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The Giantsthe earth is our ship, and we turn through
oceans of time
on the mad waves of a
dark cosmic deep, lost in a vast sea
billions of points of light our guides
the ghosts of stars lightyears away that have already died
and been reborn,
swallowed into blackholes
like the skeletal masts of wrecks
and lighthouses torn asunder.
in gravitational tides we are pulled
and seafarers draw strange patterns in the sky -
so that we might cut the universe to size
to stop our minds from drowning.
we forget to look with fear and awe and
we whisper (why)s -
at a world we cannot touch beyond the hull.
they are reborn again.
with minds awake we voyage, dreaming softly
of gods and reincarnations
lost in delusions of afterlifes and
And beyond us in our black ocean
the stars are reborn
the light of millions of ghosts touches us
and fills our sky with sights that rob us
all energy survives and recycles into
we are immortal ghost-watchers
LuminousWe lie together in the dark
the pale shape of you sleeping
rising and falling in the heat
I run my hands over the curves of your form and the walls
the curling corners of posters and
the four poster bed.
naked except for your shirt
the sound of the floorboards creak
in the hush under the soles
of my feet.
stopping to smile
at the faded play on words I can make out in the dark
outside the window
(and in my mind)
The Phone Call - A Sexy SatireIt was after her first aural sexual dalliance that Sue got an earache. She and Kevin had been going steady for a while, and she'd decided it was time to take their relationship to a more intimate level. It had never occurred to her to question him on his priors. His aural activity. His airwave past. Those late-night whispers. The number of adult phone entertaining partners littering his phone bill. Just how many girls had he talked to prior to their little fling? If he'd changed phones between them.
She'd talked with him late at night before, twirling the phone chord around her fingertips, listening for the sound of his deep baritone down the line. That night his voice mixed in with her soft moans, and when it was over, with the end
the dial tone.
They talked about the weather, the neighbours, whatever gossip was going around. It seemed that she'd gotten something else that might have been going around now too.
But that had just been foreplay. They'd both known what they we
You'll Be Red and Blue In a MinuteRoses are red,
violets are violet.
I get violent
when people say violets
are the wrong hue.
AlienRuby lives in my mind.
she is the voice between
that chemicals try to silence
the voices the run in streams
"kill the noise
get a gun a gun
kill them all
the government whispers alien
kill the noise
there's an alien in your head, lover killer
duck for cover
mother mary comes for me magdalene
green sleeves all my joy..."
lift my sleeves and you'll find
vertical and deep.
deep lines etched in
that pierce my soul.
Running parallel between
in the hemispheres
instead of heart lines
lines of longitude.
I tried to silence the white noise in my mind
with overdoses of
and emotional crusades
and maelstroms of not wanting stay
of not being sane
of not being able to
hold my crushed body to my chest.
instead I hold crushed pills in my palm
and swallow myself
I did it then to lay claim to a patch of earth
And I do it now to f
Chemical SplendourEverywhere there are whispers of mescaline
as we light up our pipes and inhale
the sweet, cloying taste of green smoke in our lungs
turning into curls of grey and blue
as blue and grey as the sky rolling overhead.
out of our heads in the dark
he offers me mushrooms and his stash of dope
I help to look after an overdosing stranger in a campsite
alcohol dripping sluggish from bottle mouths on the ground
as words and liquid escape their lips and mouths
the sound of regret thickening the mud underneath
doubled over facing rain-wrinkled bare feet.
I watch two girls do lines on the dashboard of their camper van
as white and thick as the lines on the road
They offer and I dec-line
and they offer again
and I (jay)walk
cutting denials across the white
the way their razors chop.
My lines of choice are self-induced
A young man drops acid a few feet away
I watch his soul dillate
as the black holes of his eyes swallow the world
ravenous hands reaching out to the
sky drops f
VisitsHollow black-hole eyes and arms filled
to the brim with primitive home-job tattoos.
a tear inscribed under his eye
tells of time behind
and time spent inside seedy taverns killing brain cells
forgetting the days
behind the darker bars,
the other cells
littered with tally marks on walls.
'HATE' is inked into the fists that led him to
other hardened fists met incarcerated.
hate breeding hate breeding regret
leading to bleeding out onto cement.
hard time brewing
moonshine under beds
slept with one eye open.
he flicks his cigarette onto the dirt under the house
tally-ho is the only tally he wants in his hands now.
It creeps under his fingernails and stains them yellow
instead of red.
Jamie scrubs at his dust-covered feet,
rail thin with the sweet smell of
marijuana that hangs
heavy over them -
His eyes run brazenly over my body
as he tells me of the guns he owned before police raids on his home,
his run-ins with the law.
"I'm on parole. Been in
Noble DarknessesHanging above us in all this darkness
silence is broken by the sound of your sigh soft on top of my limbs
my hands wait for the shape of your weight
and the creasing of sheets that bunch like paper flowers or fists moving beneath
pale light as your
curves cover mine with a grace
that breaks us in half.
heart-lines bleed love into mattresses
and meetings are messy and warm at 4 a.m.
your skin whispers the words you can't find into my bones
and our lips make them up in the absence.
SeeDrinking malt whiskey in a bar in West End
the smoke cocooning us in lazy curls
I watch the fall of dew of the glass on your hand
your fairy elf smile and shy eyes meeting mine.
The air is cold at 1 a.m. and our breath is before us
we breathe each other in.
I catch your hand
and you offer me your coat
but I'd rather feel my own heartbeat in my chest
insistent to be warm
warmed by your words and your press of your body alone.
We get lost in the city together
10 hours of steps tattooed into asphalt
and of drinks left full of hushed promises
waiting on empty tables
the soft slush ice melting pink like the blush
on your face.
We're leaving footprints through empty streets
a disappearing trail of breadcrumbs
to find ourselves again
and the backstreets are a home for restless feet
I could listen to your laugh forever
and wrap myself in your voice.
We laugh and stand together over the river
the city lights soft blurs
on the water like a surrealist world.
We talk about art an
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
FearClay and Michael are given anaesthetic for their shock treatment.
We sit together in the lounge, and Michael asks him why
he's not wearing the blue hospital robes.
"The shock shop won't let you in without them."
Clay points at him and screams so loudly we all shake.
"I need to lie down," he whispers,
and the nurses surround him
and gently lead him away.
He's so quiet and sweet on the ward,
but for a single moment, he's terrifying.
Michael is upset, and I try to tell him that Clay's unwell,
that we're all unwell.
He was hearing voices this morning,
and staring into nothing.
And I hope he's okay,
that he'll be okay.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More