by Laramore Black:
Epileptic Permeance
Cringing head left in shiver
psychotic trombone notes
splitting migraine rain quiver
let the presence of noir come
let me forget a while more.
No One’s Listening, Jacque Fresco
You aren’t prepared for quantum semantics
empowered chemical thought progression
insane receptors and dopamine deliverance
brain wave driven perceptions of future time
these constant déjà vu entangled historic repetitions
the power of physics and all scientific advances
how romanticized love was founded in religious ages
or the lies of clever politicians enthralling masses.
No, I think it’s all written and constantly said
but most humans want thoughts simple or dead.
Hitching For A Home
Reject the,
Basic human,
And dialogue,
Scream it,
At the top,
Of your lungs,
“I’m no longer,
Your world’s,
Little whore.”
Cast aside this,
Belief of what,
You’re told and,
Walk out the door,
And listen.
Listen for those words,
You’ve never heard,
Find the answer,
In all that’s left,
To search for.
The Monogamous Heart
It feels like more than a decade,
since I’ve seen that glow of your face,
and I try to not think of your name,
but you keep coming to me in my sleep,
holding the hand of the man I should be.
I searched everyone known,
strange crowds and late rooms,
for pieces of you in another’s eyes
but found nothing but the insecure emptiness,
found in many, many failed conquests,
I can’t help being so celibate,
because they are all frauds,
from ways they like to talk,
to the habitual ways they stand,
because the heart of my youth rests forever,
in every vow I wish we could have kept.
I’ve loved you for half my life,
and I will for another, if I must,
because together we wanted to create,
a child’s smile from romantic breath,
and we could never know,
the rarity of that,
until we were adults,
rotting daily in our past,
I could never change,
what happened then,
but if I ever got the chance,
our story would never see an end,
and if I seem crazy dear,
let me assure,
I am.
I find it nearly impossible,
to broadcast this simple gesture,
but there is too much time left,
to live in those ruins of yesteryear,
so if you’re ever out there,
lonesome and in need of a hand,
I am always your first and last man,
forever and always through,
the calamities winding eternities.
But if you find yourself taken,
for all tomorrows until,
we’re simply all gone,
know that for every love,
loved in doubt is one that loves,
without any rest or day of decay,
this madman of burning lust creating,
pages to regain a sliver of your trust.
But I would never interfere,
not in this age of,
constant growing pains,
I will lay here, alone,
under this milky moon,
and wait for the time,
these dreams do take hold.
Post-Modern Schizophrenia
In the land of the sensory overloads,
the knowledge is boundless,
and the paranoia spreads,
in rapid fired file shares,
by trained and conquered minds,
siding with the televised coy,
defecating words into homes.
Electro-molecular transfers,
reassure the cancer spread,
to further foreign soil war,
greed and societal dystrophy,
now sent in touchpad clicks as,
corporate capitalistic administered mental ballistics,
and renowned by the masses trapped in factual limbo.
America is a disease,
from the thought to the cells,
breaking free will down into,
sectors of suburban prison walls,
where the angst can’t be placed,
sitting in tax free pew aisles,
pretending our holocausts divine.
About the Author: Laramore Black is a dark fiction writer and poet of the American Midwest. He is the editor-in-chief at Revolt Daily, contributor to the Imperial Youth Review and a staff member at Port Cities Review. His recent publications include Out of the Gutter Online, Shotgun Honey, Literary Orphans, DarkMedia, The Shwibly, ThunderDome Magazine, Solarcide, and a few anthologies; like Long Distance Drunks, Nova Parade, and Salvation Black. You can stalk him on both Facebook and Twitter.
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