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girl on the bus Open sewage and cigarettes.
She stinks of smoke, stalks down the aisle and slides into her seat like a cat. She is dressed in contradictions; thick-soled pink leopard loafers covered in spikes juxtaposes against chestnut brown ballet bun. Her posture argues with her pea-buttoned coat and straight-legged blue jeans; she perches on the edge of her seat, back curved and legs crossed straight out in front of her. She forms a literal question mark. Que pasa? (I wonder if the spikes on her shoes dig into her ankles like that.)
The smell of menthol cigarettes wafts off of her in waves, an invisible cloud that dissipates into the air with every breath--Virginia Slims, maybe? They would suit her. Tiny hands grasping a long, bright blue cylinder. Hands that slide out of her pocket, tracing circles on an ipod classic. Round-round-round-click. An unknown song makes it's way out of the spinning hard drive, makes it's way through brightly soldered joi
all that glitters is not goldwhen i was in junior high, i use to stare out of my window during the quiet bits of night, everybody in their beds and not a sound in the air; even in a busy city
and sometimes i'd think; maybe i want to fall in love with a girl one day, just to see what it would be like
then the night wind would come and carry my whisper-sighs away into the trees, and i'd fall asleep on the sill dreaming of lakeside cottages and opalescent hues of odd colors
when we went to art school together, we shared a tiny dorm room with ornate iron bars on the window and a single bed that looked up on to a smoke-stained ceiling
an old bathroom that was beautiful once, dirty glass and pink marbled tiles; a cracked vanity mirror in a frame of tarnished silver
the only things we had in the world were suitcases full of cigarette butts, inks and paints, sheets of paper and canvases that we tried to splatter ourselves onto
fine white dresses give to us by our mothers and aunts, that were ruined by paint stains o
the wire peoplethe wire people came, in all their electrical glory and beauty in black screens filled with white flashes and white text
and beneath them and their screens, the grey city never sleeps because it's filled with the insomniacs and depressed , the whores and the lover all the same who take their love in both corners and tiny apartment beds
so then they wash it down with tequila and whiskey, the sleeping drinks that put you to bed with all the glory of forgotten humiliation and loneliness, and the wanderers that have lost their legs and forgot what it is to sleep out of reach of the world
and so the people of the city lie in quiet awareness, in all their melancholic sorrow and ethereal nostalgia, or maybe the crushing emptiness that slides into being with the exhausted sleep of insomniacs who have the black ringed bag eyes of those who yearn for the relief of sleep
flowers for eyesyou're an odd girl
because you stand with that awkward straight-backed shyness that 11 year old girls have, those little ones that haven't yet been cracked and beaten by the world
do you know them? they're the ones that still have white lilies for hearts, purple-magenta ladyslippers for eyes
and bright yellow daffodils woven into their hair that look like the trees in winter, snow covered, untouchable beauty
it's some kind of sweetness that everybody use to know, but one by one we forgot how to see it
how to laugh the same way that children do, after running on rolling greens early in the afternoon
and when they run back in through back doors as the sun begins to bleed orange, dripping wet and full of brilliant, extroverted smiles that only children remember how to offer
picked wildflowers that cover the table half forgotten, from the laughter drifting down the the stairs that accompany high voices, talking in stories and riddles unbeknownest to the tall people
there's no order to the
the moon and the oceanshe use to take me walking on the beach like we were in some kind of cheesy romance flick, but I loved it because it's just like they say it is with a bulging sun like a giant hand is pressing down on it, popping like an orange and spilling liquid fire over a gleaming ocean
and you had the moon in your eyes, bright and dancing and gentle all at the same time, in looks given with laughs and delight, with guilty pleasures hidden away in some white stuccoed villa for a night away from the world;the looks that gave with all her heart and yet none of herself
if you took the sea with all it's soothing rage and beauty and smooth imperfection, with it's folds and underwater unknowns; if you took that and made it into a woman, one with white skin like the moon and eyes that never stopped changing, that was her
there were dances in moonlight, of wild unnamed emotion and the kind of gaze one only sees in those with a wanderlust that is never satisfied;in those that can never stay tied
melancholy bluesthere's a cello being played, in the downstairs drawing room
it's slow and mournful; like the blues that my father use to put on tape
while him and my mother would dance around the room;
