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Muon neutrinoSome number of days
become one: a thought bound together
by the number of pills I took, 12 on Wednesday,
you forgot Thursday, when God lets his head rest
a blackhole forms,
and you ask for your poems back.
Maybe I took a reflection gold like yours,
a few back hairs, the phone you bought, a German market,
your accent, but my hand was possessed:
I spun a new era,
knocked around plastic bottles
and shattered a dropper. My lines were perfect,
nothing like the fizzy bits of an atom,
when your car never started,
a roach on the nightstand,
my eye imploded,
but I send my poems back.
The ones on napkins, dollars, candy wrappers,
unduplicated sinews of sex, laughter,
or just an amphetamine,
You were always better. And better
is impossible to swallow,
light's always faster,
and when God blinks,
NamesakeThis letter is addressed to a man I don't know yet,
and I'm not sure who you'll be in fifteen years or less,
but I am sure that I will send this, unlike every other,
because it will be long overdue by then.
First, I don't hate you.
I never hated you despite the right to,
and everyone likes to remind me I have the right to,
like I have the right to never see you again,
but I think that's petty,
and you've been petty enough for us both.
Second, I would have kept the secret
where it burrowed in my flesh
and let it fester through my cells
until they found a chemo for thought:
something toxic to take toxins,
but we've tried that before, haven't we?
Third, I did not tell her what you did to me,
only what I thought you did to him
because you became a monster
when my pain was no longer exclusive but,
fourth, I don't really believe you're a monster,
and I'd like to talk, someday.
Maybe after you receive this
or maybe after you decide you can explain
or never want to.
Last, if you never want to,
Thou Shalt Not Commit--have you ever been in the bed of a committed lover
when someone else's name is on your tongue,
and you saw him yesterday: that wallflower who drove
your patience past its limit, whose waiting hand
stretched you to the length of your intimacy until you cried
mercy? the man who loved your every interest, craved
the workings of your ideology, sought after your pacing mind
more than he ever witnessed your lust? and you think,
if i had been a more stable person then, i would be talking
the first words of my guilt: debilitating the trust
which does not come so easily but he wanted every broken
piece of it, sat around the edges of conversations where you
became what you fear most: an infatuation,
an idol still revered in his dark eyes, but
you always liked his smile: how he romanticized you in the light
that emanates from your being.
I didn't hear what he replied when she askedLast night, while cultivating a high,
watching others laugh with their mouths pried
drinking from the first cup I was handed
to avoid conversation,
I saw a man whom I would not dream to love
but drew me tight with an aloof smile; he was
so suddenly there
that I thought I'd imagined his appearance
until someone was on his arm,
asking his name.
Our reflections were side by side
in the mirror on the far wall of the dark bedroom,
surrounded by tea lights and skin flickering
in warm shades of brandy and honey;
I recorded the angle of his jaw,
the shadows that carved his cheekbones,
and the easy way his lips wrapped around words
that were never eloquent
but always the right thing to say.
He was distant
but alluring; he did not draw a crowd with broad gestures
but with a voice like a beacon at sea,
providing direction to drifting sailors who wanted
a story, maybe a moment
in the orange eyes of someone whom they knew
though no one could place a finger on why
a string drawn tautthere are so many
blue stars in your skin
but i can't believe
each neuron is a universe
alight with planets,
gaunt aliens signing god
in the absence of your name,
dim cars on the street,
beneath an awning
like a glowing orange womb
you shudder saying,
i just had a chill,
is this room cold
or are we in the gut
of a giant
who's strung out
seven days lifeless,
biting the apple,
wishing for his mother,
the earth is spinning
in the eyes
of a turtle
with a red shell
who swims in the flowers
who swallows supernovas
and they pass through his kidneys,
we could burst any minute,
a fly's nerves twitch,
a city laid,
between microscope lenses,
clutching wife to child,
do you know my name?
do you know you're shivering?
do you know i'm the son
of your nucleus?
i live in your cheek
and die at your
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—
on the outskirts of joliet.
Mirsad,i. sadness is the most euphoric thing i've felt
You were high all through September
and would come around the house
I was staying at. No one else
tolerated your bullshit, not after taking
Griffin's Xanax: a whole night spent
with your head in the toilet and irises
trembling in their whites. You were talking
about a girl we both knew,
who just graduated high school,
had a bad three day trip after some guy
sold her shitty acid and gave her free tabs,
let her take them in his backyard.
“Her boyfriend picked her up,”
you explained. You were on your third
cigarette, though you’d confided in me
you found the taste repulsive and
dry. “He took her home and while
she was lying on the bed, she lost bladder control,
and when he left and came back to the room
there was piss soaked through her jeans,
the sheets, everything. She’s still tweaking,
but I saw her and she seemed okay.
I mean, she’s not very stable.”
You stood up on Lane's bed
and ran your hands
A Walk with ButterfliesSeptember is violent.
It keeps its mild weather
beneath bled clouds and branches,
some splitting pears on sidewalk
sweet like dumpster water,
a brash disillusionment
then red then brown:
sixteen pinpricks of ooze
sliding off rubber.
