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The Morning BeautifulI love this; beautiful.
I love this, beautiful.
The light, this
Mornings curling you up into a tea cup
and be warm.
Beautiful, I love this; I love you.
This is just -
Curled up with you
warmed by mornings
and tea in a cup
and I love you.
I love this, I love you.
I love you just like this,
in the cup of morning.
Drinking light and being warmed
from the inside out
It's beautiful in the morning.
Finding Warmthsoft fingerprints, the
leaves of frost in my chest
I exhale snowflakes
hail fills my lungs
tears of sleet and rain form
while white winter snows
dusts my tongue
the headlights catch the shadows
under my eyes,
the hollows between my lips
the dark wine melts
the bruises of my ribs
like frost in a winter sea hush
hope flutters in my chest
Love Letters On the TrainDear Stranger,
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something I'm unaware of, something silently and intimately your own; a secret from the world that makes everything all the more meaningful to you.
- The Passenger
I'm not in the habit of reading post-its from strangers. I found a love-letter hidden in a newspaper once, that the author forgot or was too afraid to send. It made me sad to think
Pieces MeantWe scatter our hearts over mantlepieces
a red drip in the doorway
like a lifeline.
You take hold of the fragile threads
and follow me
into the dark.
We press our fingerprints
against our reflections
searching for meaning.
And you paint words
with your fingertips
against the glass.
We write our footprints
into the earth
under soft grass pillows
and the skeletons of birds.
And you follow me
with the pieces wrapped
inside your chest.
SalvationsI woke with a barcode tattooed into my wrist, over a scar.
nurses conspired in soft tones
tracing the sound of schizophrenia into an injection needle
to hush the patient in the bed next to mine.
their voices echo in my bones.
I stopped breathing in your hands
and you lifted me like
a drop of snow, to drink.
whispering intraveneously into my lungs
I breathe light
and swallow myself whole.
black holes moved under your skin,
and your limbs felt soft, diseased.
and we prayed for release.
we searched for wings in the corners of wards
breathing prayers into our hands,
pressing them between the outside floorboards
and writing the gospel secrets of the damned
I am, I am
I am mad
we were the sick they laid down in marketplaces
to touch the holy hem of silk, to be blessed by solemn hearts
our fingers missed and felt god depart
we touched the air.
lips seeking reverence in the place of saints and
we spoke hymns into the space
and touched th
DissociativeI wake and stare into the blackness of myself
hands searching in the darkness
staring into the space where my face must be.
Every breath is an echo of myself from far away
and the fear seeps into the back of my head,
a mindless panic.
My body is alien.
A living thing without a heartbeat or a soul.
And the touch of my skin frightens me -
it's cold and strange in the dark.
I can feel my flesh disappearing into itself;
a soft, slow collapse, like quicksand
and it makes me violently sick.
Ragged breaths sink into my veins, to sleep.
and I feel so peaceful, so ready for death.
Tears no longer fall under the hollow of the moon,
I sit still.
Restless words move under my skull
and fall into decay.
MomentsThese moments with you are too fragile,
too beautiful to remember with words.
And still I try to lay you down with soft ink falling
red and blue onto white pages,
to find meaning in the spaces and have you held
under my hand in the slow tilt of a pen,
the way you linger on my lips, my mind, my tongue.
I chase ghosts when you're not around
following your echo into sleep,
wrapping your body to mine in waves of
sweet deep memory
and whispering love into the sheets.
Old Loves and Sanity in a Lonely ChairLithographs of you
waxing lyrical on the bookshelf
between love letters and lithium
and the taste of your breath.
wearing down like the sole of well-
I wait at the door
half in and half out
with so much to lose
Suicides Learning To SpeakIt’s 6 a.m. A girl is beginning the journey back from Oz, anchored to life by the whirr and beep of machines and tubes. Above her emaciated body, nurses pace, write on clipboards, click their heels and purse their lips. She is oblivious. Her mind drifts in freefall, stuck in an eggshell skull wrapped in nasal gastric tubing and an oxygen pipe forced down her throat like a synthetic umbilical cord. Somewhere, neurotransmitters are sewing themselves back into conscious awareness. There is a person lost somewhere in that body. There is a mind overboard in a black sea, sending up a flare. The nurses are afraid that she will stay in there forever. A family jostles at the side of the bed in the cramped, generic hospital room. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men… I don’t need ruby shoes to find my way home. My name is Ruby, the nurses click their heels and my family makes the wish.
I’m finding my way back to consciousness through the sound
InfiniteIt was denial,
like lovers in a motel room
searching for something beautiful.
