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She'd Take The Devil At His WordAt first glance, her world rolls on
Unbroken, timid eyes;
At first thought, she can't be tender,
Would quickly dart and strip away
Ecstasy's face; a compelling fire
Of flesh in offering
To the night's knife-sharp perspiration.
How beautiful that form expressed,
Pulled by splinters beneath a skin of ropes
And smeared like a thick liquor;
Her possession, becoming possessed,
A devil's depth in adjuration
That I may gash her to pieces and receive nothing;
Her being hollow -
I swallow -
Her being a song, I sing.
Digital WitnessAlready now it stings, hollow nibbles between being swallowed whole,
I die tonight, my life destined to be shared and liked,
Already now it seems the billowy ocean of clicks have found me.
I died without trying, to see him at the pane I sit,
To meet him whom unsubscribed, my life a lofty prize
Plowed through and trod down, powerless against the scroll.
Already now the force of blows, mixed with the incense-steam,
Seem to me less as weapons, more melancholy comments
Attentively neglected; I trust nothing, and expect less.
I am hostage to a powerful host,
Honored to be an awful ghost
Living still in others' eyes,
Through old memories and new replies.
Expectation Of An AvalancheOur emptiness, our spades and saws,
Old tools become debris,
The shattered bricks, a flayed applause
Shaking the snowy sea.
Tomorrow and the muted crawl,
The air's shock caught up, surging fall,
Beyond, until the motion stalls.
The bloodless gallop of the void
Between a dreamer's bones,
And at the foot lay there, destroyed,
Dissolving little ones -
So was it then, an elegy?
To soften their geometry,
So was it, then?
So was it then
When ice was all that I could see?
Alignment of translucent dunes,
Glass roofs but gravestones be;
Giving shelter to shedding moons
All polished perfectly.
An avalanche, as one would say,
No anchored noise thrown in the way,
To seize the feet with frozen clay.
Yet convalescence strips away
That jewel-box whose stems may slake
The eyes' long-thirsty lust of gray -
Our emptiness outwears and breaks.
No arabesque to dress the heart
Nor quickly sway its idle aches;
To whisk off vertigo, to part,
Our emptiness o
And Chains Will Not Release MeA certain pride and certain awe I see,
At times, your ardor all but has you gripped,
Yet not with love for your own child, or me,
But only for his newest manuscript.
Your verses are a gift from God himself,
Yet you dwell on those sentences amiss,
'Tis your novels that should be on the shelf,
But you treat each word as a crude, lewd kiss.
I'm writing this in hopes that you may know,
Finally understand what you ignore,
My veiled voice has long been pleading "Go..",
But 'tis I who must choose to stay no more.
Your words have chains and meaning thick as lead,
And chains will not release me once they're said.
Every Word I Say Has Chains 'Round Its AnklesI think of Hemingway everyday,
and murmur that it's going to be okay,
there's considerable difficulty
upon just being okay.
Just for one day.
Every word I say has chains 'round its ankles, running
for a porcelain knob too slick to turn,
and it seemed
that sentences inhabit darkness better
which is why they hide when exposed,
Oh how they pine.
I told myself calmly those words that had no sense,
and thrown away
so their leprous company
would not inhibit his craft.
Those he would never want to get back.
I'll desire in every way just to write like that.
Environed By Lights The traffic lights change too quickly around here, maybe because they know that nobody is coming. Heck, when we're not looking they probably turn purple and pink.
There's a certain poetry about them, like infinitessimally small stars we have the opportunity to watch die, and be reborn, we navigate about them and chart the best course, reading their instructions like fortune tellers. They are small Gods we honor with our approach, they govern the great consensus so that we may move fluidly together. I always thought randomness was true freedom, expectation a secret ruler, a calculable surrender.
I watched the walking envy the driver's speed, the drivers envy the walker's intimate view, neither truly happy to be doing what they were doing. The human condition: to compromise oneself, always finding something to want, something to give up in order to reach half-satisfaction. But that's the point I guess, to take something and leave something else leaves a man never overwhelmed, always i
A Flower Wouldn't Be So BoldAutumn leaves
Barely nothing, the wax of Summer wings
Long dried and scraped away.
