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By a LadyYou sang of sensibilty
But your curls were crossed fingers
You orchestrated fits of tears
and wrote plans to fall in love
Each thought was well-laced,
A corset tracing your back
making you fit
and pushing me out.
I called myself sense
and hid in contentions and subpoints.
But my eyes were lined with questions
(the kind that don't have answers)
A glimpse of you
sent my cheeks burning,
my reasons crumbling
as I ran with rain-soaked skirts.
is pressing breasts into your back
giving you the secrets my braille features
could never hide
that I am always always here
for that one small pressure
the faintest sign
that when I turn my head
you will follow.
ArchitectureYou smiled over me as I worked
reading a birds-eye view of hieroglyphics
odes of love
mapped out in charcoal cities.
I let your hand guide the ceilings higher, higher
and we sliced diamonds in the sky
so that we could lay back and gaze up into our future
We planted our feet in marble columns
and carved quotes up our spines
Wind and rain beat at our sides
But we laughed and watched our nails turn green.
We loved bouquets, you and I
but I took a secret solace in permanence
in the wing I'd built in your name
until you used it to fly away.
Requests from the SunUnweave me from the constellations
and step out of the shadows.
Listen as the ocean air
repeats our names.
Fill my eyes with
red poppies bursting
meadows catching fire-
And when I've had enough
of smiles and songs and tears
the rain that falls over tormented cities
wrap me in stars
and lay me down on a burning bed.
DecisionsSign your name in flames
leave a pale blue reminder
that there's no going back.
Chase away the doubts
flickering birthday candles
Remember your wish.
Revel in beauty
whether it be forest fires
or just lightning bugs.
SightI can feel you in the room
a warm breeze
curling my toes
as I swing them off this wooden porch-swing.
is everything I can remember
Dancing in your arms
is all I've ever learned about flying
below me is endless air.
My hands have eyes
like th petals of a thorned rose
and in this moment
I can see the future.
Eternity will not erase your name from my palms.
AncestorsThe cloth had not been weaved by Ariadne
but the old man wore his robes proudly,
announcing himself to the camera's shutters
so different from the curtains
hung in bedrooms
by the light of the candles
the only shadows his son knew
Until he found the shadows
of ships' masts
that chased him back
A man of the world
with a gold pocket-watch
a little bit of dream pavement
for the arms of an olive-eyed girl
You shook the branches
to send down those eyes of your mother
but this time the ground wasn't covered in expectant bed-sheets
and your fruits fell
to enemy soldiers.
As they starved, the people of the village learned
The center of the fruit is hard
not so it can die
but so it can endure the life.
You at 16 hid in doorways of white stone
teaching invaders the hard lessons
of olive pits
the exploding wrath of a people.
Until you earned your ticket in human suffering
third class to the promised land
where you learned to commune
TenseWould you please?
divine the texture of my palms
hear the whispers trapped between my painted lips
feel the carress of my lashes like braille in the air
decode the etchings in my irises
Maybe then you could conjugate the verbs behind my eyes
Squint and formulate:
Because all I've got is "to love" and "you."
Because Her Name Means HeartWhere will I be
when the Autumn leaves
fall on his piano?
And turn the world the same color as my
memories of you
You always breathed
in time with songbirds
when I rested my head on your shoulder
As we watched
the frosted dawn.
What he said is true
Your smile is the moon
So high, and proud
and frightened of waning
While you whisper to me
I'm content to be your star.
I'll never forget
when we snuck behind the carousel
you let your hair down
and showed me
an ocean of crystallized
You say I taught you how to swear and be silly
But I only let the parrots
out of the cage.
kids cut through the middlewhen you spend a summer somewhere
where people squirrel away their
ugly children, it's hard not to notice
the subtle strain of the truth
on certain smarter faces,
or the absolute oblivion
in certain spinning eyes
and stumbling legs.
i met a girl named K,
with ankles like a deer and a voice
loud like noise and swampy like a swamp.
she liked orange foods and big words and
her hands shook like the girls in jazz class.
K clicked her tongue between words sometimes
but nobody ever mentioned it. her socks
were alphabetized. she carried a comb in her back pocket
but only 'cause she needed it, she said.
her hair was turning to snow and falling out,
she said. 'cause she pulled at it too much, she said.
she said other things, too, but i promised
never to write them. i promised not to tell
the bad things she'd done, the boy who kept her in, in, in.
she made bracelets of awful words at night and kept them
under her bed. she did it maybe so that even worse things wouldn't go bad.
