literature

space is skinny

Deviation Actions

Published: Jul 16, 2011

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Literature Text

_{he sketches rows of skin cells
in a shade of dead blue,
his mind glued to an empty field
that sleeps on the underside
of the sky's thighs.

there are bones of dead lovers
sewn to his chest,
the sole way to keep the
essence of the world trapped
within them.
to feel his heart beat
makes them fall in love.

he knows that all lovers must
be sewn together,
merging paths of the skin in
a miniscule puzzle of sweat
and membranes.
each membrane an atmosphere
to the bumpy planets
and crashing meteors
of passing dust specks,
thrown out of orbit and
looking for their mothers.
the air's children.
the children of wide empty space.

blue because when everything dies,
it rots bluest of all.
blue in the absence of
feminine warmth.
blue for the marrow
of his lover's bones
when directed by the light of the night.

his sketches are never real.
they depict something never seen,
something nonexistent.
they create his imaginary womb,
each one an unborn thought,
an unborn experience.
nine if them survive the tough heat
and sinew brushing their mucus webs of genes.

all the lies his brain tells him keep
him tied to all his dreams.
he lusts for every fermenting moment,
fertilizing in the womb of canvas.
he says it's a dream,
he'll know every moment he'll ever live
because he is his own god.
father of every baby word
to fall from the only mouth that matters:
his own.

he starts and stops universes,
he fits together puzzles of planets
and what they'll hold for him.
all this,
all this for being chained
to the imaginary,
tied to his dreams.
only a lover can set him free,
back to the boy he was,
the boy he will always be.

the bones of them still
dangle over the hollow of his chest,
creating a chasm between inside
and the skin that hold every bit of
life together somehow.
he'd love to tear it off,
to let himself taste the air,
to become one with foreign bones,
to swallow them so deep
they become him.

only live lovers will send
him reeling to tangibility,
only fitting the puzzle pieces of
another's skin to the workings of
his own universe, connecting him
to truth.
to what it means to live.

he's deep under the weight of
crashing waves in his mind
he's still sewn to his blue-tinted past.
he's above any lover he'd ever hold inside him.
his life is under the gun of his dreams.
the trigger waits in the palm of his hand.
he only has to let go of every person
he's ever been.

then, he'd be free to live and die
as he pleases.
free to be the god of the planets
in his skin.

he notices the sewing on his chest,
all the essence of love
he dreams to forget.
so he grabs their blue-tinted hemispheres
and severs them from him for good.
universes destroyed in a sea of blood,
but he's forgotten them already.
new galaxies will form along his scars.

but what if he wants to be brand new?
to start fresh new worlds
as a skinless child
father of everything?
he knows he is a blank canvas.
he knows that to be brand new
is the only way to be flawless.

so he rips himself apart
in an apocalypse of red,
washing all destruction away.
claws falling off.

skinless, he only wishes
he'd be blue inside
until his dreams are freed
by his lifelessness
and every universe beats
without him.}