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when you wish you had-n't-stringing your eyes with garlands of stars i
wish to impeach you, maybe impregnate you
with a will to breathe
but what are you but an incoming breath
to me? an unapologetic zephyr gracing
my inner vineyards
ruffling the leaves with whispers
(i understand it
isn't so collapsible, and
i'm forgetting i forget
but when the winds turn
you're a harlot, ruining this year's
yield of self
(importance and confidence)
and i'm understandably drinking
the vinegar left
trying to breathe in the lights
i gift you with - always
and i have only the stars
the stars to blame.
calypsowhite rock exploded into perfect form
primary colours washing
the need to stay
the quiet is a heart beat
muted for a mother's
you say helloof course i am a conversationalist
i slip up on your fingertips and rush
headstrong into devoid-of-care
we shake on it
(the belief that we will
fall) so we take custody
of our fantasies (realised)
before we, exhausted,
everyone verges on lonelinesssome time ago there was a little girl.
she had arms as big as the moon
to push her love toward the earth.
she moved the waves, all across people's faces;
big tidal waves sometimes,
eliminating every scintilla of breath
along the shorelines, up until the mountains,
or, little summer sprays of spit
along your legs as you dangle from the jetty.
this little girl liked to pour her love,
because she did not want to drown in a pool of it.
[ the boy with the fall apart mouth
all jittery to one side
smiling to hide his stumbles ]
-truth-will you meet me in the spaces
between our fingers
indivisible, but one
(and all the smaller pieces
that don't matter)
a hollow note
twenty minutes to dawn
(i know this because we've been here before)
in this moment, and this thing of arms and arms entwined, called embrace
this moment on soft notsosoft ground sheets
it's the same
and in this moment
this moment is again
and your voices
singing as the past
ceilings and walls
that do not house me
anymore, i hear you
you are farther away
when i am with you
than when we are
so far apart
i do not have a traditional clock
that could tick away the night
in even tones
to focus on
when i'm trying my hardest not to be awake
i only have digitalisations left
lets goRelentless as an ocean eroding
the creases of my cliff face
tidal waves of you
crash along my boundary stones
the push and pull of blue:
emotions white wash
i don't think the ground will keep
beneath me and i'll plunge
the push and pull of you
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting for an sos on the sand?)
ma-doggive me a piper, judas
i'll give you a coin and you
can tear a page
out of me
your children, nestled
warm inside your paranoia,
smile with the fervour
(i do not meet them
in the present)
what are we but
a flame under
hair-line fracturei am frugal with my wrists
i won't let them see you, enough
now, i'll say, and push them back
into my sleeves, hurriedly
like they could really catch
a cold from your eyes. your
two glaciers of disinterest, kind
of sparked your curiosity
did i? my wrists, they creak
like old willows breaking in
the wind, hunching from the knot
along their side, heavy with
finger branches, soft keratin
leaves you can rip out sometimes
after it rains heavy like
the storm i slept through last
night, and you told me there
was hail, and howling and i
did not believe you until i asked
other people. why is
that? how i don't believe
in storms. how i don't believe
my wrists could hold out under
the pressure of a watch even
though i used to wear three,
and tell them all to guess which
one worked. least of all, i know
my wrists aren't broken.
like autumn could speak.i am your sunset at daybreak:
we curl at the edges like burning leaves
and i timidly drink your lips brittle.
days fly and your stares get shallower,
weaker, until there is nothing beyond
those heather eyes.
every morning, you roll over,
waking sluggish, and smile at me.
that's all you've left behind;
a glorious beginning to empty shells.
the gloomy air you breathe is getting
thick and all you see are
headaches and caffeine highs.
the veins run quick down your arms,
filled with blue bloods and amber scars.
you shake imperceptibly as you fall
right out of the sheets and onto the
cold hardwood. your eyes lilt away
and i leave you there to rot
in what you've become:
a monster when the sun wakes.
oh motheroh mother, you left
the spigot running and
i fancy storms but
oh mother drop your limbs and
skate the doorframes, shake
every white tent in that farmer's
market, steal the pumpkins scare
the high school go crooked
past the church
take the next right but don't
take spain, don't tell me
where i'm safe
and don't tell me
who i don't love.
oh mother, thrash in number
bust mailboxes and rip through
cable lines like spider webs
leave me to the seamstress and
sew me up in satin brown
i watched you kick cats
oh mother, you're an animal
and they're all buying time
you're a hollow drum,
you're a bloody rhyme
oh mother, what's the density
of water, what's the tragedy
of sky, what's math have to do
with elements what does
science mean to pi
when it downpours I see light.
