Faithaholic

When all the love I have sinks deep into the discoloration of sunsets.
The desolate of poetry dresses in a fabric of black wool.

Let’s burn, burn our hands from the scrutiny of warmth.

Am I falling or floating?
Or maybe I am just a rock you can pick up with one arm.
I can already sink my teeth in steel.
Like the softest wings I can easily tear apart.

This is the part I like most.
When the blanket scorns the flesh of wounds.
and all the pretty noises sink out of holes of my soul.

©gregloon2017

Kiss the Bones

Kiss the bones in color.
Because I can’t explain who is really color blind.

Kiss the bones in chaos.
Because chaos is a close friend of mine.

Kiss the bones in lovely wild fires.
When your breath is the water that aspires.

©gregloon2017

Dears

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Lonely the whore.
Of sunsets and classic folklore.
Because I’m dying here with laughter.
And this joke is just another chapter.

Lonely the madness.
Clutch against the mattress.
Because all these stars never shine in this mist of mine.

Lust & Appiness

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Talk about fade, like dust in a place without feeling.
A feeling like dirty water at the bottom of your throat.
I’d do it better with ink.
Write nothing, but it still comes out like a national bestseller.
Recklessly floating in the arms of a feather.
You got me stained like a Jesus face on your shirt.

©gregloon2016

The Wickedness of Wonderful

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We left this crucible urge back in the woods of ink roots.
All you ever wanted to do was paint the sky red.
A place where gaze interaction fades in,
But your on/off switch is broken again.

Please excuse me, but I often explode with a bit of disposition.
You’re nothing like a spelling error that makes me want to write a how-to book about doing nothing.

The progress.
Is.
Deeper than the mechanism of notes by D.H Lawrence.

Let me swim in the dirtiest river fully clothed,
come out clean in the most dangerous way.

©gregloon2017

The Crust

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A very close space to me sounds intellectually insane,
but in the most utopia way,
I’m sinking deeper into the naked and the stained.

I’m only bleeding from the side.
But let me whisper in your ear and say, “Darling, we all bleed sometime

I want to dig the crust of heaven out from your eyes.
So I can kiss the dirt under the womb of our children.
This is too much, so deep that I’m crawling out of a mud hole.

©gregloon2016

My Sins Are Beautiful

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Oh do you mean the catalyst is just a shade under the veins of this rotting sun?
I have disorder that is painted like Easter eggs.

( ….and I dress in black)

This is insane, but I don’t want to be the boiling water in your pot.

I have sins.
I have better sins than you.
And I don’t even know why.

It seems the strangest thing to say right now,
but this cat hair in my mouth is the weirdest dream so far.
I can swallow my own tongue, and speak a different language you can’t understand.

©gregloon2016

I Sleep With Ghosts

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Suddenly, there was a noise coming from the space inside your fingernails.
This dirty old pond, you know it will follow you to the deepest end of any ocean.
I can’t swim, but i have recklessly lived on landscapes where I’ve drowned in words i can’t pronounce.

These things, Oh these things I don’t know about.
I am bent in the suffix of verses.
I do sinful like I have no surface.

The heat is off,
But the sunshine is like a razor blade that can cut stone.
Please be careful, there’s glass in the comfort of pillows.
And the softest scream is like flowers that grow in empty attics.

The Artist

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She lives quietly on the tip of my lips.

She breaths clouds that I can sleep on like in romantic movie scripts

There is a wilderness fire in the bones of bee’s
When all I want is the sting that burns like breeze.

I may be a godless man, but the wings on my back are made of polyester and golden hair.

They Bring Fear

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Not again, not the flowers that grow in cement of skins.
I’m waking up in blindness,
So I can calm the darkness.

You read my mind like a novel out of print.
I could almost feel your cold fingers ripping out each page.

Like night, the colorectal of ink fill my veins.
Maybe you can feel the blood that flows between the roots of my fingers.

I have days that taste like sour milk.
And the thought of crawling back into a womb without a push – is only a pull I can’t imagine.