lobsterman A rose with more thorns than petals, should be said every thorn has its rose.

Every thorn has drawn from subterranean rushings,
has rose, a thick skin
beneath skin.
By a thorn.

In your side, that's where you keep me. A fresh cliche, birthing as if it invented it.

Into a field of superflous differences.
Where lovers walk, their eyes filled
with beauty, their calves
pricked by unseen snags.
To blossom into the world
is never good enough.

One has to keep a cautious edge,
one has to be able to pierce.
To reach the color,
one must first traverse
dull jagged teeth.

One must first spill their own color.
werewolf The matador lets the bull wind down like the end of a day, awkwardly forgetting its fierce grace, spilling its colors into the dust. He looks into the pulsing crowd with a piercing glaze, as if focusing on a single vital point. She sits in the crowd and sees him standing proud, the owner of a spectacle now stumbling away. She sees him, it seems as if he is looking right at her, but he cannot be, there are too many and she is too far away, but she waves anyways. The matador cannot find who he is looking for but it does not matter, he holds his hands up in a sweet personal gesture. He knows that pretending you are there and being there are similar in some aspects, in a bull's eye, in a swirling red cape, in an act of raging passion. She sees his hand raise so gingerly, hands that had plunged and dodged and her pulse quickens, she feels dizzy. The matador pulls all his strength together so that he may stand, though he is in truth exhausted, for another successful pass has been made, but there is no satisfying end. There is only the inevitable culmination, and the inevitable loss of a dynamic struggle. She will talk to him later, she will surpise him. He will stumble like the bull when she seeks to love the man and not the matador. 020513
werewolf oops 020513
. . 031115
Death of a Rose nicely done! 031115
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