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Pisces"…so drown me. I mean, if you can."
A threat in her eyes. Triple dog dare.
And I'm on edge but I don't wanna show her just yet.
"Now you can't honestly expect me to be foolish enough?
Drowning fish is a fruitless endeavor."
She smiles, all fury and triumph. Her ocher eyes ignite; flickering then flaming.
"O' but sister, are you not a fish, same as I?
Are we not of the same blood, the same scales?"
And I hesitate, ever-cautious.
What's she hinting at? Huh, sis'?
What's that card sewn up your sleeve?
I hesitate for just a moment too long.
"And you would believe it impossible, no?
A difficult enterprise to say the least?"
She carves words out of atmosphere,
pronounces every syllable with refined practice.
An artisan's articulation.
I find myself shivering; hyperaware and feverish.
I am not of you, I am of nothing.
Blood is water, blood is air.
And I'm too silent and shaky and she knows,
I Feel ? This.
It will begin like light cascading through fleshy membranes. The sudden awareness of electromagnetic feeling that pulses through every nerve, and yes finally, today signifies the start of animation. Because yes, you can finally feel.
You are alive.
[Breathe] Inhale the tattered stars. Gasp as they tear open galaxies, destroying themselves and whatever is left of the O-zone layer. [Gulp. Gulp.] Choke down their destruction and remember, that those ever-so-distant wishes, they shredded the sky for you.
It started for you.
Static climbing into my tissue, and it burns like white noise or bleach or frostbite, and as I'm amputating things I sure hope I won't need, I look beyond earth's mutilated atmosphere, searching for the flicker of those ever-so-distant fireflies, but oh, they died the day you began to
It asked me with those ivory teeth, all smooth and valuable. I sneered at the bribery amongst kings, scoffing in the face of a wi
The Nectars of Irony and Self-PreservationInverted influx
I have not the strength to care.
Your eyes were shark skin
greasy, greasy tears.
Honesty was always optional
but I couldn't quite grasp it
why someone would say
the exact opposite
of what they really mean.
Then I thought of irony and of you
and that grin
that isn't really even a grin
it's a snicker.
The sweetness of enjoying your own joke.
I am what you made me to be.You know what this is.
(I never knew
No matter how hard,
typical of reptilian whores,
and you were dirty,
much the same,
alive in kaleidoscope
(Intercourse at every
Only in the seconds I
(We are but
LEGALLY literally INSANE I could tell you a story of beauty and butterflies and fuzzy feelings, but it wouldn't be accurate or useful. It wouldn't be entertaining, or helpful, or even truthful. It would be lying, and I would be the liar.
So I'll start by saying, I have a freckle between one of my toes. His name is Fred, and I try to talk to him, but he refuses to respond. I speak of the garbage disposal, tell him of the tiny teeth people trying to grind away my fingers, and even though Fred doesn't talk back, I bet that if he did, he wouldn't believe me.
Sometimes, when I'm shuddering and paralyzed beneath my sheets, I call out to him. "Fred?" I say, "If ever you were going to speak, please
Red Feathers and Metaphorical OceansI found her degraded,
slathered in pomegranate puddles. Juicy sweet.
Timid blueberry tears dribbled
atop her raw pancake tissues.
Her offended coconut flesh
feigned feminine composure;
I noticed off-white muscles
paranoid and taunt.
Bones bracing for the sizzle.
into someone solid.
blackened texture - rabid, raven-eyed
complexity beyond explanation
submission - succumbing to indifference
Ghosts boast the ability
to seethe adicity through cemetery breath.
They remain inaccurate, spewing centur
truth is, I don't wanna love you.Is it really fear?
Till my blood runs silver, pure mercury.
I know little of coherency.
Today feels like chalk and phlegm and pheromones.
I remain a retching mound of meat.
An undulating mass of muscles and organs.
When I thought of you I thought of flesh.
Sensation and numbness,
breathing while holding my breath
alive but always dead
I saw red, maraschino streaks.
Lines of flamingo pink creased across the surface.
Then I thought of flesh and blood and feeling
and for a second,
I couldn't hate you.
Is this fear?
Does It Bother Your Mind The Way You Bother MineIt could be defined as this unintelligible sympathy, refined
and infinitely describable. Words are a feeble comparison.
My speech is slop, fecal matter. Repulsive residues spew from ineffective
communication. And you're speaking, but what the fuck are you saying?
To be wrong.
It may run deeper than that, an invasive core crowding the marrow of your bones.
Humiliation in strength, pungent structure uniting beneath sinuous muscle and
skin. Imperative awareness skittered across paranoid psyche - psychosomatic ridicule glorifying nausea.
Illness; festering determination.
You are difficult in your footholds.
To Be Continued.Not even a thought.
( i don't wanna think about it anymore. and the evidence isn't 100% anyway.
deeper ditches, hotel rooms, debt. it was hospitality, the right thing to do.
broken bed frames, forty dollar deposits, polluted air
Modesto, California. )
Austin? Am I really just imagining this?
