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trespassing slipthe soul is numbered into a cohesive pattern. graphed for the mathematical masterminds and swallowed by the sea. it is drawn on earth-colored paper and taped to backs; for no one has the right to see their soul or steal it, just to roll it in mud or take it off when they feel overdressed. she's always overdressed for you but strays, too afraid to slip her hands down, over, off. she replies with tiny licking phrases and sheathes her eyes behind a clear mask. so useless. so so ashamed. to blame. we blame you.
talk is nothing but meal to fill the empty stomachs of air. we make it fat with nonsense and diseased desires. the others are just fifteen and free to dream, so free. free attaches to falling in a revolution of seconds and we are the most captive prisoners of all.
you have sweet dreams of tongues slipping down your throat, of medicine. i live to trail your insides but die to move beyond skin. barriers break our chemicals down to singular strands of written codes read only by nature.
never told youi always drink too much of
this fashionable spring air
but enough isn't me.
gold, god, we climb over
every hill and fall in love
with breaded earth again and again.
i dream of you in payphone
booths when i think of home,
smiling my signal through the chords
hoping it will replace
a lover's flesh.
but sweating all these colors fresh,
oh, it's something to see,
something to me
because we run in empty fields
while you sit cramped inside,
barely pumping the blood around your toes.
come on, darling, you know.
when we drive i sing into memory;
do you remember when i fell
out of your tree? you ran and picked me
up and even though i was seeing stars i
tried on love like a slip
it fit me to fit you.
lover, though the water's where
i'm most alive i miss that
one word, home, for you.
am i just too much?
fever dreams won't be
enough to touch.
miss the waterfalls
all those clouds
during hot weather
i curtsy to the bandits
and play my piano sweet
eating up the world to feel
it in my s
implosionsthe whale ate my hunger
and now i'm a ghost,
pills setting off bombs
in the mine of my body
turning my blood toxic
and bursting the shafts
into a precarious spin.
i'll live in the spaces between
the walls without you
and pretend the stairs don't exist.
you're a tunnel behind my eyes
and it is starting to block my vision
between breaths and false eyelashes
sweat is not sweet and i'd like
you to stop
couldn't you tell me which road?
the signs are read backwards and i might be going blind today.
crowned with my own broken chair
i take the graveled road spelling east.
i might be beautiful today.
the pills you've eaten
don't really love you
and they do abhor tracing the
train tracks on the inside
of your hollow throat
can't you see?
the whale left me in the
stomach of the ocean
and i can't swim with
pills lathering me
a laugh will cost you--have you seen the girl with the sad, cold eyes
and down-turned mouth? she's always in a frown, a coma of malleable lips pushed like clay. perhaps they were formed by the phantoms behind her teeth, or the myths drowning in her wet mouth. they say she has evil eyes. stained ones.
i talked to her one dark morning when she sat writing letters into a wood desk. i said, "hi." and she looked at me and turned away. so did i. the next day she walked up to me out of nowhere and she said, "you're weak." and then she smiled real crooked, a poison kind of smile. she told me stories about broken love and the snakes under her skin instead of blood. she's their cocoon and they're too afraid to shed her off. a writhing, rocky heart ate away at her insides, giving the snakes something to eat, she told me. that was why she was too skinny and pale-blooded. cold-blooded. zero-blooded.
she made the most gruesome jokes, too. i couldn't tell you 'cause i forgot them all but she did. and i always wa
weightlessshe had words dripping like sweat from her skin and flowy cloth glancing across her shoulder. when it was always summer, she ran along the beach and collapsed into herself, her long gold hair more gold when water hit. her mouth held oceans inside of it, green and blue and off-color lace sewed by the sea.
eyes stitched to every horizon she ever saw, she wondered where her breath would take her after she swallowed the midnight chill. she was perfect and flawed all at once, wrapping her, breathing wind into the feathers in her hair. she'd be in movies and she'd sing with her unreal voice that would sound like the song of the sea and have the beat of native drums. she'd dance prettier than a hummingbird. she sees in full color and when she is sad it's almost happy because she is such a painting, such a perfect girl.
she was my dream.
but dreams just push us father, deeper into fake minds and plastic towns, unbelievable children and birds that always fly in vision. i run from her because sh
sidestitchesi am a spinster, a classic fable
spinning away with my needles
folded neatly in my hands.
i sew hearts just to rip them apart
at the seams all undone.
too much poison.
the soldiers fed me too much dirt
and lies so i've been hiding them
between my crooked teeth
with the lords and ladies of
endless pasts collapsible into a
paragraph, a word, a letter.
i need a different kind of letter.
indian summer has its way with you
when you use it for your work.
it swallows you and will drag
you back into freeze if you look
away long enough.
