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Misconceptionsthe extrovert isn't—
sun in the sky of a million
blue silks sewn together:
that summer to come,
a laundered morning strewn
with white yearning—
and the introvert isn't—
scraping coins in an alley,
smoggy eyes above a mouth like
lines: red-cracked but parting
when stars break gray clouds,
calling on their mica beds
to reflect off his face—
the extrovert is—
the man sweet-talking the first ideas
of his tongue,
waiting for reception—
while the introvert
we landed in oklahoma
and drank cheap martinis in the terminal;
you carried my guitar and fell in love
with my voice but not my tongue,
not my hands.
there's a man with a garage
that looks like a plane because nothing
meant more to him. will you make a model
of that bar? will you make a model
of my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhome
with her and three children?
the problem was you're not gay.
the problem was there was feeling
but it wasn't for us. i had you but
it wasn't for us.
i'm not sure if i resent you,
but i remember that bar and every pockmark
on the stool you sat on while i played
the song that parted your lips;
you remember every pockmark in oklahoma
like they were ours.
I have your number, SeabirdHis bathroom is small and bleak. The mirror
shows your reflection in seven colors which
haven't been named on the red-blue-yellow
spectrum. Your eyes are shaking like eggs
and he hasn't said your name in a year. You
think of everything he calls you: Jay, Jaybird,
Rose if he's playful. He told you particles of
every man he's slept with are in the carpet
when he pulled your head back to look into
your pupils. Your eyes are black. They run,
raw and rotten from fluorescence overhead.
He told you the shrooms weren't the same.
If you don't like LSD, you might feel better
trying something more natural. It grows
like marijuana: from the ground. But so does
every poison you can think of. You're natural,
bare with shades you can't begin to fathom.
Something like sulfur is in your nostrils. You
touch the furry rug and think of Vishnu. He
has so many arms to carry you. Jesus only has
two. The church was broad and heavy. It sleeps
in Chicago, beside a park that smells like piss.
He opens the door,
Eschatological Relapseone. My addictions include
or have included: cocaine, cigarettes,
happiness, sex, that feeling everyone gets
when someone you never loved confesses
his infatuation. Alcohol, humor, pornography,
browsing the internet for poetry, politics,
and photographs of crime scenes. Adrenaline,
caffeine, dopamine, or anything that makes me
desperately horny. Gum-picking, small shocks,
attention, anonymity, but only if they
at least know my name.
two. And it felt like God's arms
in a gentle apocalypse.
soft handshave you found yourself
aching alone? soft hands,
i could write you a sonnet
but it wouldn't be any good,
and it wouldn't be any good
for him, aching. soft hands,
you scripted your diction and
i have always fallen for actors,
their handsome skins and lips
practiced in romantic purging,
tongues familiar with the shapes
it takes to have a loyal man,
but soft hands,
would it be a sin to call myself
a virtue? you, aching alone,
and him, aching. he holds tight
the past like callused thumbs
cannot forget. he holds tight
the past like callused thumbs
cannot rest. he holds tight the past
like callused thumbs are aching,
and soft hands,
have you found yourself alone?
have you found yourself alone
but solaced? have you found
i'm not as stupid as you thought?
he says trite things about happy
like we've known happy, and we
haven't known happiness. it's
an elusive thing, soft hands.
i don't think you understand me,
but you might when you fall in
lust with the next best thing,
and he's aching, callu
a streetcar to nowherei.
he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
rough and tearing,
bought by the yard
or cent-marked minute,
spin a skirt
that won't last a winter,
and snort ballerinas,
hope he's flexible
thin and shimmering,
don't stay another minute,
clear the aisles to say
so he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
by a craving spark
crisp and burning,
thin black ash
like your real name or
just something i can call you,
something that won't make me
feel like i'm talking down
to you. not because
i respect you, i never—
no i don't think i
respect you, but
something soft like i can
pretend i'm decent,
or normal maybe, don't
look at me, i didn't pay to—
where are you going after this?
and maybe i won't laugh."
Unrelated Poems IIOne: Untitled
A logic of patterns
align at once.
He's sharing at once his most intimate self,
then looks at me to do the same,
uncomprehending of the shallow depths
he cannot pierce with light,
but would only soak him to his ankles
if he stepped inside.
Three: To Narcissistic Idealists
I was underexposed to music
and cannot translate into a rhythmic language
that which I speak. So my words may be harsher,
more honest, the stuff that most can't take—
I like to think we'll be forgotten spectacularly.