And suddenly Winter cold — the mistletoe.
The new solstice, death and rebirth;
The air opens,
Upon the hearth a bough was hung,
And snow caught the tip of
Buildings clothed from head to toe,
And cars, too, as they inched a touch
It moves past you
In a flash.
Leaving only spiny-finger withered oak,
And one too many a stuffy nose.
We curse the cold,
Long for something old
To turn us away,
Reframe the mold.
A flower wouldn't be so bold.
A Conversation"What does unadorned beauty look like?"
An abrupt stillness came upon the snowstorm, as if the weather itself had posed the question. Not being able to see five feet in front of me, it didn't seem entirely unlikely. The bright and biting snow had left me disoriented, and I was sure I had been walking in entirely the wrong direction since breaking down on the highway a half-mile back. Just keep North, I told myself, because being lost is for people who take too many turns, like that even matters when each slow step is into the exact same nothingness. Supressing thoughts of the various scenarios of my death out in the cold I turned to where I thought the voice came from and shouted above the again-angry storm, "Hello? Is that you God? I can't talk now but if you've got any mechanic experience I could use your help!"
The blizzard snarled.
I nodded my head as if I understood.
There's nothing like being lost for the first time, it's as unique a feeling as being in lo
The Family Has Been InformedBullets that are too far away to hear back home
But words that will forever ring just as loud in my ears
Delivered from the lips of a uniformed man
The sympathetic sentence any mother fears to hear
I turn away as if ignoring his presence
Will make this unwanted reality go away
But he repeats that he is sorry for my loss
Those words are the last thing I remember of that day
I find myself looking out of the back yard window
On the swings in the garden I still see my boy play
I am bringing drinks out to him and his brothers
Under the sun, on the grass, on endless summer days
Those memories like photographs in frames on the wall
Now show my son with a wife and child of his own
A husband and father torn from their loving arms
In to the mass grave-in-waiting of a war zone
His old bedroom was already a shrine to him
Even before his blood soaked deep in to the desert sands
We waited for him to return from his first tour
Knowing the boy we’d said goodbye to would come home a man
Young JanuaryI saw her at the local supermarket
She could have been no older than ten
She was buying some refreshing beverages
To quench the thirst of herself and her friends
On this summers day they had waited outside
Lacking patience they were shouting her name
‘January, hurry up we have to go home!’
From the shop young January soon came
Rushing past me at the speed of her childhood
My lonely heart skipped a beat or two
Either from her soft brown hair that touched my arm
Or the smile she gave as she passed through
Did I hurry through my shopping on purpose
In order to catch young January up?
Fumbling my loose change as I left the store
The cashier complained I’d given her too much
I feel everyone’s eyes boring in to me
So away from the store I swiftly fled
Knowing fine well that I should just return home
But something made me follow the girl instead
Pretending to read the receipt in my hand
I watched closely in the corner of my eye
Which way would young January be walking
31. FlowerYou, my love, are like a flower:
Delicate petals in heavy gale
Facing shower after shower
Of icy rain, snow and hail.
Delicate petals in heavy gale
Caught in winter's deadly cling
Of icy rain, snow and hail
Still you'll bloom in spring again.
Caught in winter's deadly cling
Facing shower after shower
Still you'll bloom in spring again:
You, my love, are like a flower.
The Laughing BoyThere once was a boy who smiled alot,
We called him the laughing boy,
because its better to have a name than to not.
That boy laughed and smiled wherever he went,
I wish that he was still here,
I just wish that his spirit hadn't gotten so bent.
He was battered and beaten but still he smiled,
His smile spread happiness wherever he went,
Imagine what could be if his heart hadn't been defiled.
He was battered and beaten just a little too much,
He has countless sad stories,
And now he's cold to the touch.
There once was a boy who smiled alot,
But now his eyes are empty with despair,
and of happiness, now he knows naught.
LegacyIt is always the damn same song.
Always are the wrong people strong.
Why do they think that your way is wrong?
