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Compulsioni am awed by man's ability to create
in explicit symbolism,
bragging divinity in the face
of yesterday's mathematicians,
a garden on the storyteller's tongue.
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.
Nihilist HaikuA ball rolled
to the center
of a tarp.
He predicted the distance
between first humanity
at an angle.
You always tell me the same storyHe's in love with a scene from the winter
that occurs on a trip to Washington,
when the dark is constant and the trees jog
like legends alongside the highway;
as his eyes fall half-sleep but his senses remain
taut and vigilant, sweating on the wheel,
pitching nerve to the sound of branches cracking,
bristling under his wind-torn jacket;
the time of evening when the sunset rests
at its very highest, bright and sudden as Heaven,
an aureate glow around the birdsongs,
the stench of roadkill muted by a golden frost;
a taste of nirvana,
an instruction of faith,
the blatant existence of God,
lost as soon as he rounds the bend.
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,
On the Acid SpectrumPure Innovation, unsullied by derivative bias, originates from creative delusion; by achieving dissonance with convention, a state often mistaken for insanity or grandeur, one does not separate himself from reality but discovers an interpretation of it, applying a clean lens through which echos and images are processed: a fresh perspective, powerful and strange, capable of altering every mind it touches—until it also becomes commonality. Thus, it is our responsibility as artists to deny notions of impossibility, sin, social mores, and instead live above the average men because, without Innovation, we are animals: thoughtless, base, stagnant.
Another Informal Case StudyWhite male. Approximately nineteen years old
with two pierced ears and Maverick brand cigarettes.
He rocked forward whenever he spoke,
drawing shadows under his cheeks
and other bones.
A ship inked on his left shoulder,
fingers spread like sails, he stilled abruptly.
His pupils were dilated and he smiled at the table.
"Everything's a fraud,
or at least an act of narcissism.
You need a certain degree of sociopathy
to maintain success, so anyone in this system,
home owners and schoolteachers, who cooperate
and flourish deserve to suffer."
Casual Bullshituncreative blasphemy
is sometimes mistaken for high art
in unprovoked conversations
"God isn't here,
at least not as the spectre
so i've decided His absence
with a metaphor to hide my fear
speaking in a rash persona
with a new faith
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
An End, Once and For AllI
This is me listening for a ghost
with wildfire-wide eyes on a Tuesday at two a.m.
spiking eagerness with anxious osmosis;
I petition for an identity from a circuit court.
This is me listening for the ghost of Ariana Nicole David,
who existed solely in the womb and pride of my mother.
Mom says, with renewed vigorous rigor mortis,
she wanted Ariana enough for her to exist
without ultrasound proof.
Nicholas Aaron Swaner was born on April 17th, 1993
without a father's signature or surname;
Nicholas was born with a father's doubt.
There is a letter to write to Nicholas' father
and his father still hasn't written it yet.
There is someone listening for the ghost of Nicholas Aaron Swaner
but only tasting spirits.
I'm not an addict, but I got a habit
of writing shit down when I believe it
so I've started signing papers different.
I won't write off my identity with a name.
someone should ask almost about being wholeI should be building my future from lego bricks
but all I have are little bits of you sneaking up on me with the subtlety
that was only your gift. you were never the silent type but if there was ever
a wildfire in someone's head, we all knew it was you.
this isn't poetry, this is you.
you only read well, your clumsi-
-ness so contagious - no this isn't
honesty, this is poet suburbia, you never
mess with that - your storms always
quiet enough to sneak past every
single one of us.
do you still blame us for remembering you?
your voice was deeper than the Mariana trench -
no it's not in my fucking skin, how many times
has that line worked for you? - and towards
the terminal of that long distance phone call
it had thinned into the frail breathing of a departure,
so shocking but nowhere near
he said I don't need to be ready, but fucking hell,
I was always halfway there, wasn't I?
for once, I was glad you didn't call death a character
from the Book Thief. so yes, you were a
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost,
stylish arsonists + I still
escaping from your lips
intimate thunder in this microcosmic
corner I have stolen
your alcohol & I am
missing the color
you made the world turn
.they greet me like old friends,
ivory hands gripping my
shoulders a little too tight
to be forgiving
i tell them that i'm sorry,
and they know what i mean,
their smiles fade and the black
holes on their faces start to furrow
and i explain that it's not
quite time, not yet
i still haven't worked up the guts
to let them out
but they've heard this spiel before,
and it's getting harder to
silence the rattling, a myriad of
skulls and ribs that i can no longer
Politi-ku IPolitician protect us from
Sharia lawfully abiding citizens;
false premises make false prophets.
*i learned very young
that it takes years
before those monsters in our closet
actually come to get us.
when i was a little girl
and i was wrapped in my quilt,
a cocoon of little butterflies and flowers,
the pinks blues in the dimmed light,
soft and warm,
my mother whispered to me
through the darkness
and above the rainfall on my window
that sounded like tiny fingers
tapping on the glass.
she said you are you
but you cannot be you,
that you is not you
if you do not know how to feel
like i do.
i can still hear the hands
on the glass
whispering to let
i used to pretend they were tiny orphans
who did not speak like she spoke. they said
tap, tap, tap,
their breathing woke me
in the middle of the night.
but most of the time
i could not sleep.
i told her this.
but i cannot remember an answer.
only now i know rain cannot do the same things
that hands can do.
i am eighteen. i know what hands
can do. rain cannot make things feel
like hands do.
only children think
Saturday in Summaryno matter how fun it was
to wander through the pine forest,
graffiti dope new shit, build an infrastructure,
mend diseases, fuck the presidents,
kill the poor, degrade pleasure,
apathy isn't boredom,
you came down,
knew you'd broken the law in a busy nature preserve,
and the secret to the universe
was not in that log,
as everyone had previously suspected.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More