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je me souviens que je te detestaisI remember days of despising you,
of counting out loud while you
hugged me, contempt hanging
on my upturned lips. I remember
your arms around my back and
your breath on my neck while I
stood my ground, struggled to
press in against my discomfort,
petted you with trembling hands.
I wonder why you came back,
time after time, to seek me out
in your loneliness. I wonder
what comfort you found in me,
what peace or pleasure, or
twisted satisfaction you garnered
from my reluctant embraces.
I remember also that I never
turned you away, that, time
after time, I flinched and let
you into my arms.
I wonder if you knew, then,
what I have since realized,
that the loneliness I saw in you
was mine, resonating in you,
that I despised you not for
your need but because you
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
This is what I will be:on a day like any other,
and every day after that,
I will be dead.
I think it'll be nice.
Not the dying – that's
unpleasant, I've heard –
but the things that come after –
Maybe parts of me will become
parts of other people; maybe
they'll cut me up and share me –
a heart here, a liver there,
a few pints of blood here and there –
my body going places without me.
Maybe I will become ash and
sit pretty in a little box until
the little box becomes sand or
maybe they'll put me whole
into a bigger box and then
put that box into the ground.
Maybe they won't find me; maybe,
if you are what you eat, I will be
maggots and crows and strays and fish –
and they will all be me,
a multitude of me,
crawling and barking and
filling the sea and the sky.
Anyway, it'll be nice.
And people will grieve and cry
until they don't.
(And people will die. And this is what they will be: )
seven ways of being immortali.
some legends are not meant to be forgotten.
just like his name,
has transcended time
in countless guises.
his name is inked into our (hi)stories.
time may twist him
but it will never erase
“Girl, heed my words and stay away,
The boy will bring you naught but trouble.
His wretched mother lay with the devil
And now she has the price pay.
It’s not a price she would prefer,
But though she tried with steel and fire
To spare them both this shameful existence,
Nothing would kill the twisted creature.”
he melted into air
whispers in the wind.
he foresaw this:
the people do not need him.
the land weeps for his return.
Upon seeing that the time had come,
he made visit to Geoffrey, Keeper of Books.
With him he long hours conferred
and through him many secrets transferred,
visions into words into ink onto paper.
His last gift, largely unknown:
the future, to be guarded jealously
by a Keeper of Books.
No one will ever
the huntfirst we held a measure of
we drew our bows,
strings taut, quivers
semi-full with sharp-
edged accidents, already
pulling swelling cries
from hollow bellies.
we took our pleasure
where it rose,
on the heels of
quavering, racing prose.
we held it close.
the hunt carried us,
pounding and pounding
through keyless avenues.
our prey was the Other,
the chilled, lonely sounds
and each arrow was true,
tearing clearly the earth.
we knocked our elbows,
rang our hearts.
we nocked again,
and each arrow was true.
Words turn pebbles
under my tongue,
smooth and heavy,
Rolling off my tongue
they taste like dawn
and tap water, like
sour grapes and the
Blumine from Mahler’s
They are weightless.
At three they grow
restless, like horses
tethered too long. Cut
free, they take off
with the roar of
lions and waterfalls.
Little Sister, she watches
as the old apothecary
from Turning Street
arranges little stones
into secrets, careful,
the smoky scent of
belief draping over his
Under his hands,
rolling between scuffed
fingertips and countertops
they shine smoother than
fire and narrower
than the open sea.
Her lips are sharp and
tomorrow she will read
a novel that starts like
maman est morte.
The gardens we keepThey will bloom inevitably –
Though you may never see –
The gardens that you keep.
Every thought is a seed and every hope a drop of water.
One by one let them see the sun;
They will bloom inevitably.
They paint themselves onto your smiles,
Unfold over everything you touch.
Though you may never see –
Every time you walk down the street,
I fall in love with them,
The gardens that you keep.
My mind deals with
Overcomes my judgement
Today it's no different
I can't take it anymore
Observing my image but
Nothing is revealed
I Saw a Burning ManIn front of my house, he sat.
Skin burnt off, now charred and black.
Hesitantly, I walked outside.
And he followed me with his watery eyes.
With steps as nimble as the snow,
I hid my fear and continued to go.
Now before him, the Burning Man.
I kindly offered him my shaky hand.
No malice nor vice leaked off of him,
rather sadness and agony which simmered below his skin.
I could feel it around me, the pain and despair,
yet, physically the man was nearly repaired.
For his scorched skin was not his problem,
instead the bottled emotions that devoured all of him.
“Would you like to come inside sir, and stay?”
In which he replied by looking away.
Again I asked, and received no reply,
and was startled when the man began to cry.
Unsure of what to do, I walked away,
Yet I’ll never forget what happened that day.
Be it from pain, or mute, or undisclosed desires,
I watched as the man was engulfed in fire.
I stood back in awe, with my mouth agape,
and feared that he had fallen into
little victories.when i was younger,
i thought i was the strongest
little girl in the world
because i could easily
beat my older brother
at arm wrestling.
it wasn't until years later
that i realized
To the person who holds my best friend's heart...I know that is is kind of weird
But I felt that I should write this down.
I need to tell you what I feel
And tell you what he means to me.
He's my best friend and he's a good man.
Please, give him the love and respect he deserves.
He may seem goofy but he's very sweet.
I know this because he was always there for me when I was sad.
Now, I know that you're not bad
Cause he would never choose someone who's mean.
But I still want to tell you just in case you forget in the future;
Please don't break his heart.
He's been through so much
And he doesn't deserve something like that.
He is the kind of person who smiles even when he's hurt by others
And would take any pain for the people he loves.
I know, I've witnessed it.
I know he may seem kind of childish sometimes
But don't let it get to you.
It's just his way of expressing himself.
He's very caring and I'm sure he'll do anything to make you happy.
He doesn't look like it but he's very kind and thoughtful.
He'll put your needs before h
in which I gain sentiencesave room
for doubt, in the silence between
religious guilt and stolen
body heat. I am made of helium.
in my dreams they
pop me and
watch me flutter. I wonder if everyone
else’s head is so congested as mine,
hyperactive with inattentive people.
you are never serious--
he stares at me in a different
set of eyes; there are words
I cannot say, there are
things I cannot tell you.
(twice a week
I watch the people I love
leave me for good.
spiders in my throat,
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
1:33 amto the angry young
hungry ocean eyes:
i do not wish to know
what crawled inside
your ribs to
i just wish you would
let it leave.
Can you look deeper?You see that girl you just bullied?
The one you harassed over her choice of art?
The art of a man beating a woman to death?
She saw her father kill her mother when she was five.
You know that man who likes to photograph himself in dresses?
The one you called a homo because of his choice of clothing?
Well, his parents wanted him to be a girl instead of a boy.
So they made him dress like that everyday to pretend he was a girl.
You know that woman who writes stories about child rape?
The one you bullied until she didn’t know how to cope with life anymore
Her uncle has been in jail for the past eleven years.
He raped her daily for seven years of her life.
What about that guy who favored abstract artwork?
Do you remember him he liked to use the colors red and black a lot.
He was nearly beaten to death when he was fourteen.
He only knows nightmares because he remembers seeing his blood on the wall.
What about me? Do you remember me? Even just a teensy little bit?
You bullied me because
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.
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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