perhaps mine alone,
for no guarantee is assured
that my offer of my opinion will be so easily received.
This is my illustration,
it is my palette that has been poured on to it,
it's between the canvas and the paint
that I invoke a privacy clause to.
This is my poem,
the meaning is stated simply
without whole 'between the lines' deal
upon tumblers and pins to be revealed
only at key moments.
This is my idiom, that I disclose to thee,
The beast of humiliation fuels it, let it not be free.
Delaina CobbHer name was Delaina Cobb.
An ugly name, so freakishly unique,
one she erased away.
What records with her name that had been
Stern black juices refreshed her I.D wearily,
something such as "Jenny Deer" or "Elaine Foe".
She had dirty brown hair
in all its iridescent shades,
that she later had died blonde.
The knots acted as a net
for all manner of things,
she would leave it lazily as a birds nest, so unclean.
Of course all the shapes and sizes she had them in
were ripped out long ago
by a stylish plastic brush.
Crashing and clashing colours
covered and coated the rags she wore,
rainbow waves infected the gashed gown.
Design so plainly fine rapidly replaced what she'd worn,
she could so easily afford the extra ink symbols
after some of her ink ran off her,
digits falling by the dozen.
Her skin tone was a mouldy grey,
an over exposure to all those foreigners,
yellow and brown suns had baked her face
and her brain.
Still, she solved that simply,
the good old gold of brand new
proverbTo take what is rightfully ours is justified,
to take what is rightfully someone elses is human.
sleek and deadOh such a shame that the fiery amber of your pheromones
should turn so electronically red so fast,
To see the stony powder blanket your face,
matching a shaded figure, sleek and dead.
A translucent vase, slender, and icy to the touch,
with patterns so styled, so suiting, so fitting a vessel
where once an iridescent flower did bloom.
And even while it is void and spacious still,
there is no room for such life again.
My rainbow zebra,
a stuffed carcass
hung upon the wall
of a model hunter.
Thick and coarse mucus of a flesh colour
would once run down your face
in the halfway phase of that ugly transition,
though that sickly mucus is now but sadly missed.
The blue winter smoke, pale and distorted in colour,
that rises from the factory
that manufactures originality
matches the powder blue in your eyes,
polluting the emerald green.
Forgive me, I apologize for my sympathy.
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