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Disregarding AppearancesWe are taking her to the dentist, again:
another chipped tooth.
Cherry pit the culprit, cut her lip to boot.
Eighty-three years old
and she's never chipped a tooth...
you count the four times
in the months since he died.
No matter how we frame it,
her focus has gone
from the willing meat
to the unyielding pit.
She refuses to eat them without pits,
demands her cherries daily, insisting,
even on the way to the dentist,
blood and dried spittle caked
in the corners of her tight smile,
insisting, she was living life
just as it told her to.
I sigh quietly.
They're her jaws, it's her choice.
I lean over in the back seat we share,
hold her gently and use my finger,
moistened with her tears
to clean the blood from her smile.
As I finish she pulls me closer,
whispers to me, dry lips tickling my ear.
"I filled my days hating that bastard
loving every minute of it;
and when I loved him,
I hated myself."
She giggled, then, and I couldn't help but laugh.
Again she whispered, even more soft
Sweet Molasses Riverboat
Pixies go boom.
Purebreds cross designs of blood
razorblown into your flesh,
leaving you with underflaps of skin to read.
Is it a mystery?
The needle gets stuck
in the groove
in your vein
in the webs of your toes
in your eye...
Your world is chosen by you and you alone.
Do pixies go boom,
or don't they?
Snow White in the Seventh Ward
I see you there, across the room,
arms crossed in a feeble attempt
to ward off memories of seeing,
Gray nights, quiet roads,
using the faint outline
of the yellow median stripes
to guide your steps.
Walking on the outsides of your feet,
trying so hard not to awaken the dead
lest they give chase
and make you join their party.
It was your own ankle joint talking
and still you had to stifle a scream,
to ward off memories of hearing,
Run full tilt, mouth a maw of sirens
arms akimbo and off kilter.
Let your sweat be magical
to ward away werewolves
and rapists and vampires,
all come to collect or leave
some sort of...essence.
All of them, taking your soul.
And you, helpless, dying, living,
I see you there, across the room,
arms across your chest,
hiding treasure, covering your heart,
hiding your heart. You remove yourself
from the arena of healing
because doctors carry lances, too,
and better a world you can what?
Gray nights, quiet roads,
using the faint o
Did I Mention the Sun...
Orpella will sit and carefully knit, while
blooms of white gather to make amends.
When calluses wore and painfully tore, infantile,
comfort was displayed within; it depends
on stolen Inverness cape.
Scents of lilacs do permeate well, float
and fall quite well, upon ready intake of air.
She followed her man to end of his days, till bloat
posies in hand, without any care,
poker-faced St. Peter awaits.
Inveigled by time, remaining by proxy,
Orpella cloaks so many, numbers fail mettle.
Her steadfast allegiance, staid orthodoxy,
crown her centerpiece amid glorious petals.
.....Bar the garden, Orpella!
Her chair emptied in time, holding out
invite to another, dedicated.
Should they deign to collar their doubt,
flowers involved, predicated.
.....Whence came caution, Orpella?
What devices we have that come morning,
dawn has lost its glory and seems
even upon wakening,
like the sunset of our hearts, mine-
looking for light.
Gone are days of pointing out those rays,
the arc of clouds run through,
with vertical greetings from Sol,
bursting through doors unannounced,
and spirits unattuned, I-
needing such tan.
Let me not sit by a stream and be immune,
to the breeze pulling your hair into a smile,
the trees into a bow,
forgetting how those atoms mix
and flow from inception, me-
part of it all.
What devices we have that come morning,
dawn gives us its hope: new day,
ever that dream unlived, ripping through such cords
as plug in our plugging out, finally-
in the real world.
Left Side Larry
Left Side Larry
Falling and tripping, same side
of the coin, if you ask Larry,
no matter if you fell from grace
or just stepped off the curb.
Larry you're waggish, you entrepreneur,
leading those ladies to safety...
no matter the ability to stride
nor the propensity to tarry.
Didn't you see the look on her face?
Your gentle touch, did only disturb.
Larry your boot was just found in the sewer,
yet you refuse knowledge of it so chastely!
Blame it upon Caterpillar's desire to hide,
and your couch potato, no legs to chase.
Larry what now, have you any account
of your dreams during the witching hour?
Did some cinnamon bun show up gnarly and hairy,
or were you a zot on a zit, a temporal blurb?
Larry my patience for pulchritude only abides,
doesn't temper my focus or zeal.
No envelope push nor empathy brace:
when confidence spits and only remits,
when the carapace breaks and falls to the hewer,
Ushers will appear rather hastily.
