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this unrequited loveToday again,
and empty hands.
This ungrateful thing –
the battered green couch,
soft fabric stained with clumps
of dirt-grey hair, its
scratched feet –
the warm spot next to you
the pleasure of soft, soft fur
under your hands.
the world is waiting for youbulletproof. fairground.
the world is waiting for you,
forget to dodge it.
1. in the fog, the eye sees further than we understand. the body changes,
advances, relentless, cannot be stopped though the mind refuses, rejects.
the fingers, the elbow, the feet, in every instant, already tracing the future.
2. we try to carve a moment of silence
(looking out at the roaring sea)
3. a) you brought me here and
I count the hours
b) until we must part
4. some trees
grow on rocks in the sea,
their roots exposed to the salty wind.
rocks peel like rotting wood, dead skin
melting into sand. we are snakes
guarding our shedding places.
5. imagined stillness, premeditated interruption of our time.
our pencils scratch at the truth but time is inexorable,
invisible, like the wind buffeting this island, and we forget
only until it catches in our sails.
6. lie down. (let’s pretend) the world is waitin
glass knives.bite– your lips. linger. expand,
conquer. hurts transform, ascend.
put– me– down. drive my skin out.
too close, hold still. cry. reason
abjugates. scraps. rescinds you.
fall, crawl. upturned bellies, on your–
knees. flat. lower, lower. sink.
involuntary flush. stones, capillaries.
grafted, spilt. stolen. noises,
reprised. thrills. gouges,
reading yearstell me my love, what have we learnt in golden years?
how is the heart strengthened by the distance of years?
when I look up the windows are covered with dust.
only my children know the passing of the years,
they tell me their cat had her first litter this spring.
I have not thought of you in almost seven years.
I do not try to remember the song you played,
they tell me the piano has not been tuned in years.
you are where the planets continue to wander.
well, you never counted revolutions by years.
I could not find a mirror that was not covered
with dust, but even photographs will show the years
if you look close enough. I do not look often
and my eyes are tired from the passage of years.
if I look down the floor will be covered in dust.
tell me my love, what have I learnt in seven years?
Three Haikus for Luckthe new warmth sends us
on a journey. we begin
by saying goodbye.
the cherry blossoms
if we watch them for too long
will surely fall.
after the April shower
watch the road under your feet.
blossoms are slippery.
neat, or pride,
I was sleep-drunk todayWe were lost out at sea with no hope in sight,
No compass, no map and the night was desert –
Enough water to drown but none for our thirst,
And too many stars awash in the moonlight.
Our limbs had gone heavy and our heads grown light,
Empty as bones but with words still to burst
The skin-thin denials of lingering hurts,
Stumbling blind into anger and fright.
We weathered many a turbulent night,
As if the storm had been following us,
But it was in our minds, like our tongues coerced
To curl around sounds that were never quite right.
So we searched for something of right and of might
That you said existed between our worsts,
You opened my hands and opened my trust
With yours, and we fell like birds learning flight.
I was sleep-drunk today and I talked about you
Or: I talked about me and the story was you.
Years have passed, and as we're wont to do,
We may have forgotten but the story was true.
snails first light:
when night lifts its curtain
– its underskirts –
the earth is soiled with the hot breath
of a billion lovers
condensed on her chilled skin
under the sudden assault of the sky
she trembles and crumbles
rise through her leaking pores
by now the dankness has settled
and armies scattered
in the pleasant afterglow
she wears the must like a perfume
soaked in it
stunning and stunned
and times herself
by the slow movement
across her skin
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
i want to set your heart on fireor scratch my name onto your bones
like a shadow,
light and shallow
not a claim,
just a memento.
one day maybe you will find,
hidden on the side of your ankle
or beneath your shoulder blades,
the sighs I left behind;
and if you think of me then
that will be sweeter to me
than any burning revenge
could hope to be.
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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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