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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.
Soft Shells and Buried Shipsmy mind drifts in pieces
the wax moon drip drips
onto the pane of the window
and down the side of the wall, wailing
across the floor to the soles
of my bare feet
my skin is as pale as the moon
crescent as fingernails tapping sos morse conspiracies on hardwood,
trying hopelessly to carve them into oars
to row out of a mad sea the colour of wine -
my flesh stripped bare to white naked bone
skull peeled back;
the hemispheres of my brain exposed
swallowed into the black hole
of a silk veil.
a damp sphere left to ferment
that I eat like an orange
a strange fruit
bitter and sweet on my tongue
gun powder and molasses
heavy and full of shadows.
I taste of hope and death
in equal measure.
I breathe paper lanterns and the mouth of eulogies
scattering promises and the snowflake petals
of morgues and warm breath in the space between ribs
aching bodies unmade and lips pressing kisses into
pages across palms and psalms and whisper-sweet
it's in the butter
slice it sweet and slice
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
CatatoniaShe scrawls life line tallies on her wrists in scars
to mark each year passed
and haunts bars looking for the love of strangers.
she finds malt whiskey and vermouth; strange mouths to kiss
she tips them back the way a lover might tip her chinny chin
She whispers slurs and looks into the abyss of gin.
He inhales death with the smoky kisses of cigarettes
injects life paraphrasing echoes of love with hypodermics to keep
the hypothermia of loneliness back
but it creeps and creeps
a slow paralysis
under the windowsill, rain falling bleak on the pane to drip
into her veins
soft dark over the threshold of the doorway to her soul
writing ink into her shadow, there -
melting behind the lidded stupor stare of dreamless minds
it stirs and wakes,
invisible monsters sleeping in her chest
they bare their teeth and bleed
pain naked in the light of morning
ugly and beautiful in the honesty of strangers unable to turn
from a car crash in the dusk.
walking in darkness
searching for touch.
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
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
Changing SightThere is so much horror in the world
that sometimes it's hard to believe it's beautiful.
When darkness gently swallows you
and becomes the light you breathe, the light you see.
Sometimes you have to look for it
in a lover's voice, the sound of rain on the city rooftops
the blush of winter, the soft tread of strangers on the street
whispered promises in abandoned places
the weight of a hushed word in a dark room.
Sometimes you have to look for it,
but sometimes it finds you.
Jenenesoft hands breathe love
into worn creases
between breath and light.
shaping beauty into empty places
a single word, a lifeline in the dark.
echoing off the tongues of poets
she keeps fragile ghosts
safely wrapped inside her heart,
writing in the dusk
while the world sleeps and softly dreams
she sings elegies
and lovesongs through her fingertips
effortlessly into us.
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.
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?"
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.
Morning TeaShe told him once; the evening sky left her in euphoria. The following morning, he wore all black and put stardust in her tea.
MorpheusEvery night I close my eyes
And stand before the lord of dream
He stares at me, then raises a sword
Which shall expel from mortal world
It gleams in light, aimed to me.
And down my body, a snake of fear
Well he knows me and my fear,
How dark things shift behind my eyes.
The things that are tormenting me
He laughs at creatures in my dream
In his hands he bends this world.
A silent scream edged on his sword.
It is a shining sepia sword
The thing that widens, haunting fear
It vomits things frightful to me.
He sends me spinning to his world
I see no kindness in his eyes,
The coldest man, the lord of dream.
And now within his world, my dream,
I am the one holding the sword.
He looks on me with darkened eyes,
Filled with something unlike fear.
You cannot win in my own world,
He says, looking direct to me.
I feel the glory weighing me,
Heavy in the house of dream.
His is a dark and unkind world.
Perhaps, he tires of the sword.
I do not know yet what to fear,
But I see nothing in h
pedicellariaeI am not a
I am a sea
spikes and venom and
but everyone seems
to call me
by the wrong name
Lonely Gods"I wish my body to be a staircase
to heaven." She said, "A conduit
of lonely Gods."Swaying
pendulum hips, she, she
was made of stardust.- Scars sleeping
above a city of sweet bones, stirring
like sun-stricken scorpions during
hollow painkiller nights,
mistaking her redred burns
for Apollos kisses.
"Sadly, this body has whispered away
the last of my secrets."
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
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!
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