Lodeur des néons (French Edition)

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The best bottles remain hidden deep down in history of the self- contained people and words, self- contempted. Red is the background to your battle and is the path to reclaiming your head. Red is the look you give whenever you focus on the box of your life that you opened, screwed, and puked on your own shoe- shore. There are bottles we might as well keep locked under the sea with their words and labels in and on and run away from the beach as there were better tomorrows stored in glass somewhere for us to take home.

Please have a look at their websites. This has been a mascara-thick day I covered my face with a domino only half fulfilled yet my lips in bloom. All day long I have been trying to protect myself from your echo eardrums half pierced by midnight sounds high. Waiting in a wagon as sweet as a ride in the dark with neon stars plastered around and lips singing tight. I have to conceal everything but I do burst sometimes, and I did leave murmurs, heart broken laughters in air. With my acid smile and moon-drenched blackholes I look at changing cities and the midnight rain fades both our colours. I hope you see a star fall.

If not, at least you have many beautifully sad poems to read, here at dVerse Poets Pub. Oh, and by the way, the pic was modified with Instagram, again. Ben, rien pour la seule place qui reste. In these five hundred days she has learnt how to button up and down, down, down. One circle at a time, slowly, painfully, she would get rid of words that she thought defined her self, on, and on, and on.

Sometimes the thread was off the hole. Sometimes the plastic marked under her nail like a bite at some body part she had forgotten she had. Sometimes one edge was off the other like envy had swallowed up eyes she had forgotten she had. She kept stripping anyway layers of clothes, on the floor her feet felt no more sure than they were. She kept ripping anyway layers of skin, under her nails what was once bitten was no more — oblivion. Sometimes the breast was off the shirt. Sometimes the strap marked down to her collar bone bitten by her own body she had forgotten she had.

She had learnt how to live up to expectations and down, down. One cycle at a time, painkillingly, heartbreakingly, she had gotten to the rim of words that would always define herself and them, hem, hem.

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  4. The wind still smells the same and brings nothing but all my memories in one shot down the gust, down my guts. Time is flying inside me one shot, strong spirit drawing back my stomach from under the soils. Another internal flight, another domestic crawl. Love organs: another all-white horizon, another night on the sofa. Deliberate, my exiles stick a bar into my mouth a nail into my foot and my other, rusty. Every cure will have to be geographic, metallic. Other red leaves straight in my teeths, other dead words rummaging in.