I was wrong.
Is it so difficult to think out loud? And yes I want it. I want it very much so.
Blazing heat. The smoothened sexy of a Californian accent.
Intoxicated; pulsating pheromones.
His smoldering orbs. Those molten globes caught in shadow.
I remain fixated. A deer drawn to headlights.
And I didn't care. I didn't even know what I was asking for.
Not that I was right. I was insistent, morosely stubborn, but mostly I was wrong.
( comfortable; cuddled against easy decision
StrengthMy grandfather was the strongest man I ever met. If you’ve ever seen someone on TV perform some superhuman feat of strength and thought that it wasn’t real, you’ve never met my grandfather. I have seen him rip a telephone book in half. He reached his full height of 6”4’ at the age of fourteen, and by the age of fifteen he had left school to work in the metal works. No one thought twice about it, because he was more than capable of the work and looked older than he was.
I am not strong. My joints frequently hurt, although I do not think I can convey to you how much of an understatement the word ‘hurt’ is in this situation. Most people didn’t understand why I didn’t run as long or as fast as the other children, or take delight in the frequent football scrimmages that almost all the boys I knew took such delight in. when I told them “I can’t, my legs ache,” they just told me to be strong.
My grandfather didn’t.
Havens of WoolThe safety of home
It's too novel to me
I've wandered alone
Was lost at sea
But lights took me home
Away from my demons
And the homesickness I've always known
Became buried beneath lighter feelings
My heart's no longer in chains
My soul's no longer a prisoner
For a sailor saved me from the waves
Together we leave behind the sea forever.
Night WalksDarkness. Sleeplessness.
Staring at nothing.
Taking a walk
through my own head.
Through the city of thought.
Street lights reflected on wet asphalt.
There's the tenement of worries.
A huge high-rise slum.
The only one of its kind here.
The tenants are loud,
ever wanting attention.
Their kids spraying graffiti all over town.
On the left, a shop.
Odds and ends in the window.
A mobile that moves
in strange patterns
parts appearing and disappearing.
A kid's cuddly monkey,
much of its fur missing.
A wind chime that chimes
even when there is no wind.
A stone that glows a warm red
whenever someone smiles at it.
On the second floor, someone's atelier.
The light is almost always on.
Sometimes, there are busy sounds.
Sometimes, there are quiet curses.
Sometimes someone is sobbing softly.
Next door, a high rise.
Shelves and shelves of information.
i haven't forgottentell me, boy
who is your god.
do not say it
is the limbs
that spread you
do not tell me it is
hands wrapping a head
board, nor a mouth
tugging your name
i want to know who it is
that makes you lucent,
bent beneath the dark,
because there is no divinity
like the one that makes
My Prickly LegsI haven't shaved my prickly legs in a week, and I smell like moldy tacos, but he still can't sleep without me.
Sunlight smiles through the missing plastic blinders on our window. The explosion of Sunday morning through my eyelids shakes me up, and I stretch below the blanket, basking in the warmth of his clingy skin. My hair is sprawled on his face, and he crunches his nose when I brush it away. I giggle. He is beautiful.
I stare as his eyebrows twitch in some unnamed dream and he clings tighter to my waist, as if I would ever want to leave this sinful bliss and the stench of morning-after lust. His body is unsculpted, and soft; a neckbeard springs closely below his chin and tickles my cheek where it fits so perfectly. I start to tear up the longer I look at him, but then I notice that I haven't blinked in 3 minutes.
The apartment is a mess- a cozy studio sprinkled with the laundry we can't afford to wash, surrounding the bed like a moat of sweaty poverty. But all I smell is him, and h
Oceanic Love Does Not Mean ForeverI do not want you to tell me
of crooked smiles and offshore
moonbeams woven with nightingale
words. You are living in
after memories. You have forgotten
I will live in a way that's unorthodox.
I only want for you
to be lonely and small,
but it's for your own good, you know.
Breathe it in, hold it in, hold yourself
between each of your heartbeats.
Change because some things are
like estranged runaways caught between
the tilt of the earth.
I was the ocean in you
and you didn't understand.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
ii. you have grown
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
note to self.dear me,
stop loving the boy with the aquamarine eyes and the irregular heartbeats.
he's a kleptomaniac and he's stealing your breaths
(like he stole your heart to replace his failing one)
because his lungs are full of smoke and cobwebbed sadness and you're exhaling
stardust and dreams.
he stole a little bit more of your sun showered soul each time he gave you one
of his starshine kisses
(a fair trade, i think)
and he could've slit your throat with his razor-edged smile each time he planted
his lips on your collar bone but he spared your life because it meant something
[i think he'd like to watch you die because your last words would still be iloveyou.]
astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.
we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers creator and destroyer
so close to your lips.
Note To SelfTruth is, I don't know anymore.
Every string, unwinding, unweaving.
The unlikely demise of a tapestry.
I'd like to remind you of… well, a lot of things.
And I'm sorry, but there's no theme.
No message to be had.
These are just words.
I am just words.
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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