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are what brought us together;
with a stir of paint chips and skin,
we made clumsy love on the concrete
of a condemned factory,
moving in the shadows of machinery
that loomed like winter trees
or judgmental Gods
who still stopped to smell the alcohol
in our pores.
"will you pass me a cigarette
and along with that sign your lust
on the paper that will gray in a flicker,
bitter acrid and addictive
like the first high of tobacco—
a euphoric quiver
that lasted only a minute,
gone when you inhaled your second
seeking the same."
indiana is the land of crossroads,
where the wind blows
to find a better destination
and the tired rest in restless homes
with wheels that creak
beneath the hardened earth;
you said you were meant for something
better than a bible belt,
sought my eyes when you whispered
i paid for your bus tickets.
i wondered if love was letting go
or knowing that you never loved me
as more than a first.
i felt most violated
when you denied it—
evidence may have mounted
in the mouths of other victims
but i haven't spoken—
even in the wake of certainty,
family and loyalty
forked my liar's tongue—
maybe it's enough
that you know what you did—
because i can't bring myself
to hate you.
your son's beautiful—
you were my first
and i don't regret that—
in your arms,
i realized myself.
it wasn't my fault—
i received the letter
years too late
has never been sympathetic
in the eyes of those
who suffered to live—
yet, i write for you,
remember your face acutely,
long for the night
we bathed together
and you told me
God hated us.
i wrote a poem for you—
it was long and vitriolic,
full of anger's energy but—
i realized you aren't worth it—
have a nice life,
long and unfulfilling.
you hid food under the bed,
said we were bad children,
did everything in your power
to make us f
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.
Belated Valentinehe bought me a typewriter
and said, "i can't write,
so write me something
beautiful; your words are
sometimes sad but always
AnatomyI cannot be the backbone
of your moral affirmation;
set aside the scalpel,
burn the phonebook if needed.
up in flamesyou sulk
your back turned
eyes strewn around the room
flexing your fingers
how to makes amends,
"flirtatious or unfriendly,
afraid of intimacy
and other things that smell like
but sometimes you run and
the fire is behind you
until you turn back and say
it's okay, baby.
Satelliteit seems you wander aimlessly—
like the white blinking light
between the branches of that dark tree
i see when i open the backdoor to smoke
another desperate cigarette—
orbiting so far in the distance that
i cannot fathom your purpose,
though you must serve one in the lives
blood typethere is something haunting about the way blood flows.
just think - all that crimson coursing through you,
scribing calligraphy inside your gut.
through your arms, through your heart.
it paints promises across the canvas of your innards, saying:
i promise to take time, to give you as much as you need.
i promise to stay warm even when chills tickle your spinal cord.
when blades threaten to sharpen themselves like buffers across your skin,
i will flow slowly, giving them a chance to see the light in your bones.
i promise to stay powerful.
i promise to stay abundant.
i promise to stay holy.
i will weave through your veins,
craft myself into a villanelle to savor your breath,
so that if you ever decide to drain me by your own 2 hands,
you can read my words and know that you are not worthless.
on people as placestw,
the elementary school playground
i still sit on the swings
you were the house i grew up in
and grew tired of,
so very familiar;
every secret door revealed
every hiding spot
i couldn't help but linger
long after it
you are the forest
i have been too afraid to wander in
so beautiful and inviting
so full of poisonous
you were the last car
on a train: temporary,
in transit and moving
nobody can travel
the dusty hotel room
i got comfortable in for
a few days, the one i
found love in
but hotel rooms belong to no one
and i shouldn't have been so
surprised to find that
someone else had been
you were the
girl down the street's
littered with red solo
and not much
you are the back room
of someone else's
the one i've come to hide in
when i can no longe
the sky had bled introverted colors of
reds and purples,
like some drunken painter had decided to
declare his independence.
you kissed her pale pink lips,
and i thought about why you'd love such a
the liquor was golden and gleaming
in your rusty
and your voice after you drank a glass
was grunge and grey and
you were different afterwards.
like someone had lacerated out your heart
from your chest and left it beating in my
you were combing through the bible like
an unread diary,
and i could see jesus's disapproving face from your
you were sinning and
you were also adam and i was eve
and we were both damned to
Feelings with no namesi.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message yet, let alone formulated time to write a reply, but you still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by and rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from Grandma Moses.