Road Trips Through Canyons"Can I tell you a story?"
The words slithered
from her tongue
wrapping around me
like a boa's perilous coils;
to a point
where I could only
From then on
I took road trips
on the deep grooves
of her voice.
unknown back routes
where sweet grandmothers
sold flavored honey
and desperate criminals
hoping no one would find
the bodies they hid.
But all the bodies she hid
deep in her skin
marked and covered
so that no one
would ever find
the burial grounds.
of her gravelly voice
filling my head with
of yet un-pursued knowledge
neither of us
the canyons created
of further developments;
those hidden burial grounds
letting the corpses
into the black hole
by the great
canopy of our lungs.
Firefly CrimesThere was too much power in the air when we met.
It tasted like salt and stuff little boys are made of;
plastic yellow and blue cars, candy wrappers and lined paper.
You wrapped a hand around the back of my neck,
made me feel the warmth of sex and freedom;
hard kisses under a streetlamp,
in front of a church just for
the sake of showing how bad-ass we were.
Boy, what did I get myself into?
Another evening of misdemeanors with you,
burning scrapes on my spine,
pink t-shirts and car doors slamming as
we ran into the birthday glitter shadows
of a homophobic tidal wave city.
You drew me close, asked if I was okay,
and rubbed a hand slowly
over my injured flesh.
I fell into your chest because
you were the closest thing to safety
that I knew at the time.
But lover, your heart was pounding
like a wicked midsummer night's drum
and I was too out of breath and upset
to notice the green glistening in
your eyes like dead hummingbird wings.
I just wanted someone to look at me
and understand my rage
another fix, pleasethat feeling of relief
in darkened days
with hollow eyes and broken gazes,
floods my skin like taut stares,
the key snapping blurry worlds
I dissolve, scars upon scars,
building tales of months
pain bleeding outside borders
only blissful addiction.
[ breathing monitored,
as watched as I am ]
confusion, hazy like counting
for that feeling in freedom,
perfection comes in blood
and agony, for searching
out hungry addiction.
out searching for agony
in comes perfection,
waiting for freedom in
for backwards counting like hazy
[ am I
as watched as
monitored breathing? ]
only borders outside bleeding
pain and forgotten
months of tales building
scars upon scars. dissolve.
I focus into worlds
key the uncomfortable stares,
taut like skin.
my floods &
if death is a sentenceif death is a sentence,
let mine be
worth reading slowly
in the early morning
and bring to your heart,
the ebb and swell
of the sea
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,
there are flights leaving for
at any given instant
Upon sizing up our town with
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?
I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.
The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.
I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.
I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence styles and words.
She saw things through different eyes
and I understood her.
When I found out she was a writer
halfway across the globe
I was selfish
and I loved the world a little less.
It was different
but it was still water.
Something Borrowedgirls in white dresses
don't always want weddings.
the priests would speak of leaps of faith
and my hands would clasp the wood in horror,
knuckles bleached like bone- and i found
something old: the knot tied in my throat.
my vocal cords did not let empty words escape.
and there was something blue: the heart
that hesitated. how can a seedling prophesy
its harvest? how can a caterpillar promise
the power of its wings?
so let others gather flowers.
we will skip the mass
but not the bed: and through
this something borrowed,
earn a little time-
and a place to rest our heads.
fire hazardi can help i can see -
that the children of forgotten bogs may simmer beneath your skin
that the splendor may burn thorough your marrow.
brush the brooks aside with urgent palm;
perhaps the sky might rain upon your blisters.
i think your smile is scared like there are wolves beneath your stairs and
your eyes search me out,
restless lanterns in the night that will not darken
they do not close.
you are a pumpkin carved in the shape of a boy
and no one dare set a candle inside you.
Angles of SeparationI was born at right angles to the earth
your houses are inscrutable
I stand on the shores of my heart
perched like aliens in a spaceship
who think mirrors are photographs of someone else.
My lips are bitter-tainted
from eating discarded fruits
I need someone to see my hands
waiting like constellations
and grab them through the clouds
to see that this universe is made of stories
so I can finally stand up
and live parallel.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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