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-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
If you keep your eyes closedI start, but I begin to faulter
catching myself on cliffs of wind chapped lips
gnawing uncertainty with white spears
(oh native tongue)
what's spinning you?
The bastard child that thinks I'm a yo-yo.
I begin again, only to fall into
the same too big for you shoes, same glazed (aspartame laced) over smile,
and you. you are... a loss of anything to say
reminder to selfwhen i grow up i'm going to get bags and
bags of seeds and scatter them in the
rain all around my neighbourhood,
chuck them into empty lots.
i'm going to get a mirror
and write you are
beautiful on the top of
it and put it on a wall
of a building on a busy street and
when i grow up i'm going
to write love letters to
strangers and big descriptions of
what i did today
and post them to street addresses i'll
make up and put toys and random
objects in people's letter boxes, like
a corkscrew and a live frog
and i'm going to get a white board
with a pen and put it in an alley way
and put a sticker saying my
thought of the day on
the bottom of it then
me and my friend, we'll
stand on the opposites of the
street and pretend we're pulling
on a big rope and hope the car
crashes aren't too loud
and i'll draw a map of everywhere i've
seen wild fennel growing, and mint and
mulberries and take you there. i'll make
you a tea that stains your teeth with
the water we got for free from the
i love the way i say ithow come perfection could be the smile of apology you made when you were always late
how come perfection could be
velocity isnt lost each time
the bounce has changed
there arent enough sides inside
my skull to play any
in the future. nowi cannot tell
whether or not
it's the weather
or my toes are
cold for other
on top of me
like all the
oceans and all
and dead things
and oil spills
and a need
it is only a romantic notion
a dream for a higher purpose
special things that seperate
there was something worth it
up there, you told me
no one would ever think to look for me
(i too, deserve the sun, sometimes, sometimes)
you asked never
you asked never to
never to sing
you asked never
never to sing
you asked never
never to sing
never to sing
never to sing that song to you
watercolour my eyes a song
over the mountains
hold my ears close
and berate brush strokes - to my
solidify words in my mouth
so hard and crystal sharp
they bleed into my stomach
and grow trees up my pipes
blooming you morning
on all my photographs
a decade ago i
it isn't really autumnwe taught our grace
to fly, and it taught
us to stay
tethered to our dreams
in a frightful way
like leaves do to branches
Of what a kiss should be.Today, today I felt as if I would break. In a gentle way. With the pain of some kind of realisation. Or theory. Or delusion, fitting to such strange situations. Perhaps not strange at all—same? The acidic grind of the same wheels turning the same cogs the same outcome, the same clock striking time to sleep.
I don't think it's up to thinking about what I should have dones, how I could've changed things. What you could of… it's only blame. And regardless of the supposed weight lifted off of one, it never takes away the negation of the entire experience.
Why do we say we feel hollow when we can still feel? Sometimes it's only an overload of emotion. Not a lack there of. I think it's feeling paper thin. Part of, but apart, like tissue wrapping paper, translucent; like cellophane and just as gaudy. Made to be thrown away.
I think it was craft. I think it was a dress being crocheted, filling up with time, sleeves, neckline, bust, waist, hem… and then the unraveling, until all it was, was eno
-or no-\maybe you regret things almost instantly afterward,
maybe even before
\maybe you want to be able to regret
because in the end you still did, and you still know
\maybe it's a yes.
nothing's real to me. things just are
i think i remember basic rules of how the world works
how things govern themselves in numbers
a set of ways to be
sometimes i forget
completely forget what is the norm
and i'm left completely in awe of myself
when i forget what it is i have to do, or say
when a phone is ringing.
- Stain -Stain
Do you remember the old pain,
the tears and the acid rain,
us making love on a fast train,
the pleasure of going insane,
the madness infusing my brain,
the red in that blood stain
I still do.
Daddy is an artistDaddy doesnt need water
For his bloody knuckles
To color pretty pictures,
He'll exhibit with pride when the work is done.
All he really needs
Are his eight red markers
To help him express the anger
He keeps bottled up inside.
Daddy is an artist and I am
Living proof of his ability
To cause pain.
My skin is a canvas you can use over and over again,
Welcome to the museum of horrors
Where you can admire the beauty
In every bruise, scrape and blood stain.
