Ember flowers

All these lost and hopeful desires

Drift like tufts of dandelion

Wayward dreams, whose light expire

Settle like ash on crumbling bastions

Voices scream aloud for answers

Pleading cries in the breeze

Like flowers of burning embers

They are lost among the seas

Lust: A Desire

Lust: a desire for success
in excess.

Early mornings
and late nights,
half-baked, strained
lizard brains.

Bright white,
flashing lights,
stale smells, bland hells,
and watered down caffeine≠
genius.

“Learn your lesson yet?”
A simple ask.

“Whatever.”
A typical response
from an egoist,
an ass.

“All right then!”
Flippant, unconcerned.
Our parliament adjourned.

Back to business:
unhindered mediocrity–
the territory of
draconian alacrity.

Failure comes along dully,
full-circled,
from lack of sleep and wistful dreams.

And a desire for success,
in excess,
ultimately.



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Go on, lover.

Go On, Lover

Go on, lover,
lift up my skirts
feast your eyes where the sun never shines.

Who is it going to hurt?

People like you, they complain
about the agenda of the gays.
“They’re nothing like you and I, beautiful!”
Or so you claim.

I disagree with such statements
false as they are.
In saying them, what do you gain?

They’re almost like me, darling.
They want to love, they want to live.
They want to eat, darling!

You became a part of my agenda
the moment you fell victim to my sultry gaze,
lover.

So go on, lift those skirts.
Let me show you what I live for.

Go on, lover!

I’m gonna eat you up,
maybe more.
Go on, lover, feed this whore.

Licking the Softness, by P.L. Cobb

Licking the Softness

Licking the softness,

tasting the sweetness–

that sugary goodness–

“Oh, sweet flesh of mine!”

(Devouring)

(Engorging)

Licking and sucking,

greedily lapping

warm bodies quivering–

“Oh, you spoil me, Richard!”

(Licking)

(Licking)

(Licking)

Sanguine streams flow lazily

across eyes rolling crazily–

(Biting)

(Sucking)

(Lapping)

“Oh, I could eat you up, Richard!”

Licking the softness . . .

 

Longing

Longing:

The desire for something greater

Imprisoned:

Forever repeating mundane cycles

Stabbed, prodded, pushed, pulled and beaten

Following paths of a decaying heart

It beats in time with cracking ice

So thin its facade of serenity

Lanterns burn black, encroaching the light

It’s swollen pulse pumping it’s black poison

Lost: forever in longing

In shadows that all lead to despair

Of Nature, written by Mitchell Stoycheff, art by Penny C.

Mistress on the Couch

Those
thick thighs, her prized
loins, eager and
moist.

That look, those eyes,
which draw your soul
to them.

Two full breasts,
spacious land,
the highest peaks of the highest
mountains.

Spread-eagled mistress
on the couch.
Or is it a crouch?

Eyes gleaming like torches
in the moonlight
as red as fresh blood.

Or as red as your blood?

Mistress whimpers for you,
whines for that
touch.

You drug.

Or you drone?

Is she lover, or
is she Queen?

Nah, you think,
as you give in
to your desires,
so divine!

Her body–she has you
wraps around you,
she is so supine–even lupine.

And then you realize
that the hunter loves
its prey.

The Undying Sloth

A Poem For Lust

Set your gaze upon me

And see what you desire

Feel your limbs grow hungry

As your eyes play and conspire

Do you feel the heat rising?

Do you feel your pulse aching?

Can you hear your body scream

As you drift away in daydream

You sold your soul to taste and admire

Without realizing you’ll only embrace hellfire


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The Enigmatic Monster Project

The Mirror

Throw your woes into the mirror

Teary eyes and laughter

Tell me what you want to hear

The things that you admire

Don’t forget to balm your fear

With softly spoken words sincere

Paste an image crystal clear

And try your best to endear

Throw your sadness into the mirror

As you struggle to find an answer

Scream for the image to re-appear

As you feed this hungry fervor

Sculpt an image, try and conjure

The lies that give you closure

I’ll reflect the image of your ire

As you kill yourself for petty desire

False Promise

A world of promise lays its trap

A flower of beauty to behold and unwrap

Of dreams that entice, transfix and ensnare

Something to catch, our victory to declare

A world of promise is all but lies

A harrowing nightmare with a beautiful disguise

Of dreams that dangle just out of reach

As the world devours us lost from beneath


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Lust: A Firestorm

Lust as a topic never ends.

(Feed the fire, Primadonna!)

Ripe with generous dividends.

(Flames licking, fire tickling.)

Someone always suffers in the end.

(Self-loving, vain, narcissistic fire.)

Betrayed by a would-be friend.

(Her addiction to violence: insufferable!)

A special kind of storm she brews–one to tear and rend

(She won’t stop, can’t stop, GAWD, she loves it!)

For this occasion, she’ll conjure up a love-starved vortex . . . What a pleasant gift to send!

(The witch has made up her mind; someone’s gonna die.)

