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Why I stay1.
every day you wake me
with a gentleness
I did not know you possessed
you are waiting at the door
stamping your feet
on the frozen ground,
with your bone white teeth
there is a restlessness going around,
something I think
borne of this winter air
I am filled with a longing
not lustful, nor painful,
but rather like a constant
from every direction
as if the particles themselves
that compose my body
are becoming detached
tired of the tension, the constant
push to shove
to deserve your love
We are both foreigners in a house we once shared.Reacquaint me:
your mother died last year; my boyfriend has left.
You wring your hands beneath the table, where you think
I cannot see. I refuse
to care; instead I
line up lovers
between bites of toast.
You've taken to staying out
late, I've taken
to sleeping early. We exchange
carefully chosen words-- the ones
clipped of meaning.
here we are, breathing the same city air,
both of us trying to seize our own brands
of happiness. Yet what is that
but a passing shadow of sun?
In the darkening afternoon
it illuminates us
at our prime. We can no more
than we can trap
the loves of our lives
to our side.
Reacquaint me: let us burn, let us shiver.
These days I am closerThese days I am closer to the place--
I've wanted to remember
for years. These days
I can sometimes smell
the salt of the sea
I catch a glimpse of a small girl,
a blonde pixie cut;
I catch a glimpse of her white slip
and feel the cool and life-filled chill
of early morning biting
I see a window overlooking the bustling
downtown street below.
In the quiet of morning
in this stillness of time
I am close
it is hard
for a city to sag
you never see the pigeons flee
& when a city can offer
there is no excuse
holding only a question
from years ago
the words have gone
by too many
it is hard
to trust what is left:
a pressing gust
the smallness of a voice
across the still
Necessitiesthe line dips again
into the foaming wake, its feathered hooks
already thin trails of feces
streak their white bellies
they lunge for freedom but
soon can only gulp
is it wrong
to look away?
there, the high sun, there a gull
there, the racers, their white sails
on the horizon
& for a moment
at my feet
it is wrong
to look away
sonnet of a changeling childstale pumpkin spice and cinnamon alight
upon this cold expansion of damp air
this untouched day before it trips the snare;
what simple turns can mark the fae's soft flight.
and of this changeling child on wheat-bare earth
who'll flit from fold to field at merry whim?
a swaying dance upon a tree's high limb
will beckon over every call to hearth.
today a brisk and rapid north gust flings
him from his perch within the sweeping oak:
a fallen boy with bruises fresh, and yet--
what mother's hand can pin his fledgling wings
when swath in autumn's auburn leaflined cloak
he'll flee: a seed, a passing silhouette.
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
against these lips
a tea-stain stone
the trashbin floor.
It is enough that I sit here gently
rocking, every glass still
undrunk these quiet
hours, my face
unzippered, my skin
discarded on the floor;
the sigh of the fridge, the creaks
UntitledVanquished wastelands, xeric: yesterday's Zion.
Soil, sunbaked, caves and crumbles. Fossilized boughs line the bank and strain deep into the river's hollow belly, feeling phantom water; they do not know the tight rations of survival to last them through such a blight, and stretch and seek with abandon. Each fruitless endeavour comes as unexpected, induces another strenuous effort.
Sunset teeters, ubiquitous.
Like a coin balanced on the rim of the land, it toys with the temptation of the fall. From time to time it is struck by its own delirium, and licks the edge with a soot-blackened tongue-- but does not waver, does not bow its head in the least. It has made a bet with the earth; which will outlast the other?
Nearer, osprey perch: querulous, resisting.
One has just caught a plump fish, a rare event that merits not celebration but deep-rooted suspicion. The fish are few, and t
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
Dizzy Girl,you can't cure sorrow. The drops
on the windshield are swallowed
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with paint blearing,
though I do wish
there was an ending,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
recollections are ceaseless.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
What Writers AreWriters are people from
both ends of the spectrum.
Those that know isolation
and the thoughts that follow.
Those that know enlightenment.
And those with nowhere else to go,
but deeper down the rabbit hole.
Writers are smiths of the word,
using imagination, experience,
and emotions to temper the
glass and steel we are given.
We fill the page with pieces
And writers are Gods.
Broken or whole or
barely scraping through.
We make you see our world.
We make you feel and care.
All with a bunch of lines,
which we have given life.
then I am left with the king:
the plastic clicks as he thuds back and forth
and the pawn
who can only look forward
is still stuck
then I must decide:
the quick and painless way
into the pocket of white guards ahead,
or should I instead keep running
in frantic circles,
tighter and tighter?
I see triumph in your eyes and instead I--
lost in the web
of strategies I will never know
losing a game I've never known how to win
I call defeat
there is a metaphor there
and something about life
and the other people
Keep in Touch!
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