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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
this is a warning.i.
The first thing you need
to know about people is this:
If you cut off our head,
we will grow two in its place.
We will divide and conquer
until there's nothing left
but tiny gaping mouths,
clacking and salivating
at the crumbs of an empire.
They tell me hurt is like
a paper cut:
quick and forgotten,
Hurt is the first step
off a balcony,
the first gasp
in a chain reaction
screaming from the railing
to beyond the pavement.
When I finally hit the ground,
I looked up and saw my halo
dangling from the edge,
He said, she said,
I wanted, he lost, she won,
I ruined this, I broke your heart,
he left me,
I miss you.
This is nothing new.
Your tragedy is always
what's it like to realize
every slash on your soul
has an identical twin?
What's it like to know
you're going to die
the same way everyone does:
scared and alone?
We are disposable.
The hydra g
Prince Means Frog
Queens Were Not Princesses
Robots Rule Inside Us
Freedom Needs Freedom
Reality Is Not Safe
Asylum Is Safe
Breathing Is Free
Air Is Not Free
Guests Are Expected
Life Is UnExpected
Poison Is Lazy
Blood Is Hot
Death Is Cold
Steel Needs Fire And Ice
Steel Is Weird
Weird Is Not Always Art
Poetry Is Not Art
Poetry Is More Than Art
Art Should Not Answer
Answers Need Questions
Questions Need Answers
Ask The Translator
War and CancerI want to go back
and meet us one more time,
before the war and the cancer
took up so much of the day -
before my father could no longer
remember what the present
was supposed to mean
and your mother
could still get dressed
without losing her way.
I want to know
what it felt like
to board a plane
to somewhere hidden
and not care
if our names and faces
to walk as long
as we wanted
without the sun and moon
creating an argument.
I want to feel you
roll into my arms
where I forgot to cut the grass
and you did not
water the flowers;
to hear you
watching the cardinals
unearth the spring.
And to know once again
how this place
started becoming new.
The Re-Prettify ProjectBreathing in silver filaments
will not make you pretty on the inside.
You cannot polish and buff
lung or aorta
until it is shiny and new.
If you have filled your life with toxins
and allowed your eyes
to cloud over with coal dust
do not, my friend, do not
seek silver linings from anything
but penance and kindness.
Throwing gold-dust over your head
will not administer you a halo.
It was so suddenIt was so sudden.
It was so fast.
It was so scary.
We were so happy.
It was the best.
But the thunder fell.
And now there’s nothing left.
twentythe river flares
tinged with champagne
from the hue of the sky,
broken tortoise shell above
but the glow is far
raw teeth have started
growing in the wind
and everything around me
Clear skies and endless oceansLying down on the grass
I see the blue sky
Standing on the edge of the cliff
I see the blue ocean
Two beautiful wonders
Inked by the gods
With the color of sadness
The color of nostalgia
Let me dive into you
So I can experience
Your cold and shivering touch
even in death, i will not find peacei lost my faith the way
i lost my virginity -
clinging to a girl like she
was all i'd ever have,
bathed in darkness and shame.
it's been years since then,
but i want to lose my life
the same way.
no motion could raise me
from my coffin of sod and sorrow,
to pull me from my bed
of dirt and disgrace -
but i would wake up with
blood on my hands,
i would wake up with death
curled up like a dog at my feet,
resting with nothing
but the waning hope that
you ache for me with a fire
burning in your bones that
never ebbs, never relents.
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
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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