A ‘demon wind tunnel’ she’ll call it. For a special friend . . .

(Primadonna sorceress: mess her up, and she’ll mess right back!)

She’ll add a touch of fire–her specialty–fire without end.

(Tickle, tickle, the flames will go; when the food’s gone, the flame shall move on.)

Baby, Baby, Baby

Baby, Baby, Baby

Baby, Baby, Baby

Love me like you want to see me die.

Lately baby,

I’ve been feeling like a fiend oh I–

Must confess that I’ve

Been hating on you

Baby, baby, baby

Fill me up and empty

Me and

Leave me

To die

And I’ll

See you

Maybe when you die.



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No Retribution, No Honour, No Mercy

No

Retribution for the grave robber

No

Honour for the father of the defiler

No

Vengeance for the son of the pigs

No Mercy for the man

From the clan

That killed our brothers, our sisters, our mothers . . .

Nothing for the rich swine

Let them drink the poisoned wine . . .

Let them eat the garbage

Let them waste away in their luxury–their shit

Bury them all in their stronghold.

These are the dying lands.

Yes.

These are the dying lands.



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Bleak Possibilities

The future is bleak

A long road into the night

Sitting on a losing streak

A dying flame, wanting to ignite

Burdened by the past

Troubled by the future

Stuck in an arid forecast

In a place of no winter

A long descent into sorrow

Into the shadows of the night

Days are shorter; no hope in tomorrow

A dying flame struggling to fight

Straining to see a ray of hope

When a blackened world gives no quarter

When the world consists of chain and rope

The future is truly bleak; with little promise to recover



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Levee

I once was happy so many years ago

From dawn till dusk I had a smile in tow

Those years of enmity seemed but distant memories

A remnant of the past, water behind the levees

Now it seems cracks have begun to form

Too many waves from too many storms

I hold on to my foothold high above the sea

The groan of the levees call: its fortuitous plea

I gaze above; my freedom in my climb

While the waves below echo darkened rhymes

My past is haunting me, wanting its return

A remnant to made whole, where resentment can burn

All will come crashing down if the levee finally breaks

Will I reach the top or will the torrents overtake



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Sloth

Sloth

Fiendish foe, I do not hear
Begone, do not come near
I shall not sigh nor yawn nor doze
Or evoke your name when you are close
I will not tire nor will I yield
I know your motives, your agenda revealed

“Silly mortal, in your haste
Have you forgotten we’ve already embraced
Can you no longer see?
You’ve long been a victim of your own body”

Hush demon, you speak in lies
You can not hide nor disguise
The truths that lay open, beneath my eyes
For you will not claim what it is you prize

“Mortal look. You stand so still
Your strength is rigid and unstable
By becoming one with your conviction
You’ve granted me a bitter sanction
In blatant fervor did you falter
By throwing yourself upon your alter
Open your eyes, the truth is free
You’ve imprisoned yourself, to flee from me”

No. No, this must not be
I loathe to accept this possibility

“Accept it now or wallow in doubt
Truth is harsh and often tantamount
I am Sloth, the fiend of Stagnation
By remaining constant you granted me admission”


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Scream.

Sing Your Serenade, Poor Mortal

Sing your serenade, poor mortal.

Sing it out loud for me.

Scream it until you tire.

Till your voice quivers and bleeds.

Now enchant me with your heart.

Let me hear its panicked beat.

That sweet thumping rhythm.

Oh, the sound of its release!


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The Old Year is Dead, But . . .

It all started last year, when they shot a mighty beast,

The overlords of the media had a hearty feast,

And that was all the West seemed to care about, while children were slaughtered

But news like that doesn’t bring you a profit,

Now does it?

So their truth was watered-down, forgotten . . .

Then there’s the matter of the US election.

Our smug liberal faces received a mighty thwack.

When the unthinkable happened, and now there’s no turning back . . .

The moral of that story: some things are better left to natural selection . . .

The old year is dead, but it left much to be desired.

It’s 2017, and we’re so damn tired.

We want change, but are too apathetic to achieve it.

I want 2016 back, but I’m too lazy to retrieve it.

 

Sin

Sin

Sin,

I am sin, and no more than that.

Trash, trash, trash.

I am death, because I am trash.

Sin, sin, sin.

(Let the goat-man in.)

Say it seven times,

You filthy heathen.

No Eyes, story and art by P. L. Cobb

Ogre Love

Is this what dreams

are made of?

Who could call this

farce love?

Just shoot me already,

make it end.

The already dead–I envy.

So shoot me, if you

call yourself a friend.

(I deserve better than this.)

What is Death?

Death (and freedom) beckon me,

a mockery of what could be.

I suddenly

breathe, sullenly

the slovenly

spectral people, enfeebled

by what Death could be.

If life is the price, and freedom the payment?

And yet this is the lie they fed to me?

Limbo? Entrapment?

 

Bitterness

Tonight (Poetry with the Voice)

Silence (Poetry with the Voice)