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For MadisonStreams of summer air carried well-wishings and sleepy symphonies of crickets' nighttime magic, but nothing compared during sunlit hours to the music made by his own two hands.
They would never touch a piano again, never breathe notes in patterns full enough of beauty that they would make Debussy bleed with envy, never resurface from the cold glass of the lake's mirror. He was a sorcerer of sound, a soul on fire with compassion and artistry -- he was dead. Caught in the undertow. Forever frozen in insufficient rescue of a boy smaller than himself. His heart had gone still, but was bigger than any beating above ground.
I heard him breathing Clair de Lune every afternoon as I walked home. He was invisible, as though he was hidden behind thick veils of water, quashing his reflection, but never his sound. I could hear how beautiful his fingers were as they pressed gently over ivory and ebony, solid bricks and thin like enamel, striking chord after chord of pure moonlight. As the leaves and
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
christmas is not only in decemberyou sleep through so much sun
that it is the moon
who rises for you.
born in the russian springtime
with cyrillic letters on your tongue,
you are endless.
you are a ring,
curved to infinity
your hands belong in mine,
or else on my hips.
curve me into the shape
of an s,
narrow me in the centre
to give room to your arms-
they belong around me.
you are a gift;
when i fall asleep
on the opposite edge of the bed from you
and wake curled to your chest,
it is christmas every time.
no one listensthis is the part where you start listening.
i'm not one to pour my words,
cheap wine no glass just red solo cup,
into an empty room.
i'm not one to talk when everyone
only pretends they're listening when really,
they're just hearing.
the part you start listening
comes at the part where i show you my skin.
i could show you my heart all i want
but you won't hear me.
i could tell you about every moment
i've spent basking, drowning
in whatever endless emotion
and you would nod sympathetically.
but you still wouldn't listen.
not til i show you my skin
screenprinted and scattered in scars,
hatchmarking of blended bends
and tall and stretched.
or if i told you how i've left my body
in shambles, and left it, broken
and rained on like cardboard boxes on city streets
five years after my destruction proved inadequate
until someone else
with fracturing fingers
ruined me worse.
my bones splintered under the thin
stretch of skin
covering them until i grew thick limbs,
a trunk like a tree.
liari am good at lying.
look at my face.
see my teeth, lips
pulled from gums,
see my bracelets
sparkle when my eyes
don't look at my wrists
do not worry-
i am smiling
wide, just for you.
take their toll
and i start wondering if you're drinking
and feeling stars sink from the sky
to merge with the waves of your stomach
undulations with sparkles of poison
and i wonder
if you're warmer, like copper
or if your arm is snaked
around another girl's waist
or if your teeth
glitter the way they do
when you're sober
and smiling at me
or if you even
to pull away
when every night,
you fold me,
in your arms
until the morning
i will always
in the moments
i'll see you later
sticking with hope
and a promise
to feel the burnt brown
of your skin,
move over my own
i love you
like an indian summer
you arei want a city ruined
every time you love me.
i want to show how loudly i shake,
enough to break
faults and how it will never be yours,
and bring down skylines
when you aren't here.
there are seven weeks until my blood runs blank,
but it is so full tonight
it could drown a man.
i hope it drowns you,
the way it carries the only beautiful thing about me
my heart, my love.
it's time you pull together
your telephone wires and breathe stars
back into my body-
it was so dark without you.
there was no moon,
just the kind of black
you know could be no emptier.
i am effulgent again
with the ways i've needed to feel,
i am bursting with fire
instead of hurting, i heal,
and i'm still bright enough
to be burning like god speaks.
i myself speak too loud.
it's what happens at night when i let you love me
and my body writhes with glee
over something it has never known.
i'm afraid to wake the neighbours, or the sisters i'm loving as my own.
when i'm embarrassed by myself,
i won't ask you to hold
i swear-i am sad from wanting
but not from wanting you.
the winters worn away
and with the snow melted the brokenness
we were and i am not sorry for it.
i've stopped cussing beneath my breath,
been wearing more black
and if you so much as
cross the threshold
of my house
this isn't about you.
this is about the way you still manage
to pull at my heartstrings strung
across countries and continents,
the length of the world,
my soul tangled
how your hand still manages
to wrap around mine and i hear your voice,
thick with culture,
the stereotype supreme of irish catholic,
murmuring in my ear that it's all
right while you move my fingers
into my throat-
this is about how-
no matter how far you move (away)-
you will keep your grasp tight on me
and crush me if you can
just so you don't
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.
i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;
i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)
and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leaves the space next to me
much emptier than i'd like.
my only company is
the sadness that comes from
being alone, and having no strong arms
to reassure me that i am beautiful
and no dream can hurt me-
i can only hope that
you are not the exception.
this is the pen finally knowing
this is how we hold onto the bones
we support in our bodies.
