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John Stojevich

Updated: Tue, 25 Jun 2019 11:44 pm

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a vagabond, thief of words; lost in the catharsis of life.

to solely go, where no man will show.

repent is a man, who gladly defends; his wisely afforded hello. lost in the flow, golden rain meadow; the skin of his heart he will show. bullets and glass, drinking to pass; a searching for time to spare. soon it will come, a walk from his run; and his heart to live without a care. @johnstojevich


what we learn, is not but a spark; but a withering from a chisel and grind. you may find your self, with an edge on your heart, in the running and passing of its time. @johnstojevich


if you stare at the sun too long, its life, will burn your eyes. unabashed blackened spots – wear your flesh as holes in the sky. if you stare at life too long, its time will pass you by. all valleys and mountain tops – wear your dreams as old tethered lies. if you stare at love too long, its weight will leave you dry. tears you have given, hardened in to rock - as the heart you have worn, bled a river you have cried. @johnstojevich


colours of the avenue, dressed in black & white. he paints a picture - with his nails as railroad spikes. he loved a mountain, made from slats of fear. i took to his maw, as it gnawed through the palms of his leer. grates of pleasure, wandering treasures of life; in an instant, i pass - through holes of my glass; as you break these cages of spite. @johnstojevich

why do i need a title for this...

america’s eyes, only knight you in the rain, only king you when you’re dead. if you’re naked and fearless, you’re a bitch; if you’re hungry and dumb, you’re lifeless. i’m a stone, etched into your memory, as a stain on your epitaph. i will cry, not for you’re belligerence, but for the heart you waste - in this dumpster fire of pride. @johnstojevich

.sirap ,emoh ym

she loves me, Paris, like liquid summer dreams; come get me at midnight, the air is much cooler there. she sings to me, censored, like silhouetted sheets - at low’s drying noon; the sun is much brighter here. she leaves me, Sunday, like a prayer to my knees; closed my wishful eyes.... as i quietly address... this shattered picture.. tumbling away - from my memory of Paris. @johnstojevich

MAN of SIN (my mannequin)

Pulse. from a heart made of stone, gave birth to my mannequin. God. like heaven in my bones, gave salvation to my sin. I’m wicked. so i’ve sold to myself, while i linger on the shore. She carries me. from the blades of her hell, to the breaking of her core. Palms. green with pride, lining my quiver. Love. made a man out of a lion, gave warmth to my shiver. @johnstojevich


we lost our way... on these tenants of love; to discover our fate, a gift from above. @johnstojevich


and the cadence of their conversation had closed. his dissipated interest, gave burial to her search for acceptance. it was an opening; though he sought the same... all they wished to exhaust - is what not becomes shared by contract. bound by the chains of their matrimonial clause; i can feel - each sexual tendon, pull at the anatomy of their love. so eagerly expressed, these two hearts, were always meant for more. now, they fly away, from the unifying grip of one. @johnstojevich

i leer, to silt of the winter’s corridor.

it pushed black... to crease the ivory snow. lovingly gone, as she to our home - lay inside - these broken halls; shattered by words, soured by grace, an enveloping catacomb. @johnstojevich

the singer in green. (ode to Edgar Degas)

she strips her life for the chance to be groped by the assuming eyes of fame. @johnstojevich

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