Response Piece and Picture (above) by Anthony Valade:   Dismembered (Bottom)

Don’t you want to touch me?

Don’t you want to touch me: I can see it in your eyes

Don’t you want to touch me: no more need to run and hide

Don’t you want to touch me; to sense the softness of my skin

Don’t you want to touch me; to be the man within

Don’t you want to touch me; to comb my hair out with your fingers

Don’t you want to touch me: to be caressed by touch that lingers

Don’t you want to touch me: to know the full shape of my curves

Don’t you want to touch me: to be awakened by my verve

Don’t you want to touch me: to know the sweet taste of my lips

Don’t you want to touch me: to feel the rhythm of our hips

Don’t you want to touch me: to get lost in love’s embrace

Don’t you want to touch me: to be nuzzled with my face

Don’t you want to touch me: to stroke my inner thighs

Don’t you want to touch me: to hear the echo of your sighs

Don’t you want to touch me: to explore me with your tongue

Don’t you want to touch me: our bodies fully joined as one

Don’t you want to touch me: to express long burning desire

Don’t you want to touch me: to finally merge our hearts afire

Don’t you want to touch me: to cup my ripened breast

Don’t you want to touch me: to hold my weight upon your chest

Don’t you want to touch me: to feel the promise of my breath

Don’t you want to touch me: to reach the heights of little death

If you don’t want to touch me: I’ll try to understand

Until then though, I’m waiting with hopeful patience for your hands. 

Dismembered

Start screaming like you love me.
Lay your lips upon me and lick them off.
Corrode this skin and pour your hands in like concrete.
Let our disintegrating bodies drip liquid lust and switch eye sockets.
You’re a part of this sidewalk chalk.

Louder than sirens brought on by the cops.
Feeding as we please in an orgy of slobs.
We can share a face or two,
We can beat the clock.
We can live off death and stowage wearing nothing if we want.

Our death will never end when our hearts stop beating flawlessly.

Start screaming like you love me.
Cuff me, snuff me, call me a Zombie.
We may be lucky and in the end nothing.
Without you I’d still be starving,
Plunge your arm in and make this heat beat.

It’s a little graphic but that’s red love.
Emptying out torsos and swallowing the crumbs.
Pouring gastric acid onto the floor so everyone knows to stay clear of the show.
One eye on the nightstand,
One eye to explore.
Teeth chewing out what’s left of our cores.

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who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express
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Electric Epiphany
By Anthony Valade
Response

There is a reason for them to create.

Attached their hands with string as I’m rigged into the storm, Closed their eyes and prayed with electricity flowing through each vein, As the storm’s rain poured down on to the skin, Burning from the inside, “This is a place we have never been.”

Her eyes contracting into the skull as she screamed into his mouth like a black and white movie that was never found.

Steaming, thoughtless, and lying on the ground whispering to the sky asking for another go. Then the clouds break into white shattered light descending towards their eyes and stops short.

The hearts skip one-one-two. On the bridge flipping back and forth, silhouettes flashing from the fantastic view.

The air roared vigorously throwing hair, spit, blood, and laughter around. It seemed like love even from this high up and looked like death in-between seconds.

They call their names with emotion pronounced by thunder bellowing in affection. The string digs in from every movement, from all the attention, down to the bone and past the cringing.

“This is erupted perfection, We can’t contain in coffins or remain in the ground, This life is ours to create, Ours to master, Let our fluid electricity own the sky and contemplate a new place, Let our hearts parade up. For we remain forever in the air above. We were made to create a thing called love.”

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NOTE:  All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it.  Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Photo by: Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

Hives. By Anthony Valade

Here they are all sitting in a line, fit for prince of death and decay.
Left to survive, it’s just a gratuity of gravity pulling you towards the torn core; obscenity.

Let’s be realistic – there’s no chance of a firing squad in the yard, it’s just the splattering bodies on the windshield of a car.

News broke out, the detection of an inoculated semi-hypertension glance.

And the sun exploded behind a smokescreen of clouds causing the sky to emulate fire.

Corrosive flash and as it burned, eyes dried sinking in the cavity, but only people who dared to look at the ending.

Skin blistered, popping red hot flesh.
Clothes set ablaze, including hair and the breath.
White tinted razor blade winds cutting through necks,
People ripping skin right off of their chest,
All fluids leaking like congealed gravy and then evaporating.

Just like that,
Empty.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person
who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express
and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.