Four: always in may—
meadow lark of the late spring
whistles to me in His tune:
an aubade, crisp and longing,
renders me awestruck,
wanting what I left in Ourself.
Five: Mami's Poem
"how deep is our disgust for women
that imbedded in the two languages we speak,
our nouns to describe her are softer,
less powerful on the tongue."
ich liebe dichdaylight wakes me up and i turn into the green moth on the windshield.
a few months ago i would have died to be someone with the same kind of pulse
as you. i wanted to know what it felt like to breathe your same
air and listen to the fabrication of your words, your lies like lists of things
you wanted me to hear, essays crafted to the palaces of my mind.
you knew what i wanted because you know the architecture of so many women—
not seeing my poisonous nature, the blisteringly sweet aftertaste that crumples
you into me again, again, again, each hit better than the last. together
we chase the dragon, needing more and more of each other
to understand what it means to be alone.
being alone is different than screaming into the pillows as sunlight peers through
the blinds, a curious onlooker. i never remembered falling asleep but i always remember
how strange the light looked, and my nightmares before i woke up being crushed
beneath your arm. my neck was sore from being jammed into the
A half visible mirage rots in broad daylightI think I fell down a hole
That was six feet too deep
And I don’t know
If I want to climb out anymore
Because it’s so wonderful down here where the stars
No longer hold meaning
And voices can no longer be heard
Over the sound of decaying matter
Waiting to be recycled
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.
DaleHear me read it
They will not silence the bells for you.
The roses will not halt their will to wilt
and lilies will disassemble under the earth.
They will not dust Frankincense over cities
and trees will not bow down in grief
willingly donating limbs to become tissues.
But throats will dry out mid-sentence and
black hankerchiefs will be dubbed into pockets.
There will be enough salt to melt the ice
embedded around the hearts of old enemies.
Old enemies will turn friend once more
and the church will be full, packed with love.
The world is unlikely to take a moment's prayer;
Earth spins too fast to pause for any of us.
But the meagre collection of people you touched
(meagréd only by the tear-ridden knowledge
that you would have touched many more in time)
Will ache tonight and whisper of your friendship.
You were and always will be; loved.
40810If only you were soulless.
If you were mindless, blind,
you and I could make a beautiful disaster.
The press would write of our brief affair;
they'd paint me (the woman in red) as pathetic.
They will not consider how I need your love
or how it pains me so deeply to throw myself at you.
I will not be remembered as a poet warrior.
I'll be the eternal survivor no more.
All who think of me will shake their bowed heads
and tearfully remark;
If only you were soulless.
If you were mindless, blind,
You wouldn't have been such a bloody disaster.
phenosbecause really, this is humanity: the sum total of all we are is far greater than our ambition as to what we could >would/should
don't get tired of elephants yetI've had my crippling moments.
They'd either start in my stomach
with an ache like broken glass
or stab me right in the catharsis,
somewhere near my heart or breath
or maybe my left foot.
I wouldn't know how it feels
to hurt to walk, but I imagine
with a destination like farther,
it's no pilgrimage.
So take the burden off your back.
Life is not a sandstorm
and your lungs are only a mirage
if you expect to see your breath
every time you breathe.
So take a breath
back, just one step
and listen with your smoke signals.
Help is on the way.
I just can't promise
it knows much about this lifetime.
It's the same way I could never promise
elephants remember everything
or that every Elvis impersonator
means thank you very much outside
of his facade. Don't bother asking God either.
He wouldn't know and he wouldn't care.
He's still trying to number the hairs
on my head, hoping he won't lose count.
Our days are often double-digit jerseyed.
And go ahead and tell me now that this isn't a game.
suffocatesea moved her arms in and out of the light like a bird caught in air
and gave up with the ocean's pull that stayed and stayed
i found nothing to be more
than the sea and its lover
night it brings holding the
blue as the moon seemed
to fall into our eyes nestled
in the thick of stars only to cry
thrashing waves for land
to kiss it another more.
the sheets of salt fill my lungs
and ripped my heart open to the
such swelling waves.
pulseand it is like fingertips
tracing the line of my spine
and how it buckles and buckles
and twists over and over on itself
and this is just a dream
it is a dream
a moment within a moment
the sky breathes.
because it is only ever
a contest to be smallest,
to wither, to shrink
between atoms and
the peeling paint is
a symbol. i will grow.
i will engulf this world.
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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