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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Contest Entry · #2225477
Taboo words contest entry: an experience in an experiment!
We glide together, I barely feel him beside me.

Talking lowly

Thoughts of my own selfish actions want me free.

Walking slowly

His slinking beside me meant to make me suspicious.

Stares ahead

He doesn't know I have long stopped caring about us.

Wish him dead

Void beneath our feet shifts with each wave.

Shoulders shrug

He whistles a tune as he guides me toward a cave.

Hate a bug!

I know a rendezvous of intimacy is what he has in mind.

Much crap

In girlish escape, I dart to any high dune I can climb.

Knuckles grab

Moment of desperation, I search for another place to hide.

Growing bored

My eyes skim the landscape, I see what looks like a black, very high tide.

Eyes bulge

This is every nightmare, I cannot bring these fears to light.

Mindless silence

I break into a run to get away, search now for place of height.

My chance

There are sharp grass blades beneath my feet, do not slow.

Crabs jabbing

A show of blood rush in front of me says loud I better go!

Lineless crabbing

It disappears and in relief I pray the rush is taken aback.

Life flees

In moments the rushing black water begins again in brutal, bloody, attack, rising! Rising!

To knees

This time I'm almost pushed down by tree limbs, torn bare, Water Everywhere!

To shoulders

See the limbs of tourists, torn cattle, mixtures of flesh, hair.

Fire smolders

I hear the screams and taste fear wash in my mouth like bitter wine.

Above ears

Bobbing heads everywhere, seek to aid the screams, in my mind.

Salty tears

Soulless eyes, roll with the crush of forms appearing to seek shelter.

Headless ears

Hands trapped in snarls of hair, and mane, and foam, and bloody swelter.

Hours, hours

Crying babies float a bit, then disappear in lonely, cold, abandon.

Not ours

Dying mothers still grasping onesies belonging to their one and only.

Don't look

Limbs are thrashing, crashing, they imply there's hope to grasp.

Think: cook

Limp victims wrapped in quickly grabbed salvation's rope, an asp.

Reality bites

Children lie on fathers' float, weeping, they watch the eventual bloat.

Many nights

See a babe so hungry, it was sucks the teat of a floating dead goat.

Survivor mode

Hours pass like moments, we grow accustomed to death's mass of horror.

Corpses load

I hear a southern lady, prim and proper, ask dead daughter, "How's 'tomorrer'?"

Lifestyle slowed

wc 421, line count 60 (Taboo Contest Entry: an experience of a new style I'm working on to prod the reader to automatically consider the many possible details and focus subconsciously on enhancing and projecting on the mind the most detail of each line! Every other line is made up of no more than four words, two, preferably, that enhance the lines before and after..I am praying this is as successful as it has been during my trials.) *P.S. My mom was a 'prim and proper southern lady' and every word ending in 'A' or 'O' she pronounced with an 'R', like AFRIKER. Or ALABAMER.
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