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    Silently Drowning

    It was red wine streams  which flowed me to their grave    I only wished to tell them   how much I missed them,  but there was something  in the Welsh air, which  stopped my lips from moving    The closest bar  was a lifetime away,  who told the barmaid...

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    • You’re on a tear lately, Rob. Which is good for us as your audience!
      You sir are truly a poet. Even if you scoff at such titles. LOL.
      I love where this write took me, in my own visuals. just enough detail to create a scene, for us to be bystanders to with our own eyes in our brains.

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    Rhythms of Sunday Chapel and the Rhymes Within

    Saturday's sunset  cracked the pavements of my skin,  I only flirted with the waitress  to keep my mouth moving    Becoming mute was just a covenant  between redemption, forgiveness and  the snow – shuffling into dark clouds  -  waiting to fall backwards     The rainshiver smells of Thursday  dreaming of...

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    • Your ability as a writer always makes me interested in reading what you offer today. This is mainly why I find a site to frequent. Not for my own accolades, but to be energized by others’ writes. You do that, consistently. Bravo

      • And this is why I am so pleased I returned to the keyboard a decade ago. I was chatting to our great friend Honoria earlier and I’d love for us all to meet under U.S of A skies.

        p.s. I will have British marines as bodyguards, for some insecure Yanks hate me. Lol. It’s always a pleasure my friend

    • it’s always the insecure ones that hate. LOL

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    Fade Into You

      Frozen are the arms of anticipation  how quickly does ice turn into rust?    Please tell me that your eyes are pearls  anchored to every tanker ever sunk,  my horizon is becoming narrower  in the wake of every day    Just returned from the coast  and how the...

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    • hello dearest Rob wowee that’s quite a write I loved the ending ❤️

    • Rob, your poem is like a fever dream. I was instantly gripped by the desperate longing and brutal cynicism, and I loved the image of the Autumn chill being “chloroform to every dream buried under sand.” The sudden “Fox News” line completely took me off guard, but I found its cynical, real-world punch hilarious amidst the rawness. It’s a relentless plea – a cinematic scramble toward desire. Unforgettable.

      • Slip inside my dreams Roma and place cinema scripts upon my skin. I could Sunday scribble a thousand words, but in the interest of public decency, I won’t

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    Night Terrorists

    Good morning midnight,  leave my dreams unopened  in the ashtray    I still feel like a thief  Waiting for the moon to bleed    Some nights simply swell the lungs  inhale pairs of open legs   and death’s apostrophe,  fearful to exhale  for desire can choke  and the last comma is...

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    • Good morning, midnight. I felt the pulse of your poem in my chest, lungs swelling with fear and desire, words draping around me like sirens and streetlights. Each line carried me through a fevered promenade of longing, loss, and muted poetry. “The last comma is so close to coma” – that line stayed with me, a sharp, exquisite ache.

      The collab <3

      Ghosteen, It's always a pleasure to read your poetry.

      • At the risk of repetition, where the fuck have you come from? Those from DUP know the last few years have been terminally cruel. But there is no self-indulgence or self-pity from me. Congratulations, you are now a poetry citizen of my beloved Wales! No need for passports, just leave your neck exposed, so every welcome can be a love bite.

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    The Heart is Just Twilight

    Place my orphan heart inside the jewels of your oceanic dress every tide could just be bikini may the last Wednesday wave keep you wet forever Where were youwhen my spine was a crushed novellaawaiting the librarian delicate touchto place me on her bookshelf? How...

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    • The tension between digital distance and primal yearning – between the “computer screen” and “bones falling out of pillows”
      – is utterly captivating. The imagery is beautiful and sensual, a collision of technology and raw desire.

      • Where the hell did you sail from? Let’s board a pirate ship and plunder & plunder, until there is nothing left but words hand-scratched on the Titanic.

        Written since the womb really (apologies – that sounds so fucking pretentious) but as the decades tumble, if I can touch such beautiful souls then let that be my linguistic epitaph. Rob – never ever call me Bob. Lol

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