nothing lies forever & if
it's because I can't
among the grassy ribbons
of your old zeta ego
& if I miss tongue,
teeth and cheeks
let the pavement carve
new mouths into my tights
she writes an another
poem about cigarettes
her east coast
on the afterlifethere was a heaven, once,
and it was made of grass and
the ground that crawled under it
opened up wider than your mouth and
i saw mountains: i saw
beauty, it was a rough
inverted fountain. i saw
Jesus. he said 'death
is The Promise, and The Promise
never leaves us.' i saw
diamonds, and i saw coals
too it just took a while
to find them. i saw
lucifer. he was sewing
me a nightgown made of
soft liquor slurs. i saw
my brain. it told me
'thanks for the x, not
so much the cocaine.' i saw
my skin strung out to dry
after a long summer rain. i saw
my bones become the frame
of a house beside a lake. i saw
my tongue cradle babies and
tell them, 'the sleep is worth
the wake.' i saw a mirror made
of big blue tears. it said,
'the shit was worth the wait.'
bluebirdssome nights she itches her skin with her teeth,
biting at her forearms like a rabid dog
like she could tear the flesh away from her
nerves to free her veins, to escape the firings,
constant, some nights
I really thought she might.
she said, "I guess now would be a good time
to tell you about my heroin addiction"
tiger lilies fester between her fingers, vines
made of ruptured blood vessels cincture
dead on arrival. on her wrist,
a tattoo that says I dare you
to love me and I can't stand to be called
she told me, "the problem is
that junk is too affordable"
and she laughed in a small way
helicoid from hell's dust to long
and short fits of tears for
the rest of the afternoon.
I thought maybe it was
an SOS, but I didn't understand the Morse code of antifreeze and
she was digging up new graves for golden girls just to
keep herself out of one she was talking her way
through it just to feel like she was doing
on leaving it behindi still
this might appall you
or agonize you but i do.
i remember still evenings
with little to exchange besides
heartbeats and breathing patterns.
i remember soft afternoons
with my back raking against the carpet
leaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.
i remember dark roads, and darker rains.
i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.
the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,
but they ache and the few times i hear your voice
wedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cake
of neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation in
the small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for your
breath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,
and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.
you would finger fuck me in the movie theater
and i would squirm and you would laugh because
i am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would take
was a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under my
teeth and your eyes would
hungry womankiss me where i'm starving,
a hungry woman's love is startling.
drop your lips down my wrist,
grab my hair, strip my kiss-
the tongue is equipped
with two loves, one:
skin, the other larceny
open me up
take my shadows
lick my wounds
lift my fears
take me down
through the mountains
and haunt me. i never
wanted you to steal my dreams,
but i wanted you to watch me in your
sleep behind my eyes where you could
calm your lungs and ease your mind.
breathe until your
breath tastes fine.
we take turns being strong,
you and i, though i'll admit-
you are the strongest most of the time.
lick my wounds while i heal,
make me yours, make you mine.
kiss me where i'm starving.
a quiet man may have
the loudest heart, but
a hungry woman's love
you always regretyou always regret your decisions.
the first time we broke up,
you sent me flowers and an apologetic letter.
when I didn't come running back,
you bought a ring that you couldn't
wait until Christmas to give to me
(you gave it to me two months early instead).
so I said yes despite misgivings
and let myself love you again.
now we're a year post-breakup
(you know, the one where you accused me
of cheating, then had a new girlfriend less
than two weeks later - yes, that one)
and you're telling me that you never
stopped loving me and that
you went about it the wrong way but
that you had to let me go for my own good
because I had to get myself sorted out.
and you want us to take vacations together.
I don't know what I want
but I wish that you would hurry up
and make up your mind already.
fragment 55you can be an arsonist if you want to,
i mean that's all fine and good but
if you're going to go running around
setting things on fire,
don't be stupid enough
to keep the ashes
on writing.someone said
'open a vein. bleed on the page.'
wise words, but now,
every page is a suicide.
Tattooed in My Tear DuctsI don’t know any big words
and I don’t drink tea and I haven’t read
all the classics and my hair is a startling
shade of ash blonde, if you’re being
generous. I would call it grey. I will not
impress you. And maybe that’s impressive
enough. You will always get an honest
reaction from me.
My mother drinks tea though,
earl grey, and chai and chamomile,
she thinks it will heal her, make her
sleep. But sleep and healing are not
the same things.
I have run from monsters
to find them in my sleep, and by run
I mean get high, and by monsters,
I mean me. If sleep is a mirror
we are all doomed. I’ve seen myself,
eyes red and raccooned, reaching
for some comfort and I had to explain
that my lips swell when I cry. All I wanted
was for you to say that I look pretty when
I have come to realize two things:
one, that everything I want is not good for me and
two, I am not the worst things I ever did.
I am not the worst things I ever did.
I want this tattooed i
mascarai don't know why i wear mascara when it always ends up on my cheeks by night.
the moon is full but i am not. i'm hungry but it's mostly my eyes. i want to eat the city and the lights, swallow stars and coins in the fountains.
instead i'm alone in my apartment, with no glass but small windows facing the brick walls of my neighbours. i am empty except for the bricks which weigh heavily and hollowly at once. i swallow nothing but city air and exhaust, fumigating my lungs in hopes of eradicating the lacke thereof.
i am full of tears that were locked up since i was sixteen, pressurised in the marrow of my bones to the point of begrudging congestion. bitterness is what makes eyelashes grow-- there should be no surprise that i can't see.
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
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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