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  • the_fox 34w

    the man who had amnesia
    and forgot about it


    time is running,
    a dead pumpkin on my window,
    a dead woman,
    on my bed;
    who killed her ?
    there's no recollection
    of the blood
    that has come to life,
    leaking from her sliced throat,
    who did this ?
    the television has been barking,
    and these nightmares never cease
    to an end,
    is this what happens
    when you've dreamt
    for way too long ?

    time is up,
    and this woman
    is making me question everything
    that led me to wake up;
    amnesia is momentary misery,
    relapsing lobotomy,
    who is she ?
    who killed her ?
    was it me ?
    it is the trauma, the duality,
    the repression, the toxic masculinity;
    just a man and his crippling agony,
    you cannot relate,
    you cannot imagine,
    you cannot set me free
    and wipe me clean
    of my sins and bruises.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 34w

    funeral of a machine

    burial of my innocence,
    he handed me
    the headplate, to be etched,
    he made it so hard
    for me to love you;
    and you were never that easy,
    maybe,
    you liked him too,
    but, my thoughts were left untrue;
    because you never liked him,
    you were starting
    to love him.

    and after all of this,
    after the nightmares,
    after the carnage
    that you've left behind;
    could you be more precise,
    about your intentions
    with him
    and your ulterior motives
    with me;
    the suffering must end,
    mother, would you smother me to sleep
    with a kiss on my forehead.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 36w

    me vs maradona vs elvis presley

    please don't be technology,
    please don't be any colder
    than what my refrigerator already is,
    please don't treat me with such insincerity,
    like an electrical switchboard,
    turning me off, and on,
    burning out the fuse;
    your will speaks a lot more
    than you ever do.

    all that was asked from you
    was to be a bedspread,
    but, you turned out to be
    a lot more;
    from that pretty kid
    to a professional leg-spreader.
    you never had to do any of this,
    especially when
    you could have been my lonely star.

    now, the talk of the town
    is that you were abused,
    and there's no denying in that;
    because, you were freezing
    over the same hell
    that supposedly burnt me alive,
    you have been waking up
    with brand-new faces,
    with different samples of spit
    on your tongue;
    and for me, it's hard,
    it's hard to be the better man,
    when every line is about someone
    I don't wish to write for anymore.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 37w

    "dr. fox, i need help"

    hello, I'm Bill Gates,
    the chairman of Microsoft,
    the destroyer of all the windows
    that you forgot staring into;
    the creator of your very own,
    almost personal, and questionably secure
    prison.
    it's time, you come to shake hands
    with the reality's dawn,
    before your bones meet their dusk.

    hello, I'm Steve Jobs,
    the CEO of Apple,
    the dead and rotting cause
    to all of your debts;
    the only two things
    that make me happier than LSD,
    are the silicon implants in your breasts
    and, the fact that you would sell your kidneys
    for this bad apple of mine.

    hello, I'm Dr. Fox,
    the founder of life, suicide
    and everything in between.
    PhD in brainwashing, insomnia
    and glorification of drugs;
    everything you need
    is taught around here -
    slit your veins,
    get baptised in the fire
    and drown yourself
    inside this bucketful of water;
    you will be
    just like me.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 37w

    girls are a fallacy

    don't come around,
    don't look back
    on the days,
    don't believe in the hearsay,
    don't listen to the rumours,
    help yourself
    and don't show me your face;
    and when it's convenient,
    please consider killing yourself.

    my head has been under
    the ultralight beam,
    infrared, redder than the lipstick,
    unsatiated thirst for blood,
    fiddling around
    with these dissected intestines;
    if we were to pray for our dead ancestors,
    necrophilia would be my religion.

    look up here,
    it's pure danger;
    so high out, it makes my brain whirl,
    almost made me drop the cellphone
    whilst searching for your ass.
    please don't be offended
    by my trials to burn your face,
    for, you're a hot and steaming
    pile of shit-talking garbage.
    don't talk any more
    than what you're asked for,
    if it's about love, spare me the details;
    if it's about sex, you've got me,
    all ears,
    because I know a whore
    right when I see one.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 37w

    cure for cancer/loneliness/angst

    hey Lucy,
    my nightmares came true,
    finally, happily ever after,
    just me and the blues,
    just me and my drug habits,
    just me and Elvis Presley.
    as the clock points at midnight,
    my typewriter starts
    to tear me apart,
    one key at a time;
    and my fingers are equally good,
    be it on the letters
    or inside a vagina,
    but does it matter,
    to you,
    to anyone who's going to be
    on this same bed ?

    hey Tracy,
    my prophesies were right
    all along;
    is it a coincidence
    to be left absolutely alone
    after every encounter,
    or, is it my unluck ?
    and if it makes you feel any better,
    you can kill me, anytime and anywhere;
    just don't disappear,
    don't make me sleep on an empty bed.