She had tattooed the universe
on her back - pretended she was infinite,
but in fact was trapped
under the weight of the world.
I am not British nor am I English,
I am a member of the planet earth.
My skin is black making it hard to distinguish
That I do not belong to any specific turf.
Although my passport may say otherwise
And there may be boxes I am forced to tick.
My Continental ties are instrumental in their eyes.
Just like you, I am vulnerable to stones and sticks.
My hair may be curly and my nose may be wide
But my extremities are bound to any communal cemetery.
If you would be willing to compare a picture of our insides.
You will see that our differences are purely elementary.
Yet you are conditioned to see me as incompatible
And this misplaced backhand is something I can understand.
Even though your judgments are far from factual.
Despite our fathers demands, I will still openly shake your hand.
I may wear trainers and you may wear shoes.
You might like rock music and I might prefer rap and reggae.
My team may win today and your team may lose.
But we both will eat, sleep and
Stirring Arsenic into a Milky WayI'm a slave to the spirits,
Withering in the weary wind
That winds 3,000 miles to
Rest at the molten sea
Slash a scar in my star,
dousing the fire,
you an icy hiss to the flames:
memories in ashes.
Crosshatch my flames
into chambers of passioned
heat. I stirred galaxies
of twilight into the apex of winter's
Set to cool
on the window sill
staring into the solitude.
You are the drizzle that
slaps the glass with echoing words.
I'm a selenium lord who
reflects upon values stronger
than a two-sided mirror.
You collapsed upon yourself brighter
than a supernova of northern lights.
Bring me into your singularity,
Cygnus, and don't let go.
If we are to become the debris of light
then why not go into
Life on DisplayShe had grown up in a world
of coupon clippings, muffled ears
and tip toeing around broken glass.
Bruised feelings towards the world
that looked so narrow and thin;
Felt like a resolutely locked door.
Always grasping for the heavens
with a desire and ferocity
of piercing iron claws.
Dominating the skies with all the
bulk and majesty of a bird of prey.
Boxed in at one corner of a city;
dusty and forgotten.
Yet, always guaranteed to be visible
at night. Raging quietly through
the darkness like the last bit of embers
on the end of her stamped cigarette butt.
Artsy and upscale enclaves beckoned her.
Hidden oases of roasting coffee, hip music
and fresh-cut flowers. So unlike the barren
desert of chain convenience stores and dreary
apartment blocks she called home.
Beautiful young women
clink marble china together, bobbling
around each other like planets bobbling
around the sun; All struggling for recognition
and permanence. All the while, defiantly staring
into the face of the force that ga
In the parking lot, my brother shoots plastic arrows
at our station wagon, sleeping bags piled in the back.
"Can we have a pool shaped like a bass guitar,"
he asks, "when we get to California?" I float gum wrapper boats
in the shimmering heat mirage, my knees barnacled
with scabs and mosquito bites. As we drive, we count road kills,
eighteen wheelers and truck stops named after some guy.
You can drink it," Mom says cutting open a barrel cactus.
"Even if you get lost, you'll never die."
She taped Dad's latest postcard to the dashboard.
"Found work. I love you all. Come." We have postcards
from almost every state: amarillos from Louisiana,
pine flats from Arkansas, a Texas gas station with pipestem hoses.
Dad once worked in a diner, brought home day old cherry pie,
placemats I could draw on. When he kissed me goodnight,
I could hear jukebox songs. "Be my baby, do wah."
Mom stoops beside me, touches my spearmint boat with a bitten nail.
"Where is this one going?"
pedicellariaeI am not a
I am a sea
spikes and venom and
but everyone seems
to call me
by the wrong name
The perfect label
For a guy like me,
Who tells you to be confident
And lives in self-doubt,
Who tells you to be honest
While lying all around,
Who says you should be happy
Yet drowns himself in misery,
Who says that he will listen
But will not talk to anybody,
The perfect label
For a guy like me.
A way of life
That I no longer
Want to live.
Please don't be poetic.Please don't be poetic.
Please don't tell me about love.
I'd rather hear about the way you ripped his lungs out
when you left him breathless on a stormy night.
Please don't tell me you love him, because
I refuse to believe you anyway.
Tell me about how you stabbed his eyes, leaving
wide open pupils hanging from his face
(I don't believe this, they scream)
and tears pouring from his brain
(it might mean he still loves you
but please don't believe him.)
If you are going to tell me about how you killed him, then
please be poetic
give me thoughtless metaphors about butterflies and testicles,
(and red roses, if you wish)
and tell me that you kissed his sternum after
you cut him open because
(that is where the heart actually is, by the way)
I want you to be poetic.
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
Keep in Touch!
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