Filthy
The Poet Who Spoke to Shadows
M Mehran In a city that never slept, there was a street that seemed invisible unless you were looking for it. The locals called it Whisper Lane, a narrow cobblestone alley lined with shuttered shops and flickering lanterns. At the very end, hidden behind a curtain of ivy, was a small bookstore and café called Ink & Echoes. People said it was a place where poets went to lose themselves—and sometimes, to find something entirely unexpected.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a month ago in Poets
W e Of L ike F etish
It is a small offering, absurd in the scale of its appetite, yet the fire loves permission, however small; free to rise from its ashen wreath at a time of its choosing, it wants justification for the hunger of its being. An excuse to devour, untamed.
By Kristen Keenon Fisherabout a month ago in Poets
Then Remain Speechless
If words indeed fail, you perhaps speak with your hands. Should you trip then fall upon me. Surely, I will catch your meaning. Have you any thoughts to express you need only part your lips and sound them out on mine. Let me speak them for you and I will be your body proclaiming to need you more. Do not halt yourself on my behalf, for I command no modesty and know nothing which your eyes do not softly whisper. They insisted I am yours already. I shall know your heart better from its thrumming against my own. Be gentle but in breath for I prefer you rough in candor. You need not be wealthy though I find you rich in taste. If you must, be handsome for I so long to feel your touch. Should you seek my heart find it naked and reposed. Enter slowly but not in caution might you stay awhile if not forever. I dare not entrap but petition daily for your return. Play prostrate god and I recumbent goddess bless the angels sing their sonnets to our divine dance of creation. Let Mother Earth record your proclamations of love to me in symbols on her body. Carve them deeply for they spell the names of our two souls' union. Tread lightly as we depart that the stars may see them read as prophecy. For they long awaited destiny when they first wrote us intertwined. That love the only sound need be make and my name the only vow my ears accept.
By Tyler Briceabout a month ago in Poets