eyes deep and arms full of things and people they once were
they're never off step; but it's graceful and quiet and full of things
that once were sad, too-- like the music they dance to
the blues devil with it's melancholy and sadness and regret
it has a home here, too. with all our faults and cripples;
we are sleeping outside in pearl-white snow, where everything is dulled and cold and blurry
not because we have nowhere else to go, when the oppression of our own thoughts become too much
but because in the morning when it's quiet and everything is far away to tired, sleepy minds
the lover, prostitute, the homeless man-- we're all the same, then; out in the snow
the tape-player in the drawing room is crackling still, a little more then it use to
it's old, like everything else in this worn out world of m
quiet chaosyou once asked me why i stayed up so late;
why i tormented myself with the lack of sleep the next day
it's the exhaustion, see. it always gets me --
even though it's all the harder, eventually
i like the numbness and oblivion that comes with exhaustion
it gives me a legitimate excuse to evade my own reality
while the quiet chaos blocks out all my problems;
sometimes i don't even have to try because it does it for me
when you suddenly discover that you're sinking down and deep
all the way into that blessed quiet in the depths of your own mind
which means that it's you and you alone, and you can forget everything else
forget the voices that scream at your from in and out of your head
this, is finding yourself at 3 in the morning
without the hacking and coughing up blood
and the complexity of getting through the day
the farthest thing from anybody or anything
and so to answer your question, darling
it's because when the world is fast asleep,
and it's quiet.
concrete townswe're the ones with the hacking and stumbling words
googly eyes that stare stare and stare again
monsters that live in your mind diggin' deep into grey jelly
you don't need these thoughts, you don't need anything
liars and judgers and who the fuck are we to care--
there's a twisted beauty about how we walk down here
with our mumbles and tumbles and shuffling steps
your rhetoric and rose-prose won't help you here
only your tired eyes, grey/white/cloudy orbs
don't bother now, you naive little bastard
nobody cares--nobody can ; who the hell are you?
'cause we're all the same in this ash-grey town
intravenous mercury that breaks you down
bruises and tosses; screams on corrugated metal
rusted bones and oily black-tar blood
roll it up and take a hit, drag deep deep deep
dance on corners, dance in smoke/smog
cause we ain't gonna live long anyways
in this concrete town
no punctuationshe`s a liar. one that lies about everything and nothing and all the inbetweens at the same time, about everything from her pains and intimate aches of the heart to the things she`s done and seen, hear and been, lies about who she is and why
but she can`t stop and she doesn`t know why if only because telling the truth means she has to be who she is and can`t run away with parade masks filled with glitter and feathers.
the lies, the fibs and everything else come to her as easy as a fish to water and she doesn't know whether she`s despicable or hurt or sad or angry or what is it and maybe she doesn't want to
and she`s not a compulsive liar, because she knows when she lies and could probably tell the truth if she really wanted to and later at night while she lies in bed it makes her sick because sometimes the lines in her mind between truth and lies and dreams and sorrows become dangerously thin and she hates what it`s doing to herself and to everybody around her
she won`t tell anybody ab
Beyond LoveYou say 'beautiful' like a mistake -
like it slipped out unwarranted
from those dark parts of your mind
that you don't want me to go to,
you say it like that.
You caress like it's worship -
like if you pressed too hard
or took too much, you'd pay the price
and I love those urgent times when
you're willing to pay it.
You teach me love like I'll die without it -
like if you don't defrost me
and my frozen image of myself,
then I might stop breathing
and extinguish beneath my own icy damnation.
You kiss me like you have to -
like we're sharing an oxygen tank
in a toxic, broken-down universe
and you are trying not to breathe
to save me.
You kiss me like that.
You love me, like that -
how am I supposed to resist
a man who loves me beyond his own sense
and senses - beyond love ?
In SanityI find myself in a world of white,
This place it feels so pure.
The Sun's rays are warm and bright
I've never felt so sure.
I explore the land and all its sights,
I enjoy the world's grand tour.
I wander around until the night
Shows what it has in store.
In the darkness, a speck of light
Reveals a hidden door.
I turn the handle and peer inside,
A sight I can't endure.
I turn to run, to escape my plight,
I dare not to explore.
But something inside catches my eye,
I can't resist the lure.
I awake to find myself tied tight,
A voice tries to assure,
"This one may finally fix you right,
Maybe this is the cure."
