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momentary(so this is looking back
to follow bloody feet)
shadows and mirrors
make for bad reflections,
but cracks can only be covered over,
not healed -
glass can only shatter.
these aren't scratches,
they're just a phase
(two), phase three
what the edge of a cliff
kingdoms of smoke and glassand you have built
something without beauty,
but with merit -
60-degree walls and beaten steel,
where even crows
the mountains fade, the
valleys burn, the sky shades into grey;
but flames don't dare lick the feet
of towers made of glass,
this moat of solid rock.
(and this is what you wanted, so
tell me: is the blackened taste
of things you could have fought for
blind man, tin man, spacemanfill me with the future,
for we are dreamers
with failure fates
and hearts stained by
stars and tabbed-in
never quite solid
or whole -
our fiction lungs
haven't faded enough
to let the smoke
out of our irises,
for us to see an inch
into these interim,
perhaps we will break, or
have already broken,
standing on edges with
ideas of 'never',
knowing full well
that we can't live forever.
card tricks and carnival campaignsI should have guessed that
you could sense this
the separation between
this is wordplay,
of the worst sort
when you're mucking
just to write
you say "you shouldn't end
like that", well
the fortune at the bottom of the glassi.
"no," you said
"people aren't perfect,
problems aren't plot devices
this is real life
and I need you to
thinking it can be
I am cutting you out of my head
for being right
(for me), but not for
you can't learn to love
until you drown yourself in it
and if it kills you,
well I would say you don't understand it
code crystal and the wings that took us theretime is not as relative
as I'd imagined,
and even if it isn't real
it sure feels
like I'm landing
on concrete -
there's nothing left,
here, for you to be
there's nothing left,
here, to cling to, there's nothing
and it's all we are,
metaphors should never make loveyou were all
bookends and spiderweb
but our fingers
were too fragile;
piano keys shattered,
and you kept on ending
maybe we haven't tasted
years of salt and construction-
but we can breathe in the details
(and all of its disaster)
quantum dissonancethis is how the poles collide,
peeling away just to snap
together; we are not electric,
but maybe we are quantum –
yes, I would learn new laws of physics
to get this straightened out
(incarnate anemia, we are a deficiency,
but I was never meant to be a net-exporter,
a polemic second reason for a list –
the colors were defined for us, my dear
our reality is all
and we have both been on this spinning,
anaphylactic, anaerobic, arsenic-coated
cardboard gum ball
too short an unseen instant
for you to keep on being
defined by destination.
darling, we are still several
candle breaths away from
slamming every door with
a Saturday and a half
from breaking our ring fingers
into pieces for (consecrated)
incarceration and condemnation,
for our skin to melt together
in synergistic incineration -
courting soul-sawed neuroses,
gold-cut bones to grind on bones to
grind on skin and anorexic sins,
friction sellouts, this is an
apoplexic apocalypse for o
Typewriter WingsShe blamed her misfortunes on the weather, but the sun was always coming out only to be hidden behind curtains, to be buried underneath a thousand pounds of starlight painted on her ceiling.
You could say that she had found the darkness and made it her friend, but that wouldn't be quite true. The sun had given up on her, and she needed something new to carry her away.
On the twenty-seventh of December, 1982, sixteen typewriters decided to abandon ship, to jump from their desks and fly out the windows, to breathe in the air of winter and let themselves freeze to death.
They left a note, and it said that they were ready to leave; they could read the writing on the wall, and anyway younger keyboards and better things were already waiting on the pavement.
Twenty-four years old and hidden in her room, she has collected many treasures. Sixteen typewriters clack constantly. Without Chimpanzees they aren’t writing Shakespeare, but coming togeth
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,
it's more of a hurricane than a fire
since he broke in & burned
but sometimes I see her with a lighter
& she finishes what he didn't do
(I think she's afraid
of settling in,
but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights on
to frighten away the bridges & the people
so no one will come inside
& smash the teacups, steal the pipes
because since he burnt her beds out
no one lives there anymore
A Conglomeration of Beautyi. My father is a hurricane making love to the ocean. When I am in love I need someone who lies below the waves, ever swirling and present, who knows I am a tag along skiff - small, but still significant. I need someone who is willing to guide me along the deepest parts of life, water coiling around my bow to pull me to safety. That is you.