WaterI lap at your feet, welcoming you into my depths.
Seducing your toes to step closer, wade further
Its a cool day, and I offer warmth and comfort
Begging you to swim, even though you know
That danger lurks with me
I entice your senses,
A single dance with the darkness
A sway into danger,
Cant be that bad,
triumvirate I. the big bang
with her we wove a galaxy;
my body was built from the light
of others, meteors of thought blazed through
our history, faded, left us wanting more.
still they linger. we crashed, argued, grew,
swelled until we burst. eurekas painted us,
our hands, cheeks, lungs, and finally her.
shove the cushion between my teeth, begin
to choke on the fabric, barf up
cotton, every single thing tastes of oil,
feels like lizard skin, pinches my throat,
i am ink blotted, ribs scream as
i rip them out, the holes whistle
why her why her why her why.
i still dream about your palms --
see your voice in reds, pulsing,
see your voice in reds, pulsing.
wish you would just breathe stronger,
wish you would just breathe stronger,
inhale bigger than your smile --
i still dream about your palms.
Act of KindnessWARNING!!! This passage is a bit long! If your not sure you want to read it I suggest that you look at the description first! Please enjoy!
I did something once for a boy that I never knew or had ever known, though I did see him every Friday. Our paths would slide by each other on that day. He stood on a corner near my school and smoked American Spirit. We wouldn't wave or acknowledge each other for the longest time. Then one day he wasn't there, and I found myself worried. Another week passed and he returned and I talked to him. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he had not been the
barefoot kitchen mornings, uncaused causes, teeth-clicking kisses, unexplained bruises,
popsicle sticks, gravel, raw paper, sugar cane plantations, the distance between two
the organic smells of a man's sweatshirt; the exoticism of his deodorant;
the unrepentant belly of an older man and the way it fits right against me,
convex to concave.
face-licking; floral incense romantic dinners; the whir of the treadmill;
the green light under the escalator; form-fitting maternity clothes; those
rotating hotel doors.
running instead of walking, skipping instead of running,
burrowing in a soft yielding not-chest not-shoulder, and
telling stories that mostly aren't true but should be.
Who I'd Like to Meet:
Charles Manson, Colonel Mustard, Van Veen,
the man who hung the stars and
the girl who keeps them clean.
The ViolinistOz drew his bow across the violin's strings, testing the instrument's sound. The third string was a little off, so he turned a tuning peg and tried it again.
He opened his eyes and looked around him. The sun was beginning to set behind some of the few remaining skyscrapers-halves of skyscrapers, really-and the ruins of the city were tinted orange. The rubble here was old-he could always tell they were old by the few straggly plants that desperately thrust themselves up through gaps in the chunks of concrete that blanketed the ground. Old ruins had a smell, too, and a sound; a city newly destroyed was a painfully noisy place, buildings would continue to collapse, there was screaming and sirens, and the stench was always the same: blood and panic at first and then rotting flesh. That was, of course, assuming the bomb hadn't gone off in the city, but only near enough to destroy the buildings and kill the people.
But this place had seen its last radiation-poisoned soul perhaps a h
something about a rainforest
It was almost December when he told me about the rainforest. There's this plant, he said, It only grows in the rainforests of Queensland, in Australia. That night I stayed up listening to him talk about everything from Marxist philosophy to distortion pedals to the construction of clocks. I didn't care. I liked his words.
It has these huge leaves, he continued, That are covered in tiny microscopic silicone tubes that help the tree get water. The thing is, if you touch the leaves, they come off on you. They're like needles and they're so small but they hurt like shit. They stay under your skin for months until you regenerate every place it touched. And anytime you get water on them, it goes through the tubes and you have all this water below the surface. Supposed to be one of the most painful things possible.
He stopped and looked at me and for a second I tried to imagine filling up with water right beneath my skin. He was right, it hurt.
I said Yes some people can do that too. You touc
you in your mouthi am curious about you
of course, i'd like
to know how many sugars
if any, i think i'd like
to know how well
done. but i'm not sure
of course, if i should be
curious (or otherwise)
if it is indecent
of me to speculate
ponder how much milk
wonder what textures
maybe i should wait
for the situation
to present itself
rather than spend
these days thinking
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More