hypochrondriacknocked over the dried hydrangeas today
your muscles were dimpling like sunspots
her pain was private my paranoia was cellophane
and i was wondering how atheists can
convert in the black oblong face of Crisis.
fear wrenched wrists with blood-bloom,
cellulite sloped into the pores of denial
before the rose-mole stippled doctor i said:
stake me from knowing.
my september everything.you're the infection i can't quite shake--take another
handful of blood thinners and i'm on my way. the perks
of being the breaker instead of the broken are always
greater (except the mouthful of guilt you chase your
the halogen headlights wash purple over your unblemished
skin and i can taste the hollow in your cheek and heart
from all the way over here
(morning's a pretty long way to reach). you are
my september something.
rain, pour, hail
as your trembling, tumbling fingers gingerly peel
the thin strap of my yellow dress from my aching shoulder.
i am still sick.
the sky folds in on itself some nights and
these meteors crash heavily out of your seasoned mouth
and get lost somewhere between my toes.
my september storm, i guess.
like rocketing tsunamis and grateful hurricanes
that finally slow down and take a breath.
i am not a hopeless case.
the leaves are almost red. like every sunrise
filtering through my hazy eyelids without you here.
like each time i slide your hair
Gun MissingIt's the tenth of september;
I'm sitting in a parking lot.
A white civic crawls past me and I think I recognize the driver.
suddenly it's chilly.
I stretch the sweatshirt out, wrapping his arms around and around me and around
The car has been gone a while.
I try to remember what my toes feel like without wiggling them.
I smoosh my eyeballs into my kneecaps ---> there's a new color there for me.
Maybe if you ground up bricks and bones!
-maybe it's that color-
Sometimes it changes though.
It's one of the spiral staircases from Atlantis.
I wonder how it got all the way up here.
I wonder how it got inside my eyes.
They needed somewhere it would be safe probably.
I'm glad they can trust me.
I think I slept,
but I don't remember falling asleep and I don't remember being asleep.
Also, I don't remember waking up.
I check for the staircase.
It's the color of her old robe today.
The one we threw out when she...
It used to have a dragonfly on the tag.
the price of escape-
mental mud and dog days:
wanted three cents
to buy a rose. what color she asked him and he
said pink like a newborn rat small
enough to flush between your palms
like moon through mulberry glass.
he is the undulations of a city breathing boat rides.
how can she turn away when
a boy makes her think of building as the
birds do herself a marvel of nesting to be
undone. travel is a painful expansion
and pink roses are
the hard of a new city against cold cheeks.
a flower is always more than a flower it
is a passage or street.
her mother is afraid of the condensation of
his condescension; afraid he'll become a man
who screams whore
while outside the
leaves dip and duck and
the rain cuts everything
up and that word sits like some mad bird
sad bird against her joints and
tendons. hard to dislodge.
but no he's kind and anyway
she would risk anything
for a land
with white lies on trees and music box dancers in
stagnant water, their
voices held hostag
disillusioned.it's not fair
that he's smiling with
his eyes closed
and his mouth half open
to catch dreams in;
not when she sits there
in the dark and
tries to remember
and all those candles she lit
blew out in the wind,
and all the dreams she had
got lost in other people's hands.
and she says, "love is
like a staircase,"
but she'll never reach
just float between
and maybe she could be beautiful
if someone would teach her to
cup both hands
around her dreams
and not let go.
and to know you,noone,"You smell like sleep and I
don't believe in anything;
dreams like fat caterpillars
unhungry with metamorphosis.
,"(i take your words like tithes for my ephemeral indulgence
-to execute them one by one into a pyramid at the edge
of my spine. it feels like the sky is choking be
neath me, i am the one with the calloused
hands, i dream of oceans as my mouth
fills with sand. i am the one on
my knees in the distance, ask
ing my hands to be gods, o
god, o violets in the
foggy mirage that a
ppears are you my
like devout shril
ling bodies in the
sea, my family is the
re,my mother is y
ours now and t
he next and th
e next and the
one in the unmar
ked grave she is bea
utifully german take
them all o wake
in my heart
awake me o
o heart in my hands
like grainless sand
home-boundi catch little insects with my fingers
it makes me feel so powerful
and having become god in your eyes, also -
take your sorrys with me,
shuffle through turnstiles,
take the line closest to the door.
i speak erratic, tongue sore
explaining away this
he said it was "very zen"
to undo, unravel,
of course i cringed.
having had your breath taken
you have the gall
to ask for
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More