Nicholas Peter Poems

I smoked the last cigarette,
in the red Marlboro pack,
of in-house body decay,
and black lung birth canal.
...

Your smile,
An automatic gunfire barrage,
A closed-lip firing squad,
Viet Cong ambush subtlety.
...

I should have,
Made that move last night,
I would wished to have my hands,
On your waist,
...

Rose based red,
A bright automaton response,
to the time-warranted endearment.
...

Dream-walking,
a transcendental state,
of mindless psychedelic pistol rounds,
popping in the dopamine addicted neurons.
...

The bullets fire,
pistol shots ring loud and proud,
across the beach.
...

A golden dragon,
rests inside my waterfall chest,
waiting to be freed.
...

Born in fire,
a tempest storm,
of addiction based living,
and depression based dying.
...

Machine gun tongues,
fire automatic practiced rounds,
of sheepskin propaganda.
...

Covered in bandages,
A proper mummy,
bloodied and scarred.
...