Poetry by Laramore Black

Intimate with Vows; Broken By Another


         Highway.                                                     Three hours total.



         We were,

         Talking.                                        Past mistakes & the future.



         Promises made.

         Vows unbroken.                               Divorced, but still loving.

         The past forgiven.


         Months apart.

         Months of crying.                              Keys jingle, doors open.

         Months of wanting.


         Power off phones.

         Locking our home.                 Lights out, messages ignored.

         Dropping clothes.


         A long embrace.

         A leap of faith.                                        A kiss, passionately.

         Hand in mine…this time.


         Happy glands together.

         Slow and steady.              An act with a desperate meaning.

         An act of feelings.


         Sweaty covers.

         Eyes of a lover.                Two bodies in tune to one another.

         Warm & fuzzy; perfect timing.


         Wish for a son.

         Wish for a daughter.            Something to hold this together.

         Hope for a forever.



         Loving.                        Cherishing the moment, while it lasts.




         Reality.                                       We let them ruin everything.



         …Still loving.




Martini Dreaming?

We are the prophets the world hasn’t caught up with yet. The living, stuck among produced dead, and we who love most are chastised for being poor. As if that is what makes us our own. While the rich sip Martini in suburban home, emotions hidden behind pharmaceutical skin, we dream so much it hurts. Our ideas keep them happy in their ancestor-gifted, God-given, monetary comfort and love, but behind every dollar bill our sweat and blood.




What a delusional master plan
searching for meaning in a world left

To a pious empire of lewd breasts
and wine-stained breath

Titillating sex ordered heart theft
all living here belong among

The dead.

“Fuck it, I’ll be an alarm clock then”.

Laramore Black is the deviant debonair behind SYW, a site that combines literature with coverage of underground music, and which recently expanded to feature several guest columnists.

He is currently compiling a charity antholog for the site, titled Shock and Appall.


2 thoughts on “Poetry by Laramore Black

  1. Pingback: Poetry by Laurance Kitts | Solarcide: a writers hideout.

  2. Pingback: The Nova Vault | Solarcide: a writers hideout.

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