|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
You Asked for Even More.Here is all I can give
Today the blank hedge of clouds
Pitter-pattered out of the room
On toddler's sticky feet--
Did you ever guess how incomplete
The breathless moments of ardor
Might be?? I labored over the black
Cauldron of love & being
In crimson love with pretending
Do the flags flap around like so?
Or was I without comparison,
Hindered by my blood & sexless
Indecision, my steps not sobered
Not drunk enough yet
Not to say regret out loud
Or to scrape the bottom of the trash
Bag for rancid sicknasty leftovers
Of the clouds prickling behind our kissing
Necks, stretched and strained
Out for the next guillotine raindrop
Lost our heads out of respect
For the cage fight we held between us
The crowds battering the bars
Pouting, snotty lovechildren.
Trajectory EchoesI cannot lose what I have lost,
I’m forced to apple bob
For sinking fruit, dense in vinegar.
Deeper in the barrel,
Until I’m the bullet that makes it clean through.
I still land on the floor,
Ripple my skin until it is metal
Screaming in the night time
Into and back out of the sweaty adolescent basements below.
I won’t make it to the phone
Until I’m retconned
Until a different sentence rattles chains in my chest
Until momentum, until no more
I will always slide toward the valley
In the winter, and feel it coming
Right around Halloween. The horror
Of one year ago: me, being happy and in love
While over one million rotten apples sit in the grass,
The rectangular orchard. The columns and rows.
The perfect was lost well before I had it,
Before it left ribcages and winked
Like the hero through the first set of unlocked lips.
Credits roll and I fiddle with plotholes
To calm the richter of my (I once thought)
another feather.a bird on the electric cable
is at sunset a silhouette
and it could fly up at any moment
but the air is hesitant and hasty.
now one thousand starlings
cram down a road on the poles and wires
settling one by one in the sagging arcs.
i want to scream out this last word: arcs.
does ours rise and fall like a rainbow--
does the arc stop at the treeline, chromatically subdued?
the high telephone poles can barely hold all the crows
the black lines droop with voltage and vultures
how then does our arc go as it slips down the road?
i'm looking close at what i see and i feel that
the power still pumps through the veins,
that the pressure that puts the limbs to sleep
can be lifted and removed.
the arc of our love is weighted by birds as they flew in
and no one bird can be seen as the leader--
but two telephone poles can hold their ends high
and the course of electricity flow will sputter through
the claws that dig into it, the birds i could scatter
to the trees every time they call and approach.
Rope.An empire of wires
like the wind could blow no harder.
Tip a glass to your mouth
like it's full of anything quenching.
Are there deserts for atheists
to cross for their lack of faith?
Is the gift of this mad kingdom
a heated debate in cauterized vanity?
The yearning of 1000 steam engines
on abandoned tracks
with no travelers.
The empire of wires is tapped
on the cold shoulder by the
hot sun's balmy boulder.
These cords chain in
electric love & yearning &
the Hindenberg burning down
to the chilled over ground.
pretty pink.this is the most violent beauty:
few memories are fond memories.
young pregnant wives in fatal car crashes
are made elegies after even this...
are made too pretty pink
with wax petal lilies and roses.
there is tragedy in simplicity
and triumph is found in the details.
sadness, too, fills in low spots
like pools of stagnant water
but the trees grow as they will,
no pesticides, no stilts...
craggy trunks twisted and dried
over the years and the years.
at least, the very least,
hideous truths exist
and influence existence...
for clouds must be almost nothing
to defy gravity for even a little while.
No Class Today.i admit to a campus fantasy
with noreasters billowing out above the
autumn gilded canopy . . .
as a beacon on a hill can ever be
caressing thoughts of dead eternity
bright eyed i believe in things
that glint at me gaudily
and effortless i escort myself
through a humble memory of being bled out--
the detriment of everything i've held
closer than mothered babies
is sojourned toward
every moment afforded for
realism, insatiable and fixed to floorboards.
now, i've admitted to my eyesores
if a sort of demeanor i've found once
is used precisely and widely
across all my mutterings and rants . . .
the words form into a step pattern
for a rain dance, and the drizzle of boston
falls like it did on us in our first cobblestones.
babe, i don't know what this posturing is good for
when i'm more comfy slouched against your side
as you sit upright online
and graze my naked forearm . . .
collegiate boys don't have it all
just ambitions to conform.
i, too, admit to wanting
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
Call of the Wildher vulnerability
unspoken and primal
free and unknown
through thick, charged silence
patience holds power
to compel and consume
as does his desire
leash.I am a homosexual with three pet dogs.
One came home with my mom from work;
the front leg already broken and amputated.
A mystery shih-tzu, large for her breed,
now hops through my house many years later
arthritis, cataracts, and rotten teeth.
She may never die, may she never die;
her crooked spine and visible ribs
may make her whine and snore,
but every guest loves her novelty.
The next is mine, a beagle from
a large puppy mill, who did not know
grass, ceiling fans, or people.
She craves love almost as much as food.
Spayed too soon she filled out fatter
than her hips could always move.
She cannot jump into my high bed.
She is soft and my hands will pet at her
as she trembles to lick my skin.
She is patient and kind, but steals
socks and the other dogs' food;
What favorites for good behavior often do.
The last followed me home on a sweaty summer hike.
Her breed was unknown, exotic and new to me
with shining black fur and golden eyes blinking.
I closed my front door on her that d
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