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DeathDeath is a sweet wind
to carry childish thoughts away,
where I assume they remain childish,
Time is a short drink
to disintegrate one sugar cube each day,
and in her belly it is all far too sweet,
too sweet to stay.
$carecrowStand up. Pack your holes with money. Open your arms and purchase an infrastructure to keep you tall. House a thousand tiny lives conducting paperwork, texting one another and wishing they were home. Never wash yourself. Always look North. Always the same direction. One day. Climb yourself. Look off the edge. See the sun set for the first time. Follow it down. A monumental and expensive scarecrow. Smiling sleeping from now on.
Disgusting Queen Earth #1
City lights molest stars
under the mini-skirt of preteen night.
Sky-scraping fallaces reach deeply upward
housing one thousand little men clamoring for 1st place.
It's raining mindless drops of nothing here, and
I'm sitting on the tip of the city trying very hard not to be disposable.
Sheets of pavement lap at my feet.
I guess this is the best it has ever been, or ever will be.
Disliking empty things, I rejected you.
I say hollow, you say goodbye.
We split in three without the will to try.
When I was 12 I severed cords to feel their power,
perhaps less brave than in the room below with father.
He's drilling teeth inside his skull with a phillips head
while I creep up stairs pondering how much he has bled
Despite methanphetamines I still love my dear mother
She's picking shards of glass from the inside of her arm
and I don't have the heart to tell her they aren't.
The tweezers are stuck in her wrist.
The turning of the world persists.
There is no smoke around now that the bullet's sleeping.
Mother's gun has been put to bed so long ago.
I turn around and see the years of my life need weeding,
buried sideways in the air,
a rotted pile just behind me,
reaching for my hand but I don't mind.
Swimming in a FloodI don't see much point in people like you
People like you don't see much in point in eyeing it out
No one likes my poetry until it's already happening
A shitty bouquet of words
It's really neat.
Missing out on so much invisible fun
means someone sucks at the art of non-desire
He chose his colored glasses and
with hipster flair declared "this is who I am"
But if I remove the glasses, he puts on a mask.
and if he puts on a mask, you will literally never see his muscle,
and you will never see his blood,
and you'll keep wondering how someone could move
under so many layers of skin.
Now more than ever nothing happens.
I keep apologizing to my child, saying
"What can I do? I love you."
There was that one time that Suzanne
had been so afraid that she held me, just that once,
against my father's flood. And he busted us up anyway.
I guess I'll never forgive you until you die.
There. It's the most straightforward thing I've said.
Now slowly leave my memory.
Eyes spin like arachnids in the slab of velvet you hide behind.
We got in a terrible car crash and you couldn't help but laugh through the tears
piloting salt through two perfect towers paced in perfect pitch
to crush a fist of glass, you perfect bitch.
Nothing should prepare my queer heart to guard from talented women
June, desperate for control, the sinister lack of control.
I'm stealing your words, hit me as hard as you can.
It's your birthday, we're all your biggest fan.
My stomach is your bitch getting facefucked from behind,
look, what style, what gilded slut to host this frame of mind.
Chances are you're falling backwards through the mud
claiming it's a journey of one thousand miles. Thud.
Adaption of Oscar Wilde's...No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword.
So here, my fist upon its shaft,
a saber lifted high,
I exhale your name from out my chest,
and kill you one last time.
One strike for wishing me my death,
a second out of spite,
a third for making my child a threat,
a fourth ensures you die,
Now every strike from here on out
can be counted to the credit,
of men who hold dearly on to love
while women do forget it.
The Devil on Your Shoulder
Wrapped like a gift in sheets, playing the role
of cold turkey while sweat shakes down the flesh.
Frozen in time, forced to see life flash before
the gaping eyes as though a Pale Horse had
come alone in jest and spite.
The rapid blinks that pan the camera angles for
unsettling cinematography make for a trip to an
avant-garde Hades for the audience of one.
Those damned subliminal messages hidden
in merciless metaphors.
Demons behind the curtains, sending in paper
airplanes with scribbled teasing and temptation,
awaiting their gift to open itself and become
a savory meal that would only blend with
the memories of what once was.
A husk once called man will sit, quivering alone
in the room of his own induced Hell, while those
demons cackle and drool from every angle as the
hallucinatory short films escalate into
the award-winning nightmares.
They call for him to come out and play,
with voices like friends and tones like killers.
Strength wraps the blanket tighter, absorbing
the sweat of th
Into the DarkFalling, flying, drifting
Into the dark we go
Following you though you're broken
Into the dark we go
Just One More Time
Those chains, how their cheers can resonate
in wake and dream alike. My shoulders are
strained in time without a proper word.
How bound I am from the starting line of my
own naivety to my lack of bliss in
the lack of ignorance?
I am no longer blind, but climbing my
Jacob's ladder upwards from shame
where chains pull me back
In that foolish past, I was never aware
of these bloody chains that before me countless
others have worn in varied forms and guidance.
Stable ground that welcomes my feet is
above my head, just out of reach as the
seconds take my few grains of sand.
Those chains labor me, like massive serpents
of unholy iron that constrict with
all my struggling.
Take my heart and hands, for alone
I will only fall with the inevitable
results of time and temptation.
snowtwo a.m. bitter winter wind.
lick the bag. acrid taste.
cold crawls in through windows cracked.
it's snowing in the attic.
angel hair on porcelain, point oh-one.
frost blankets my nostrils,
my brain sharp as first step's breath.
ravenous, dip fingers in nourishment.
place on tongue: cleaning agent pixie stick.
it eminates. bright-light vigor emulates
childlike mindset, so wonderfully overwhelmed
yet standing still, rock-steady at the helm.
second time. stand in line
for the second line, a second taste.
dismissive sniff, as in a tiff.
point oh-two; can't feel my face.
icicles melt, drip burning down my throat.
slick grotto-hands tap feverishly.
butane blisters nasal caverns.
i grin from the thrill of its bite.
alert, i bathe in every second of it.
much more for sentiment than any practicality-
would rather see beauty than this sorry reality-
would rather build castles than stay on the ground,
cause it's snowing now up in the clouds.
an ode to our unpretty corpseswhen things can't coexist
sometimes the world just qualifies them on its own
with enough pure madness to drown
out the deafening silence
it is the most tenable ones left distilled
flensed and laid ritual
at the feet of Saint Cecelia
for sainted vultures to circle
and pass over in turn
a la carte [we are]
the abnormalities of this world
variegated and willing
to leave with only our grudges in tact
when cold tentacles of truth have rendered
unleavened post hoc into zinc-
and we have discovered
the subterfuge to be a more heuristic option
- more accommodating, and much more ...
( made fresh to order )
dulleda blunt-edged sword
will never get a sheath.
it's not even a sword,
it can't cut anything.
it can't hurt you,
unless you sharpen it,
but some you just can't,
some are just defective...
still, could serve
as a metal walking stick,
but the crude form
might be embarrassing...
though in need
it can be game,
if you get bored
just throw it away...
i'll fall and fall,
tormenting my soul.
only and only for you.
the rusty blade crying his love for the black moon.
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More