I willI will love you
all the way to the place where ladybirds go to die,
to the lushest corners of the earth
that hold the secrets no man was meant to see
and we will find them, and know them together.
I will love you
all the way to the place where bubbles are made
at the bottom of a glass of cider
that blisters the glass with condensation
as we trade hats and laugh at the way the air smiles.
I will love you
all the way inside a branch where buds dream of Becoming,
where those one-day-flowers stir wooden hearts
into an uprising, into a blossoming life
and we will plant our ambitions there, in the blooming place.
I will love you
all the way to the square brackets that hold our boxes
because you are my best friends, and you will be
as we fold papery hands around paper-cut wrists and cry
and mourn eighty-odd years flown by too fast. Even then.
Even then, I will love you still.
kafka has been dead foreveri.
I am going to cut the veins out of my neck:
pull the stars from the legiments
drown the cities in bruises
I am going to burn in hell:
tear down the pyramids, the faces, the continents
the weight of the universe
(if I live to be 20
I will know the landscape of my mind
as well as the bottom of the ocean
& people I've never met)
the secret is the almond
in your brain
you should listen when it screams
to run away
there is nothing
in your ribcage
one half of a clichè.
if I'm made
of bones and chemicals,
cold calculus, or
man of science
tell me why
think away the pain.
Do not be ridiculous,
love was just dark chocolate,
of rancid coffee.
Pop Rocksbeads of roman sweat and dust
lace the wind like meth into pop rocks—
feel the fizzlepop of history flamenco
across your justahuman tongue
and wonder why your professor never
lectured on the strawberry tang
of crusaders' sloshed blood.
Stereotypical SuicideSuicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a family,
Nobody who lives for their care,
Nobody who wants them around,
Nobody who helps them through life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has friends,
Not a person there for a simple hug,
Not a person existing for a reassuring look,
Not a person around to leave the words,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a home,
No place to live and feel happy in so,
No place to live without leaving again,
No place to live to avoid the truth,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a love,
Nothing there to hold them in warm arms,
Nothing there for a kiss to remember,
Nothing there to be a greatness in life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a someone,
"Don't do it - for your family
They mean nothing to me anymore,
"Don't do it - for your friends"
Friends? What friends? They don't exist,
"Don't do it - what about home
sunset soon forgottenin a single moment all her greatness collapsed,
her soulfulness small and full of absence.
i am wild
with infinite shades of yes -
and a careless smile
so kiss me quick
under the sun
(just until the pain leaves)
DunesOut on the dunes, you could be walking on the moon
Maybe you are, maybe we are; see that planet in the sky?
How much more can be said about body heat, about
Sucking the marrow from bones in a vain attempt to quench?
Disheveled by dust-storms in an ocean of sand, we walk
Blank-window eyes searching for what, some sort of life?
Our feet are heavy, the ground wants to eat them; no moon, this
Now the sky is the color of sand, and there are no stars to wish on
Sweat and dead weight, we wait for the coolness of night
Fatigued, delusional, we see a rusty car approach; we get in
rough linesi like to draw in circles and triangles
creation in blurred lines and incoherent scribbles
straight lines are so...strange, cleaniness is an option
make people into a style, grace and grime
because that is how i like to see the world
through rose-tinted, soot covered lenses
i love to draw smokers because of their cigarettes
to drag out the smoke in its quiet, graceful, half-circular motions
steaming from tips of perfectly rolled, manufactured proprietors of disease
punctuation is, on it's best days, a tool for the writer
and given free rein-- optional; to be used as seen fit
haphazard commas, Capitals, dashes- and periods.
clean lines and definite borders are so strange...alien to the mind
how? why? hands shaking across the paper, streaking unsteady graphite
the line becomes two, then so many-- enough for army of lines
stand up! the bottle's empty, leave now
but...spinning... staggering to the car and fumbling for the keys
3 year old=- sleeping, drawings that mirror your inebriated bee
Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls--
chipped away by the wind,
and held together
by silk spindles;
cobwebs align them like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in an broken window
against the sun
where beads of rain
gather in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic
against the backdrop of a cemetery;
My eyes seek out the sermon
in close proximity,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
as light trickles
over the shade,
breathes a new glow over snuffed candles.
I feel the weight in these empty rows,
how a breath couldn't cease to be breath
in the midst of prayer.
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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