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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.
Late Monet in a Boy's Bedroomyou have mourned for a childhood spent
siphoning color's touch from men with your eyes
unshut, begging at the heels of lovers who
wanted to know your shadows. you accepted them
into your bed, reminding yourself of such moments when
you lay back: powerless, aroused. his hands knew you
in wide spectrums they shouldn't have, but you lusted
and lust for another whose brush is careless, whose teeth
will paint your neck without praying to consequence,
who will have you jealously, selfishly: who will let you
call him by that paternal name that rots your liver, that
makes your tongue soft for affectations. he was a liar,
but a charming, intelligent man: an artist, blending his
a playroom in mississippihe is a skinny kid
who builds a simple fort
with six dining chairs,
poking holes in a nice black sheet;
his mother, weary, scolds him
but he says they needs stars!
next comes the dirt,
lugged in from the yard,
a red bucket of it with bits of sod
dumped on the floor.
he constructs lopsided hills,
digs shallow rivers and egg-shaped lakes,
fills them with tap water,
and places insects onto their fresh earth.
they scurry, settle,
lay tiny families and flourish;
he feeds them melon rinds and bread,
protecting their homes from centipedes,
spiders with angry eyes and legs.
he names them all, calls them children,
but mother calls him for supper,
finds him and yells to clean up the mess:
put the chairs where he found them,
throw away the sheet,
mop the floor until it shines,
return those dirty bugs
to where they came from.
the insects, clueless, are bundled into jars,
whispered prophecies of a return,
and forgotten on a dusty shelf
in his cluttered closet;
he has his favorite meal
Waterfall Glena rosary rests upon an oak bench,
left beside a leather bible bookmarked
to a verse: I give you every seed-bearing plant...
carefully, i move both aside and sit.
if you cannot find Him in the natural world,
you will never find Him at all, says the preacher
living in my dimmest memory;
i look to the sky and witness blue color,
listening to the migrating birds, placing one hand
on the silver cross, the merciful Son.
A Fraternity of Jackalswe invited him into our home—
a ripe almond jackal with blackened eyes,
orange by the glow of fire,
starving but for a maw of scrapwood
that bloodied his gums and
spat a red poison he coughed
onto our rug, begging
for crisped pork fat to lessen
the cut of his ribs.
we boiled our parsnips and ginger
until the steam rose his fur
to the coat of a tyrant,
clam-dyed and gilded by the light
of a sunset who sunk
into the churning slick of his digestion,
pearl teeth gleaming when we asked
if he needed anything else
besides the throne he wove of our bedsheets
and dog skins.
in the night,
he stole our daughter and left
her dress at the door,
To Him, With Loveintimacy is airing out
those facts you have held
allowing someone else
to draw his own conclusions about
your vain pursuits of existence.
An Unhealthy Lack of Vanitythere's an interruption in our dimension;
i found it in the hallway where i became aware
of seven billion perspectives shaping occurrence
into pattern: from nothing, is the hallway where i saw
a line of crooked overlapping fluorescent lights yellowed,
beckoning to your eyes so that your feet must follow,
and they told me: life is the most nauseous pill you swallow,
a blood-thinning laxative that will always lead you here,
where you become aware that the hallway is invention:
and everything is invention, at once.
Seabird,I found your number today,
the one for your townhome in Maine;
do you like the shore?
Have you watched the silver water
wash upon the sand, leaving in its wake
the dark traces of a lonely Poseidon
who seeks to leave his brand upon
those who left him
when the eons passed and we wised up
to his antics
and more blatant cruelty?
Maybe I'll call you,
but I want you to know I'm with
someone, and he's kinder to me
than you ever were. He took me to
the Pier, where we rode the Ferris Wheel,
and I thought of you calling me a child
when I was one,
but you had me unrepentant;
I'll admit I'm bitter,
but are you seeing someone? Someone
younger? Someone who worships
the lines you transcribe to paper from
the contours of shadows, the gentle fold
of cloth over the wooden chair I gave you,
but then you told me, I need this for my portfolio?