You’re asking yourself what is left when you’re gone.
Your whole world starts to spin.
Their skin and nerves are very thin.
Want to use you like a soldier made of tin.
When you know the only thing you can do is win.
Want to sort out because you differ.
If you don’t do as they say, they’ll get stricter.
They don’t want to see you as the victor.
The only thing left will be a picture.
When everything you see and hear is a conspiracy.
And everyone thinks that you are crazy.
You are unique, only once in this galaxy.
The words you say and things you do are your legacy.
The Cold, Hard TruthThere are no happy endings,
the fairy tales all lied.
Cinderella is still a slave,
Snow White, the Beast, and the Mermaid died.
Sleeping Beauty never woke,
Because Philip never kissed her,
Alice didn't find Wonderland,
the Rabbit must have missed her.
Peter's still in Neverland
with the Lost Boys, growing older.
The Snow Queen's heart didn't thaw,
the world keeps getting colder.
Rapunzel is still in her tower,
her long blonde hair gone gray.
The captive princess has lost hope,
there was no prince to save the day.
My Spyro AnthologyA Spyro Tanka
Caring and faithful
Yet relentless and mighty
Destined for greatness
A Cynder Tanka
Gifted black dragon
Turned away from the dark side
Our hero's lover
Though swift, lethal and fearful
She hates her bad self
A Dragonkind Haiku
Civilized and meaningful
Home to all of them
A Spyro and Cynder Acrostic
Special and so
You never know what he can do with his
Of fire, electricity, earth, and ice
Along with a former
Nemesis from the
Nightmare to our hero's
Dear with so much to
Endure as she
Rages with wind, poison, fear, and shadow
A Malefor Acrostic
Means to bring
A dark age
Leaving us for dead
Evil spirits living
Forever in a world
Of empty space
Ruled by a corrupt
Spyro's Dark Destruction
He was cute and sweet when you first knew him
Now that he has grown
His strength is unknown
On his enemies with huge obsessions
The fire he breathes is filled with aggressio
Judy, with her box of matches, obsession with matchlock pistols,
And her passive resistance to hatchways with over-intricate latches.
Jennifer's cerulean crystals are ultramarine in the dilatory sheen,
Of the lacerated foil-like car-crashes she watches for sensual sensations,
Mindless-stimulation, pulsations, compliant undulations:
The discreet and susurrant sounds of agreeable vibration.
Joni strokes bones and licks tendons,
She's an inlet for suggestions, an anchorage for connections.
In the absence of relevant utensils, she stencils outlines:
Sketches of Skeletons bereft of Flesh but bejewelled with Carrion,
A decay that elevates Jennifer's day from the Realm of the Mundane,
Through new levels of punishment, discipline and pain,
Again and again, new pain. (Cool down with a hot carbine).
Again and again, into the Realm of a Dark Mind.
A Dark and darkening Realm of reverse hitches, slo-mo sex scenes,
Death games, blue flames, quick-fixes for itches and slow-release endor
Assembly LineThe sun will still rise and it will still set
No matter what that day you've come to fret
Whatever happens, the world keeps spinning
It doesn't care about the pain you're in
And nothing really ever goes as planned
Some things you will just never understand
And the road to heaven may seem like hell
But in the end, just think of the stories you'll have to tell
Everything might be alright when you're not fine
That's just another day on the assembly line
Foul DivinitiesAt the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go.
Divine Meditation #7
Threads are reeling,
An ordered, twisting, circle wheeling,
An ancient writing restrained by haste,
Erring to fit within the skein;
And so well-proportioned whims are placed
By God, whom never tasted woe,
But war and dearth get past the strain
Set up so long ago, winds that wane
So skillfully, slow,
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow.
Then as my flesh
Persists, a last mile mesh
Of minutes - my life span's last inch -
So fall my sins that would press me
To hell, impute new fear as I flinch
From being cast from an earth-born guise;
Will not some righteous blood earnestly
Protect mankind? Whatever it be,
Do not let fly what denies
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise.
Because what waste showers
Suffering! whose sighs are hours
The heart does rent;
An insatiable d
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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