ii. With summer washed words I will tell you of my past and how falling in love is a terrible way to describe the feeling. You don't settle either, you make a journey, you create something. It is something entirely too complex to find a phrase that suits it and I will cry for days over this thought. Please let me embrace this short-term sadness.
iii. In many ways I am still broken. I am not where I want to be, but be patient, I am working to get there.
iv. You don't fill all the holes in your heart, I understand that now. There will be parts of you that always need to be open because they are more than just holes. They ar
blowing my teeth out the back of my skullI.
we are hynagogic wasteland words, unraveling
corpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasoline
and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones
( i will never be rid of you ).
finalepeals of laughter
been lying in the snow for hours
standing at the gates of heaven
leaned against the pillar, wondering when he can
side note: maybe i'm the sea.he stashes sand
between his wishing teeth
with the hopeless desire
to taste the sea.
packs of Newports won't get
him far, and
the extra air in his lungs
can't keep him afloat very long,
so it would better for us
if he just shrugged (again)
and walked away
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
carnival ridesJesus came from smoke & moonshine
so whenever i blow out candles,
i write God a grocery list and
set fire to wax in the back of a church
with waning moons for parishioners.
faith comes and goes like carousels,
so i guess that means that i can count on clowns
but i can't count on light.
crack your glow sticks upon our congregation
like rainfall amidst the baptized first.
i spend more time in bed with myself
than i do whispering secrets into the
onion paper of Bible pages.
i vandalize hymn books with my favorite lines of poetry.
i never bothered to ask God if he was okay with this,
i've just always been apt at assuming too much.
maybe, when my father's language unfurls like a Persian rug,
i will relearn the taste of cotton candy & confection sugar.
i will build monuments for my convictions
to make up for all those times i just faked it.
maybe, like a holy convict, i will shackle myself
to good deeds that do not self-fulfill but, instead,
teach every lesson i
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the people
you know you shouldn't,
solely for the reason
that they look good
look at your scars
like mothers peer into
cradles. then make
more; make yourself into
a symbol for infinity,
or at least try,
because it never works.
patch yourself up.
say, "darling, you're okay,"
while staring at yourself in the
mirror with your hair
damp and your lips
chapped (refer to stanza
one). change. grow.
it's what we like to read,
miss the people in your life
until they leave,
and then miss yourself
as well. screw everything up,
and then write about it
like it had to happen.
try to believe it, ignore
the voice in your head that hisses
and groans in your sleep,
behind your eyelids.
"baby, you're a fuck up,
you know it know it know it".
try to carve the humming
out of your body
by exit way of your veins.
be hospitalized. give in, give up,
play along, stop writing.
but then you start writi
MapsWe marked the deaths on a map in little black tallies,
every day we counted the numbers and they had come to a strong incline.
You sat in the dust by the flames
playing with a cattail
and you asked me
“When will it be over?”
The smoke drifted into open sky above us and I tried to count the stars.
The map was held together by rivers and
And we were held together by a commonplace drive:
The poem in your eyes had no backbone and it was falling apart at the seams and it made you
The map is held together by little black tallies on the edges from an old charcoal pencil.
And we are held together by a thread of life that could very well be
Alas, that is out of our reach but we must remember to always
fight! and to stay alive
please keep holding on
Because home awaits with open arms and we are here counting stars and
we must never die.
The mayor warned when we came home to
never leave again
never go agai
harmoniccure the vortex of the stars that
blow away the atmosphere
we've become accustomed to breathing,
trapped by quasars and atoms cornered
by indecision and quantum
you have found the phasing point,
and fallen through the sun before these fields
could follow us through.
and shatter; we are the royalty
of Castile, painted red and black
for screaming in this colored inquisition
how the pot is overflowing with our sins,
and how your faded jeans
have sundered all the
proving that stellar resonance
has imprinted on our vinyl souls,
and this is us, impersonated
by the permanence of every heart attack,
spelled out by the fracture of rolling dice
and molded plasticine.
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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