    hey Daisy,
    sic transit gloria,
    my head saw it coming,
    my head saw
    how it was beheaded, tossed out
    of my own body;
    never meant to be,
    don't be my greatest fear,
    have a taste of this alimony
    and lay down
    for this one last night.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 37w

    100% heaven-sent, 100% virgin

    these months,
    they were quicker than usual;
    look how hastily we landed
    upon this unforgiving October.
    winter is on the cusp,
    colours start to fade into
    the utmost and grim truth.
    if poetry is my sin,
    sabotage me like a stone in the sea,
    and, before the glory is diseased,
    before my hands try to get
    into your panties,
    burn me instead of your body.

    it's time for the cold
    and overcoats,
    excessive drug use, whiskey
    and cheap sex.
    paid to spill my guts,
    paid to showcase my cuts;
    and, if looks could really kill,
    my profession would be staring.

    "hey, you might need me,
    hundred-percent heaven sent,
    you're ready to be diagnosed
    with the love syndrome,
    you should try me,
    the cost for all your problems,
    everything you wanted
    and, everything
    that all the other boys promised"
    oh, it hurts to be this good
    at winning these girls' hearts
    just to break them
    to compensate for the pain
    from my past life.

    decimals, drugs and dollars
    are everything that go through
    this thick skull of mine;
    what's love again ?
    is it a justification for groping,
    a reasonable form of raping,
    a harmless method to bite those lips;
    I wouldn't want to know,
    I wouldn't know.
    (and, if you do know,
    congratulations,
    you've been played).

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 38w

    afterthought, PARACETAMOL

    hyperventilating,
    zoning out of my consciousness;
    the nights are accompanied
    by the devil putting my lungs
    on a choker.
    urinating blood,
    the kidneys have started looking
    like a pair of banana pies
    and, my liver is the dirty syrup.

    they're used to my face,
    although my misery hasn't faded;
    talking to myself
    to get me out of these misconstrued delusions
    of imaginary friends;
    rock, paper, scissors,
    voices - is it mine, or is it the tinnitus,
    suck on my nuts before putting the knife
    into my guts.
    and, the nights could very well
    take me beneath the white sheets;
    my friend, goodnight and goodbye.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 39w

    clown's trigger

    it's not fitting,
    the pliers do not fit
    into my tooth,
    break it down
    before the cavities visit.
    (where did my wisdom tooth go ?
    now my thoughts are broken).
    unfit for the society,
    no good for these pedestrians,
    running over them with my car,
    pulping them against the road;
    you could do it too,
    it's fun.

    too late,
    and too bad
    that you couldn't join me;
    so, you're trying to regain composure,
    believe me, I've been there too,
    yet another high dosage of composure
    could very well turn me
    into your murderer.
    no, don't you worry,
    that was only for the humour;
    this lump under my scalp,
    almost made me lose my mind -
    life wouldn't be worth it,
    if it's not a tumor.

    close the door
    as you leave the room,
    excuse me to laugh
    on my deathbed;
    turn off the ventilation
    and, let me laugh -
    laugh, until my head comes off.
    off it goes, out of breath,
    out of tolerance, the blood's dripping
    as a leaky faucet;
    to agony, my head is tethered,
    please don't cry, if you've come undone,
    the strings are slacked,
    I've been here, and I've been there.

    ©the_fox

  • the_fox 39w

    madonna-whore syndrome

    reel your life out
    and cut the strings,
    teach you the ropes
    until you are suspended by one.
    it's a dead end, the white horse
    is nothing but another whore.
    unicorn's horn inside your gut,
    a pretty scene to examine,
    more evidences to be tampered.

    what have you done, and why
    did your perfections come undone ?
    you used to be alright,
    what happened, what have you done ?
    you used to cry
    along with the bodysnatchers,
    something snatched you away
    from the reality,
    murders are just rumours
    and hearsay,
    demise is the partial truth
    whilst you had the feet of clay.

    eyes are an apparition,
    sublime scenery,
    a climactic, almost perfect apogee;
    you hide the candour
    behind your black eyelashes.
    hungry for control, aching to set free,
    your happiness is a projection
    of everything that you hold inside,
    beside, beneath
    and under,
    your panties.

    you think you have it,
    that you have found it,
    but, now it's all gone;
    you have broken the mirror,
    and, you are just a spitting image
    of another.
    plenty of fishes in the sea,
    choose your drug carefully,
    is it love, is it opioid,
    or, is it control ?

    (whatever that you have in plan,
    is all over,
    never will it happen,
    gone in the thin air;
    quit before you kill yourself,
    even if you're dying all alone -
    you're dying in control).

    ©the_fox