i am a spinster,
not even a widow, no young to
carry in my mouth to spit out over a cookfire.
she never felt herself or human without
a boy attached to her arm, fumbling with her limbs
and putting her back together only to pull her
apart again at the joints.
reminiscent of my stitched hearts,
except they like to chew off the flesh
and me i like to pretend.
we pour poison into our glasses because
there's nothing else to do
and bodies are disposable
i think we've got it bad.the long dirty road has wheels printed into it and buildings jutting from its sides, cars stopping completely, submissive to all the too-bright light. it's freezing but i feel okay, i feel whole. i feel like i could step outside of myself and the numbness of it all wouldn't let anything touch me. the essence of me. the idea of me.
you wait for me under the street signs with your heeled shoes and too much black smeared around your eyes. it makes you look sad but maybe you want to look sad i don't really know. your hugs feel like a mother's. we're going to a party, some great musician's with golden toilets in his loft that likes prostituted girls like you and maybe a guy like me at his house because we're warm and smudged, the unreadable, undetectable ink. you don't even talk to me, you just hold my arm like a child with your skinny legs steering me the rightest way
we get there, we finally get there, and i decide i want to be mindless, breathless drunk all for the fun of it while you go
numbertoday is hollow metal
folding onto me
and that boy said "um" at the front
of the classroom one-hundred-and-twenty-four times
should've spit out what he wanted to say
it's hard when you're cold and broke
he's not real i promise
fake fairytale breath
but, magdelena, darling
i eat beauty like death
wish i was worth itplease don't need me.
my skin prickles and i shiver
under crowded carpets
i am so
falling over gin mouths
and crystallized fingers
under my eyelids.
you like me to be there
to hurt for you
'cause i'm worth no more than that
and i guess i should say i'm
sorry for letting
you crawl this far under
each little nerve on my
spine but it won't help
i know i'm sorry
am i weak or do you,
do you love me?
can iwill you let me
be more than a tool, an absorber of the
fears falling from your tongue?
i wish i could be more
than one little girl
in a collage of countless others.
i wish you wouldn't
oh i wish you wouldn't
but you persist and now
there are bruises on my
chest, i've taken all the
blows, i can't feel.
i don't love it
i don't love you
please don't need me
(do you love you?)
'til deathit occurs to me that maybe i will grow up and get divorced. i will love you as long as i can and eventually, we will wake up and not love each other anymore. i guess it won't happen overnight but it sure as hell will be intolerable one day.
our kids will be grown. they will be surprised because they often saw us drunk together at family functions and honestly staring into each other's eyes. and they sometimes heard us having sex. and they found the love letters i wrote to you in high school. i will be brushing my teeth and you will be smoking a cigarette and then we will be looking at each other in the mirror. i rinse my mouth out and look up at you.
'how long has is been since we had sex?'
'how long has it been since you had sex?'
'how long has it been since we made love?'
'jesus, at least five years.'
i will smile at you and fix your hair, take a long drag on your cigarette and say, 'i can't believe i married you. you are one boring son of bitch. i'll
The ListenerI straddle the peak of this roof.
Nightbright snow burns my unshoed feet
& they burn it back.
I shiver at the effort of this white-on-white battle to-the-death.
I quiver until the shingles scrape at my toes.
Stiffly these legs obey my orders & climb the bloody chimney.
The wind silences my pleas for mercy, yet I
unfold myself into a bird & then into a diver.
Cupping my hands I feverishly scratch at
peeling-paint clouds; these crumble and flake to the ground.
One heavensent gust collects under the swan feathers tied in my hair
& I ascend owl-eyed to the top of this night.
Crashing in through the scab I picked open, I land with a woosh.
I peel ice from my eyes and grab at stars with greedy hands
almost forgetting why I came.
They sting like blue-hot coals.
I hurl them back.
Frowning indignantly at singed palms,
I blink several times.
My eyes water & the tears freeze in their ducts.
My breath becomes irregular and shallow.
I find a divan and drape myself acrost it on my back.
I saw your hunched shoulders and highlighter stained fingers behind the tinted windows of "Coffee Literature" and I swore I was smiling. Half of my heart was aching towards your too-large pupils and I remembered that in exactly two days and 5 hours and 1.5 minutes, I would have been yours for 4 years. I retraced my steps to 16 and I thought I would tell you that at 20, I still think your words were the most beautiful.