The noise of a faraway car driving late at night, or perhaps early in the morning, in that sleepy place somewhere between consciousness and dreaming where everything is warm and vaguely fuzzy. The remote sound of tires on asphalt speaks to a sense of curiosity – where are they going? Why so early? – but the blankets are so heavy, your eyes are so heavy, and before you can wonder anymore, the car is long gone and you are long gone, carving out a hollow place to rest in just a few hours more.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that y
growing out the pain.your fingers read like brail the tallies sunk too deep in my skin
like a map you read my scars.
you translate the manifestation of my pain
and whisper it'll be alright.
and i'm blind, in need of a cure you cannot give
broken, in a manner you cannot fix.
(because maybe you are too).
i'm the expiration date,
set to implode.
winding to a stop.
a nuclear leak,
i'm the fixer-up thats not worth the money.
(can't you see?)
but that night we spent on your living room couch,
your fingers wrapped tight around mine
holding them captive from tearing out my hair.
letting you in is hard for me,
your arms made me feel safe,
even when it scared me.
even when it was hard not to feel his arms instead.
you were the first one i trusted with my blades,
and even though i can feel the panic rising in my bones, and my fingers regret it,
my heart doesn't.
is this how you choose recovery?
its been 7 months and i'm still learning to let go.
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.
i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.
one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.
you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule pieces
of yourself until all of the grace & goodness
buried deep within the crevices of your flesh
is soaked up by the atmosphere.
i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover
and point up at the stars to show him
fragments of you scatte
wastelandthe difference between alone & lonely
was one of them needed me.
i recluded back into the embrace
of someone who didn't deserve to
trace the wings in my lungs into
butterflies, all because of my
selfish desire for solace.
see, i am not practiced
in the art of loneliness.
or maybe i've wrecked enough
solitary canvases to stretch
me all the way back to the
fallen leaves of last october
when his arms constricted my mid-
section; a noose for my stomach.
i wanted to forget
how it felt
to be left.
so i let him stroke my shoulders
in an attempt to rebirth necessity.
september's winds brought
whiplash & slick hands.
he snaked in between my
2 good legs and robbed me
his eyes half-smiled with
permission & lust rolled
into 1 smolder.
i am still heavy with sin.
even though i want to,
i will never forget him.
the similarity between alone & lonely
was i wanted both of them.
be my books
open on my bed
with freckled words
bound to your
with stories tucked
into the chapped areas
of your lips, open
your spine crooked
holding your body
to a collection
of sodden bones, like
the soggy pages
of all the stories
you once told me
in the nights so dark
we couldn't read,
above the beating
of the paper and ink
in your chest
where you said
the thing about
what you see
and feel and be
does not have
and the best part
is the stories
will be there
into the pages of
Drink DeepWe are not yet
dead, but the
have you believe
that we are dying.
We have rehearsed
the methods of our
We make muses
from nature and
from each other.
We assume, like the
canyon's high-water mark,
that the floods
will not come.
Who am I
to say that
this is false,
that we have
that hold us apart-
(we are ever so slightly
levitating off the ground
and from each other.)
And the streets protest
by rehearsing the methods
of our end.
When our blood
turns to alcohol
and the first thing
they see of us
is the white
of our bones.
Don't Write While You're Highwhere the scenes
blend too seamlessly
to the next glance:
our twoselves soon rising
up-through white fibers—
from the thick of reality:
oilslicks slipping up-along
when later looking back: the lost
incompatible with water but—
we sought fewer thoughts
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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