Larry your tales we will quickly surmount
though the coff
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
Skin.I love the way life leaves its mark on our bodies.
Every laugh and smile etched in the crinkles around your eyes and mouth;
Those tan-lines the time you forgot about sunscreen
Because you were so hell-bent on reaching that mountain peak
Or when you just became lost in the gentle lap of waves at the shore;
The scars you got skateboarding in the park at summer dusk
Or when life became pain and it was your only release.
Our bodies are a record of our memories and experiences
They are our travel journals and emotional diaries
Our delicate armour to the elements.
And no matter its colour, its stature, if it's not quite intact
If you sometimes think it takes up too much space, or if it has pointy corners
Your body is the vessel for your soul, and every wonderful facet of who you are
Sparkles from the surface of your skin.
Skin that may grow to be wrinkled, tanned, scarred, well lived-in
Although not always embraced by you the way that others embrace it.
Take the time to explore the s
The human condition of wanting to be everythingI feel as though I am exhausting
The excess skin around
in loose shadows
Across my cheekbones like
And whilst I find myself
To draw open the blinds
Because the light
is too bright
And I really can’t handle
The pane of the sky
With its obnoxious
glaring at me
With such a joyful expression
I know that lately
I am burning myself out
That I consume one too many
Cans of soda and energy drinks
At 2.45 AM
When the rest of the world
Is static in a hushed
Whilst I frantically try
To achieve something
Is too much
Or rather too
An existence for me
So I will continue
In order to
Try and destroy myself
Enough so that
I can be w h o l e
The scarsLife hurts us
It causes us to bleed
Time can heal the wounds
And stop the pain
But the scars remain
For the rest of our lives....
things i don't rememberi.
what you sounded like
as my ears were forming
what dreams or secrets
you confided in me
what pressures sunk
your proud shoulders
or the first time
i caused you
where i was when i decided
that your footsteps
should be followed
that your ideals
should be made my own
on my body
as i learned the world's ways
do not align
with our hopes
when i first
how my feet dangled
every time i wasn't strong enough and
how you made the world
how you were
figuring it all out
thought that life
To the BeautifulYou say we're beautiful,
Us who have been bullied...
But where were you while it was happening?
-I was watching-
You who say "This has to stop!",
There needs to be an end to this...
What are you doing to stop it?
-I did nothing-
It's too late now...
-I failed you-
LuckyYou talk like you always have a grain of salt,
to throw over your shoulder.
Every word is that hard cheese,
and they swing those whimsical wishbones much like carousels.
You're wasted on your self-image,
staggering down with rigorousness you don't own.
They're taking that steed and throwing horseshoes,
as if one of them might ring 'round your neck;
and save you from yourself.
You'll need a necropolis filled with pennies to barter,
and we won't lend a cent to save your sorry soul.
Your demons count clovers to kiss you,
gluing that fourth leaf to camouflage the truth.
They'd promise you an elephant to watch you die,
sucking sevens to keep you from entering Heaven.
And you can sing your superstitions into space,
but it's dead and empty.
Somewhat like the hollow shell you lounge in,
as the charms make you see spirits.
You say somewhere there's a rabbit dying to give its foot in your favor...
...but don't bet on it unless you can see that whites of its eyes.
VYou've waded through the worst,
child, so dry your eyes,
they've got better things to do
than drain the sea.
tie a ribbon 'round your wrist
lest you forget
it's only in the sun
that the shadows don't shine,
and if you say
please and thank you
the dawn will come swift enough.
(to knock you off your sodden little feet)
Brood-fall-leap! into this cauldron-my mind. (Minds!)
Bring your courage: not one drop light!
You'll have need. Better yet, be insane.
It will keep you from lifting trinkets
from happy shelves, making them your own
as the path unwinds, locking you
to my windowpane-my world-my worldview.
It's caught in its rut, comfortable with its place:
bottom of the sea, tip of the stars.
Neptune, on the sly ruler of Orion,
keeps watch over sand grains,
equating them with mortal hearts,
even the upstarts.
Even the meek travel here safely,
singing pink tunes of tulip.
If they are meek, I'm celery stalks
with supercolumniating growth.
You will hear the snappings
the cracks of destruction,
and you will taste the snappings
as copper fear warns you:
a storm approaches.
'Rendi' told you what to expect.
I kick out my mind, bring within the acceptable form:
the rancid plate of conformity.
Now, have your pockets grown heavier yes, full?
Are your fingers slippery with sweat, leaving their mark?
Did you just tr
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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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