I am violent: compressing image
into seeds and imagining laws
of creation, squeaking
behind the name
or maybe it was a fly
but he is violent: and September
leaves to come again
with a color,
one I can't fathom.
Flight LessonsTonight has been nothing but the last dregs of white coffee congealed at the bottom of a mug-turned-ashtray. I take a drag, cross-eyed to watch the cherry glow orange and grey-white ash collect at the quivering tip; my fingers are never quite still but I'm a confident type. People tell me I should be a politician. I tell them, I don't think you know me that well. But I can see where they get it. I'm a smooth talker. I take big steps, I rally words like cultists, but I'm just not suited to legitimate business.
I can't follow a schedule. I don't make commitments. I wake up in the afternoon and think about pornography and anarchism. It made me a miserable antisocial wreck in high school, but I've gotten along better now that I can binge with people who don't understand me but listen well enough to make me feel like the next martyr. I like them. I like all of them, but there's something people don't know about me: I'm an optimist.
Not the soppy kind, but the kind who knows there's nothing
just a thoughtdon't let your sadness
carry you. you can look at it-
and rock it to sleep in your
arms and let it melt in your
hands, you can put it out
on the windowsill for
the cats. they know
how to kill fast-moving,
blow it out with black dreams
and the sky will eat it,
she will cough in 200 years
but she will eat it. you can
digest it in a concrete pill
that you can't snort, but know
that the sadness will come for you in
the morning like the motley hawk to
the long-dead doe who thought sleep
would offer some peace, but no-
you thought relief would offer some peace, but no-
the sadness will come for you in
you will carry it, dragging it loosely
by your ankles behind a pale body. if you carry
it, it will wear down, sometime. it's got to go,
sometime- just don't let it carry you.
on growing upit will happen like this;
one day you will be so tired of yourself and the rolling days and the sleepless nights, and you've never liked coffee before but you'll take it and you'll mix in four sugars and you'll wince with every sip but you'll drink it all. then each step is a little lighter, and the mornings a little less cold and suddenly you'll realise you've forgotten what it felt like to just be awake all by yourself.
and one day you'll cry at school and all the people walking past won't stop and your friends won't have the right words like they used to. you'll sit and you'll shake until your tears have bled you of everything that you've got, and suddenly you'll realise you don't even have the energy to be sad anymore. and you'll go home with tear streaked cheeks and your mother won't ask you what's wrong and you'll go to bed and you'll realise that maybe there's more comfort in darkness and silence than you've ever known before.
it will be the weekend and you'll come home alone an
seven hours of who you might have beeni.
the breath you took
the moment you fell
lies in the dirt somewhere
between the garden
and the dip of empty earth
where rain pools.
all the lost things of your life
keep gathering in cottony patches overhead
that only the flowers
you have touched
years vine out.
between thumb and forefinger,
the clumsiness of
more than just one
on Judgment Day
your tomato plants
will come out of the earth
carrying your bravery
like beads of water,
they will gesture
with their leaves
magnificent and half-drunk
you left the house
to stand in the historic thunderstorm
the neighborhood dogs,
the ants of
the trees lining the water
and the green in the air,
and the distance
between syllables of river-water
replace the vanishing point
in all your
with the divine.
how many words
you could form
out of your name,
and how often
your hour in the sun
was all that mattered
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,
i have this
sudden urge to cut
most of the time,
i just wish I were anything
other than me.
a rocket ship, a bird-
the sweet flavored smoke
I promised my girlfriend
these briar patch lungs
would not in.hale.
i have fallen in love
with the strangest of things-
eyes that intimidate
the way my scars
play hide and seek
with her hands. -
the love letters
that start and end
pressed against limbs.
i make promises
i know i can not keep.
but if i were a liar
i would say i was tired
of writing to the stars.
i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.
but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.
we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.
shhhwe are lurking too close to jesus,
on the empty edge of a lightless stage,
curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms.
he asks as an afterthought
do you believe in something holy? and i think yes,
i think this is what i believe in.
Yours.My body is abstruse;
yet when the wind swept you
in, you felt your way
across my form as though
you'd studied the language
of my skin since before
you knew that I was yours.
poems for boys who don't read poems#1:
you had your hand on my thigh and when i passed out on your shoulder i swear the only thing i could feel was your fingertips, as if the universe had reached out to touch me where i hadn't been touched in a while. you've got these big eyes when you smile and in them i see an ocean that i don't want to get any closer to. you walk like you're going somewhere, but i don't know if you are and i'm not too sure if you do either. i hope your ocean calms.
your skin is caramel or honey or something in between and i want to lose myself in the ripples of your chest; become a body of milk slowly melting and mixing with your sweetness. you make me feel like the sun has risen on baby skin and summer night air has filled my lungs and as if i never lost the part of me that wrote poems and drew pictures and was in love with the world.
you smelt unfamiliar and moved slowly, like you were waiting for the world to show you the finish line so that you could run again. you stroked my ribs and the
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.
Bildungsroman"you fell first
and i followed,
tumbled like bricks
in the wake of your
is the story i told,
and you agreed,
the night i've tried
to dissolve: when i
lay on your bed,
cut my sleeve,
was my muriatic acid
when you hardly
knew my foundation:
i collapsed like bricks
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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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