You know, I smelled you first... before I saw you; a mixture of cinnamon and what I think was friendliness. It reminded me of home and it wasn't until a month later, on April the twenty second, that I realized home smelled nothing like cinnamon or friendliness. You were something, are something, so much more. I want you to know that every time I said "I love you" with a smile it wasn't because I was lying, it was because I meant it, and mean it. I love you, and even though I'm far away right now.... I will always remember how you smell of cinnamo
For Fear You Would Die Fasteryour attenuate bones
against each other
against my anklespooled
in the foot of this sleeping bag
they summon up
eighty-eight goose-bumps taught to sing
evanescence in the summer(.)
for your viewing pleasurereasoning with irresponsible tendons
writhing cos we were we are one
typewriter with two dry
"never more than one hundred hand breadths apart and never more"
Daylight savingsThe path before us is sculpted out of spring.
Bicycles have left the sunbleached dirt decoded, and our way out is made refulgent by triangles of sunlight and patches of shade. Here the golden trees begin to paint pink brushstrokes against the cornflower sky, here the muted grass makes an impressionist carpet to soften our memories into delight and lemonade. Your hair is bright yellow, curling around your ears like waves catching the shore, and the spark in your stormy eyes is the focus of every painting and every poem, every glance toward new horizons. We continue to walk, walking past clumps of white and orange and red flowers that look like specks of dust forming clouds. Sprigs of lavender shoot skyward, each raising an empire of shade and groundcover. I count the large brown freckles spotting the back of your neck and follow you around the bend. You are talking about how the self is just a collection of captured wishes, and yes, it will be okay, all will be okay. We keep walking pas
Doctor for PretendIf I were doctor for a day
I would make my tears your morphine drip.
I would prescribe you pills
That have a striking resemblance to books
Scattered like so many dead flies
Lying belly up on my bedroom floor
I would tell you to rest,
Curling up like a question mark
Asking you to stay for a little while
Just so I dont have to feel alone anymore.
If I were doctor for a day
I wouldn't bother tapping your shaky knees to test your reflexes.
I would write how I feel about you on a sheet of loose leaf
Crumple it up
And toss you some compassion.
If I were doctor for a day,
You'd best hope youre not sick.
Stephen KingWords like (barbed)fishing hooks lure you in
And keep you looking to the next line;
A clever phrase crafted carefully
To cultivate a crude mind.
The product of alliteration
Sets fire to a by product;
it killed the cat,
but the jackass we know as Stephen King wrote,
"A serious dose of satisfaction brought it back"
In this case,
To keep on reading.
(undead or not)
Like slaves on the middle passage
This just got interesting.
I take you for twists,
Make you feel,
Make you relate through the abstractness
Of the way letters appear when there's nothing left
And watch as you squirm under your own scrutiny.
In this second to last stanza
That you begin to grow tired;
Is a sleepy kitty
But know this;
It's not just you
That finds this hard to finish.
i'm contradictory at best.i wonder what it's like to look into your face and not want to spill every secret i've ever had. i want to be startlingly indifferent. i want to say i don't care and mean it. i want to be reckless in more than that jaywalking every morning on my way to work sort of way. i want to say something that will completely change the course of everything forever. i want to be the sort of thing people need to invent a new word for, because "cataclysmic" won't cover what a disaster i am.
i want to be someone new.
i worry about why the air always tastes several degrees colder than your skin. i know there's a correlation that i haven't figured out yet, but my mind doesn't work fast enough to make the connections anymore. i worry that all the synapses are breaking apart and my brain is shutting down. i worry that i'm dying in slow motion from the inside out so no one can even tell. not that anyone would care, but i worry about the most absurd of things. and then i worry that i don't worry enough abo
Exoskeletonizationgutted star! an
earthy delusion inviting
my printless fingers acrost the
braille symmetry of your eyelashes
i read him like poetry.
right up until arm's-length was too far away
gutless serpent! his
pupils crost the street and hoisted themselves into my car with me. they lived in the folds of that passenger's seat, staring decidedly in my direction as i fled to the coast. i broke right at the first sign of the ocean. weary tires hit sand. i opened every window to let in every drop of breeze. gulls welcomed me and pecked up the raisin-esque middles-of-your-eyes. i did not try to stop them.
breaded bodyyou focus so madly on the walls
created from the bones of dead labor,
payed in gold and forgotten in graves.
the old house speaks for you,
without it you'd break--
creaking, whirled flooring
scratches under your lungs
you'd like to be dead inside
the stomach of the walls sometimes
when the trees dream of hanging your
heart on their branches
strung over the vacant, pale gaps between their
the fireplace is always empty
but for your mother's fresh ashes
and with a breeze, do you think
they'd all just blow away?
no graves to dig, visit,
breathe into hoping to bring-back.
there is no flesh.
only a detached thought
mingled in the static of
the air you used to breathe.
past the circles you burned into the floor
past the window glass, made fake with images and crystals
past the bold carved doorway.
and right when you see
her hanging in the trees,
you pitch forward,
it's a shame your bones
are so broken;
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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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