tokingbetweenthelines

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  • tokingbetweenthelines 11w

    Blue
    the colour of sorrow,
    the colour of soul,
    of purity,
    of Earth,
    of all things melancholic.

    Blue
    the shade of futility
    in every being's cycle of living and dying.

    Blue
    the colour of tragedy,
    the colour of crying beauty,
    the colour of life.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 13w

    *no strumpets were hurt in the writing of this story*
    #murder #kill #fiction #blood #writersofindia

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    CLIMAX

    Buxom, bouncing flesh is all I see
    in the drooling dreamy streets.
    The cars hum across,
    headlights shining on stockinged legs
    draped in thrift shop attire.
    The men stop and trade
    cash for a suck and a fuck
    and drive off.

    She's chewing gum by the light,
    in red spanks, a push up bra
    and leather boots stained in sin;
    she gives champion head,
    and she's who I want tonight.

    I grab,
    smack,
    gag,
    tie
    and take her away
    to my nowhere.

    I wake her with a slap and strip her down.
    Her eyes scream in confused fear as
    I take out my stainless steel razor blade
    and slice along the length of
    both arms and both legs,
    splitting the skin and
    painting the sand beneath her
    in throbbing red;
    her sweet muffled crying
    growing softer by the second,
    I jerk myself ferociously to
    this masterpiece of my creation;
    her pulsating blood,
    her helpless whimper,
    her rotten body torn,
    her final breath so tender,
    singing to me in her dying gasp.
    I come I come I come
    in heaving, ecstatic delight;
    I breathe in the greatest Hallelujah
    as I gaze in her lifeless eyes.

    I wipe and clean myself
    and walk away,
    with a single tear
    down my cheek.
    The sole witness
    of this divine act.

    As for her,
    I leave her bled body on the sand,
    for the crows and for the maggots,
    a feast for the heavens,
    her greatest feat.

    She was only a whore,
    no one will care.

    No one
    except for me;
    and my,
    she was lovely.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 14w

    MY MOTHER, MY CAPTOR

    When I was a boy,
    I didn't know what I wanted to do.
    I tried things to see if they brought
    a smile to her face,
    nothing seemed to do it.
    She didn't smile very often,
    so I didn't either.

    I had no dreams of my own,
    I was content in my present.
    Content in my toys, my bed,
    her cooking, her embrace.
    But then
    she told me to decide my fate,
    so I hovered my finger
    over a list of prospective futures
    until one
    brought some life into her eyes.
    That, I chose.

    She never told me to do it,
    she never asked for anything;
    but her eyes always seemed to plead with me.
    The glint of desperate dreams
    nudging me on to roads she left untraversed,
    telling me to turn stones she left unturned,
    imposing the life she left unlived onto me,
    imposing the only thing
    that might make her smile.

    I can't recall her ever asking me who I am.
    What about me, ma?
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 15w

    THE VIEW FROM 22

    It's a strange place to be.
    You've experienced glimpses
    of what's in store
    and it seems predominantly bleak.

    You've answered all the questions
    your youth had to ask
    and it's left you
    more confused than before.

    You're not old enough
    and you haven't seen enough
    to draw definite conclusions to anything,
    so you're left in perpetual uncertainty.

    You're free to fuck about
    to your heart's content,
    but wary of the eyes
    watching your every move,
    with the little worry
    at the back of your mind
    warning you
    of stepping over the line.

    You're full of energy and enthusiasm or
    full of distress and dejection or
    see-sawing between the two.

    Everything's exciting,
    everything's fleeting,
    everything's daunting.

    Anxiety wears you
    like bespoke lingerie,
    Reality is a cement truck
    speeding at you,
    the crash coming faster everyday.
    The drinks and the smokes
    can only numb so much.
    It's all getting unavoidable,
    you can't escape anymore,
    and best of all,
    it's all on you.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 16w

    The parasite persists

    What meaning has my life?
    What power?
    What significance?
    What value, if any at all?
    What vain contentment
    allows me to draw breath
    and give nothing back?
    What have I been
    but a leech,
    sucking at the teat of
    the 21st century.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 16w

    Why do I write
    when everything I have to say
    has already been said
    so much better, so many times?
    Too much time alone
    is no good,
    no good for any man
    who's trying at the race,
    who's taking part in the performance.
    I thought I wrote poetry,
    but really, I just berate myself
    with written word
    and pin it up on the wall
    for you to swipe away;
    a strange, modern age
    social media sadomasochism
    that does nothing for me.
    I wanted my words to bring life
    into the ones I love,
    I couldn't bear to see them
    subjected to slow murder
    and accepting it as all there is.
    I wanted to show them art,
    I thought I could help;
    but I lack it.
    The resilience,
    the drive,
    the talent;
    whatever it is,
    I don't have it.
    I'm nothing at all.
    Just dried shit on
    the sole of your shoe.
    Scrape me off,
    I'm finished.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 16w

    What's the point, then?

    I'll write every cell of me
    into these words,
    that shall be
    my life, my reason, my story;
    I'll puke into being
    these lines and verses
    of dull drivel
    for them to scratch their heads at.
    I'll confess every sin
    to them, to you,
    to anything that gives a fuck;
    and when they bury me,
    the words will be deleted
    and the books recycled
    and my headstone,
    in grey capital letters,
    will read-
    'HERE LIES
    ANOTHER MAD HIPPIE
    WHO BELIEVED
    HE WAS BUKOWSKI'
    and that's all
    I'll ever be.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 16w

    I think of life as a long tracking shot
    uninterrupted
    sometimes dull
    sometimes volcanic
    a shadow that follows
    and bears witness
    to all of you
    and all around you;
    the sounds, the smells,
    the transitions
    from chirping birds on a summer branch
    to moaning milky bodies in climax;
    the highs,
    the lows
    and everything in between
    filmed and witnessed;
    testament
    for your eyes only.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 17w

    Solitude is bliss.
    #loneliness #solitude # aloneandalive #creativity #writing #soul

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    To be alone
    is a high of it's own kind.
    Pair it with music, weed
    and a creative outlet,
    and you've arrived
    dangerously close
    to the doors of heaven.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 17w

    Stoned at night, with music and memories beside me.
    #stoned #high #lockdown #lockdownblues #stoner

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    The walls reverberate to Endors Toi.
    I'm reading the collected works of Ginsberg
    between bouts of dozing
    in red eyed delirium.
    I think I overdid it.
    'Moloch! the man who got me
    higher than the sky!'
    I reminisce
    of the last time I left India,
    standing beside the Atlantic and
    dreaming of the end of times,
    sipping on zero calorie Coca Cola
    and breathing cool, clean air
    that tasted like the sea.
    This memory is all that remains
    of the best of times.
    It's no wonder I can't remember yesterday at all,
    or the month before,
    or the year before.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines