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"Desert Rose"
I see hell in the eyes of a vibrant desert rose.
Her pink and red hues shown through a
fluorescent pose.

Wicked hallucinations
of beauty,
and pleasure.
The dream that echoes-forthcoming
is reflective of a gift,
chiseled into the form—
as quaint
as a little treasure.

A desert rose,
and weeping under the
devil’s red moon.

Laughing with the cacti
and coyotes tonight,
she appealingly lies burrowed,
between two over-bearing
sand dunes.

Desert rose,
of widely spread prose,
lie with me tonight
among these rusty waves.

No matter the hell I see
protruding from your
your passionate thorny
touch is all I

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Hi, I'm Larry Brooks Mason Jr. and I am a 34/year old poet, writer, single father of four, and an overly-opinionated, blunt practioner of sarcasm that has a huge heart. I welcome anybody that feels the need to be free...

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Copa: Part II
My Syrian goddess dances,
around the fire of our hearts;
The warmth of a passionate blaze,
upon a chilly, December night

We breathe in each other’s souls, basking,
underneath the flamboyant stars;
We remain entranced by the night’s life,
as we lie submerged, inside a melted void

Her glistening skin of brown honey and lust—
it embellishes the tiers of her eyes, which, do appear,
so nebulous and deep with obscurity;

Copa’s touch within desire, and amongst the said stars;
As trees over-shadow the blatancy of her, and I,
and the dancing fluorescence of the flickering flames;

The spectacle of her naked soul,
is essentially an essence of her fragile heart, which,
is made of fragile flowers—
which is apparently so by the pictures of grace,
that reside beneath her subtle skin;

Her angelic traces, are so delicate and ambiguous,
as the contagions congeal her sleepy smile; from her luscious lips of red wine—
I can taste the poisons of her forbidden, yet, inviting confections;

Amid our predilections, and unabated reflections,
we are blessed of the affections, as we hold on tightly,
to the plaster’s of eroticism, and the driven charges of electrically pure energy;

Copa’s silky smooth waves of wind songs—so melodic,
as they touch the deepest core of my very being;
The just reside inside our deepest breaths…

Fortuitous of her strands of love, they are,
strands of black silk, woven into a perfect doll;
Functionality and sexuality,
amid the soft textures of her ruby-red crawls;

An ode to the night—her night,
and the longevity of our carnal plight;
Our accomplishments, under a red sky’s full moon—
Her moon, and her stars, her Venus, and her Mars;

We scratch twisted waves, upon midnight’s sheen of painted glass;
The strokes of phosphorescent minutes do pass, as it all remains,
clinched, yet, reeking of power; and, as the moments of bliss concede,
they belong to us upon the cold contraire of the cushiony grass;

This moment is in form with the clusters that shelter the,
discernments, upon the lusters of such a fruitful lust;

Our erotic stage play is an undertaking of red, upon silver,
and upon the gold lavishness—amongst the fiery array;

Of Copa’s touch, within thy soulless coils;
And, of her needful breaths, as we lie abreast,
and in arrest, upon the moistened jewels of midnight’s spoils…

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Spicy cayennes
and expensive
champagne at

Raw passion
and desire—
by a Syrian goddess
of precision
and silky insight.

Her sexuality
stoned me,
as I tasted the
confections of
her heroin-like
brown skin.

My Syrian desire,
full of vivid fire;
sodden with lust
and sensual sin.
Copa's touch within...

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Hi, my name is Larry Mason and I am a lifelong writer, since age 8. I am 34 now, and I still haven't been able to figure out my gift, though I know I have one. I shook hands with a famous author once, and he. Smiled at me as he said to me that he had never felt that much energy from any writer he had ever met. I was humbled, but assumed he was bullshitting me to build my confidence until about five years later when my psychology professor, who was very blunt said to me that he had never had a student in his 35 years of teaching to write such a profound paper on any topic he had picked or otherwise. His humbling statement made me think about my future and rethink the direction I was going.
I am a single father now of four and I have all four most of the time. It's fucking tough, but I know that those kids deserve the world, so I have stepped up my game quite a bit, whereas writing is concerned. I have two poetry books published now with a third volume on the way soon. I have a couple of novels also nearly done and some essays and short stories that in will eventually publish. Now, that's not too bad for a high school drop out and acute screw up that has been through 10 stages of hell and back. I will post part two of this in about 2 hours and I am going to post a poem fragment that is very special to me. Thank you and if you want to hear more, then tune in because I have much to say... Part 1

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Good day to all the meandering masses of happy people who still embrace nostalgia as the key to an open minded way of life. And so, an open mind is the key to living as a non-conformist and non-conformity is the key to a crowned form of collective existence. Mere existence, in a sense, is just an on-going phosphorescent daydream, yet dreams do not determine the pathway to a sort of vindication that cannot be seen, but can most definitely be felt and tasted in degrees. With that being said, in the scope of all that is redeemed through a so-called life, we, as beings of a natural progression must live through a means of self-reliance, self-control, and self-sufficicience, so that we may be felt through our own words, and our own hearts, our own minds, and our own brash arrays of creativity. We are simplistic in thought, yet complex in emotion and consistent in the way we wear our masks of different faces, which vary, depending on the time, and revolving around the differing days in revolving spaces... [Part 1]

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Rainy day motivation, which teeters on the brink of a non_existent concern, has seemingly set in for the afternoon and so, the southern landscape is filled with amassed pools of muck and debris. Such a dreary, dreaded day shouldn't be considered beautiful, but in my mind's third eye, my hindsight perceives that, which is relevant, as a shadow to that, which is prevelant to an abstract time, and place, and pleasure. I am a wordsmith, for whom paints pictures with words that are molded and and sold to the hearts and minds, as a quaint form of found treasure. And how ironic_I sit in my car_in the pouring rain, and I write. I write my songs , my words, my gifts, and they fly outta me like angry birds, as they whisper in the weeping wind's subtle tease. Ah, such a lustful appease, to be gained by minds that understand, what I do, to make such beauty, from nothing more than sheer creativity and a mindfulness that I am procerbially free...

A writer in sheep's clothing, I suppose? I am the epitome of what a wordsmith should be, when they are creating that, which often plagued the crows... [Part 1]

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Winter’s Considerations
Beneath the low-luck tide of a deep-December’s madness; and, beneath the frozen crow’s winter sun; Below the validity and above the fragility, there lies a rose and the smear of a comprehensible said and done.

So contingent of the breaths that soothe, from upon the backs of cold-melodic pounds; as are the constituents, within their agreeable odes to Cheshire grins; and the others, well, they relish over the crass contempt’s of their meekest set of frowns.

The winter mayhem abides by the smoke and glass that consumes its world of sad escapes and loose vows; the cold may place cherish upon the melodic sounds of rich declinations and pounding plows.

Eyeball deep within the pits of a great-unanimous-insanity that’s been bought; Winter’s bones thrive with cheap blinks and bows towards the greater good of free and clear thought; amongst the scowls of a chilly calamity, are the perceptions of icy, residual, poses that’re hidden within what the limitless have sought…

“Dammit it’s freezing!” said from the mouth of a crude winter’s empty crow; a studious bird’s abounding misconceptions of the great depths that the old man will stoop, to be the epitome of a
?faux ode to the low.

Winter does though, seem to congeal the Freedom to sight, as to suddenly see; and as well to speak and to honorably march forth upon the remnants of
a random white show.

Above the bellows of dead trees and sod, stands a shell known simply as a lesser mortal of God’s Man; the glorious pressures of a frigid, icy resume are the cold breaths through the wintry chaos,
as it sports conceit within a foggy demand.

Brash strands of grayish matter stretch across the bare plains with cold steel chains—it’s a reminder of the hearts that have been spread across graffiti soaked walls that reflect the glories of cloaked pains that will never ever seek refrain.

Cold breaths seem to be the hefty price of an often whimsical alleviation; the truth flows far beyond the shivering bones embedded within a phosphorescent elation; what appears to be inflicted of the contagion, are the complex words that stand amongst the far reaches of life’s relevance; a stance, amid the conditioned accommodations of the old man's chilling patience…

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With the a.m. skyline intrusive of my sleepy blue eyes, the pinks, and whites, and subtle blues ɦaʋɛ my mindful mess, at its most melodic compromise. It's sufficed to say, and to say with assurity that the purity of my arrogant prose is succinct. Or, maybe it is instinct to reveal such profound words of truths and treats. Or, possibly some other worldly spirit in woe, does have my heart aprised, amongst the graffiti stained plies of concrete sheets. And so, this early a.m. pleasure is mine, to scope out a poetic muse and to ride the broken asphalt rail towards an aesthetic refine. Watch me delve, watch me dwell, pay mindful mention, and watch me shine...
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