Do you have the keepsakes you stole
from my bedroom, like the sweatshirt emblazoned
with my high school's mascot?
Do you know you're the one I hate
to talk about? Or
a town i don't want to call mineon the right of the turquoise green sign
that welcomes you to columbia,
there are two gas stations and a church.
on the left side, there’s a morgue.
when i was five years old, my father pulled over
and stopped on the side of the road while black car
after black car passed us, going the other way.
“did we know them?” i asked.
“no,” he said, putting the car in drive. “but someone did.”
at seven, mr. jimmy down at the ice cream shop
let me have free samples of all the new flavors he made
before he put them out to the public.
a favor, he called it, for his little henry.
(years later i would realize that my mother
brought henry into the world.
i would realize my mother brought most everyone
in that town under the age of twenty
into the world, and she never regretted it
even if some of them became gang members, murderers, victims, and
little henry’s leg was crippled in a four-wheeler accident)
i would stand in line during church communion
ily2i wrote a poem for you because
you make me believe in happily ever afters,
romantic suicides and the fact that one day
i might not break everything i touch.
i don’t know what i’m going to do in four years
because i can’t comprehend a life without you.
and i hate you for it.
you’re just so—
you adjust my skirt and give me a pair of jeans
and say, “don’t let society make you .”
you stay up late with me to watch the sun set
only to wake me up early to see it rise.
you guide me out of the way of
already-broken leaves and
piggy-back me straight into puddles and snowdrifts.
you steal pieces from every one of my jigsaw
puzzles and call it a metaphor.
you’re beautiful and amazing and
if anyone ever tries to tell you differently,
it’s because they’ve never seen you
laugh at two o’clock in the morning
or spend days trying to figure out how to knit
a scarf for your step-sister’s birthday.
they’ve never seen you ba
Redthis is the way we are set loose:
like bulls released from their pens -
all anger and bucking fear,
unaware that we have thrown away
the most harmless annoyance
& quivering, we await
the wrath of realized
mistakes - the end
of the fray.
Remnant of a RequiemI. I don’t want to dream anymore.
II. There’s the distortion of stardust and twilight spreading inside downtrodden lungs.
Somehow, the sky had learned my secrets, and it has forced me to bury its body in my system like a funeral despite the fact that these hands have scratched its constellations back when they were bare remnants of dust and gods and ice.
But all these brittle bird bones could do was nothing but fracture an expanse of glass and grind the fragments through broken teeth
[and I couldn’t weep openly.]
Who knew I could drown in my own ocean?
IV. Maybe I’m still sober, or maybe I’ve learned how to remember too much it hurts. The door ways through my chest have refused to open for me, and I realized how much I could starve from trying to forget.
All I could ever wish for was rain.
(the pitter-patter of petrichor,
a rhapsody billowing with every note,
the taste of autumn in my mouth...)
V. And it started to unfold like the win
stomachedyou blush and bruise
with sidewalks, stones,
the quiet doorways in your thighs
and the weight of your purple
tongue against mine
(a carnival of teeth)
if you swallowed the moon
with your agate jaws,
you could not be more nacreous
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
on irrationalityI begin to think that I am
ridiculous as a gardener
who stops tending
to a bed of flowers,
only to be
shocked and grieved
when weeds begin to grow.
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;
Open and stare through the lights,
Into the darkness of doom.
And yet they smile,
Yet they smile.
A drop of tear;
Seeps through the garden of death;
Falls to the mortal soil.
Dreams and desires will blend again,
To render the roses alive.
I am floating through a vision.
Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.
Can reality be so real?
Let me drown again,
Into the silence of familiar noise.
As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.
The flame of hope burns bright,
Drenched in the colors of freedom.
So let my dreams unravel my soul,
As darkness fades away;
And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.
As these pair of eyes,
Open to stare through the lights again.
Is this reality?
Can reality be so real?
Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;
Staring at the distant lights;
Staring beyond the distant skies.
What do they see?
What do they long?
What do they desire?
Then the skies will break down;
White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.
Moments will tur
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^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