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Accounting of FiguresMy mornings begin with a lost story
About dim rooms and loved ones, erratic, shifting
The timeline I know, sucking back their lips
And baring familiar teeth - it takes some minutes
Most days, it’s going forward - breathing
Through a wet rag, biting a spoon
With sore gums, eating little, old fires
Casting my shadow as a long spoken
Each step an act of fleeing.
Some days take less effort.
When I believe in my inertia - mark of forces
Withstood and trancelike obedience
To survival -
The fricative hope of yielding to every overdue
Experience - those long places far hoped for
Seem to match my stride.
I forgive the hard days. What they stole
And replaced, their forced winter
An act of healing, an important sidewalk
Waiting to be found by our feet - now,
Kneeling Glorydoesn’t matter anymore. There are two
Possible explanations for why this happened.
You were a traveling light from a kneeling morning -
Your fingers struck me, and a new man answered, rising,
Together setting out.
You were the hope of an answer,
Spirit painted in a tall mirror,
Lonely, waiting for my prayer,
Waiting to make me forgive myself
And, laughing, kiss you through
The glass, hoping that by some magic
To make it tremble and break
Deadly joy, not trembling, exploding,
A mist of wings scented and barbed
With what was dead, inhaled as a fever
And, afraid of the begging softness, afraid
Of their influence, I lowered the lights,
Rolled you into the shadows, until I learned
How to celebrate beauty.
Or, it was that cold Lacey sidewalk
Yelling, striking a familiar drum beat
In my chest, when the right man answered.
She is the kneeling glory, rising
With me in the dark of every personal
Morning, kneeling at my side again
Every night I dim the color of my body
And slip si
Accept That You Will Get WetCareless parents might tell their children
Not to go into the dark, inevitably
Make cowards - half a triumph.
Inert mass in a state
Dwell in your native lair, preserve
Those lawless impulses which find
Friendly footing in your heart.
That hydra-headed beast, secret
Affinity towards evil that sways
ComfortlessUndo this work of theirs,
Absorb them as lies -
Poisonous minerals providing
Doubtful relief, but we prefer
The unqualified possible.
Any wish to amend our faults is met
With an open violence, each individual
Discovery of a moral sense leaves us
Commonplace - actual motives
Are an obvious relief.
Our task is the cultivation of consequences.
That calculated friendship denied
Repeatedly, that wet rag smothering
The face of beauty, and our nature
Justifies such severity.
Self-regardIn any situation, it is unlikely there is a key -
Unreality favors the stage, that reflexive
Illusion of vain glory and servile rage
At whose feet we heap applause as tribute,
Refusing to acknowledge the painted wood
Of a well dressed puppet.
This position of limitless pretend, more real
Than looking into a mirror, finds ways to love
Itself too much, becoming a cypher
For our heart burnings - our desire
To feel what others are.
Avoiding villainy is an excuse,
That failure to love ourselves convincingly
Enough. Both hate morality for the same reason -
It is unlikely there is a key.
Limited Success Settles DeepOur old letters taste holy now,
Taped to the wall, always falling
Off with the photographs of my father
That never stuck.
Tuning the landscape to your specifications
Conflicted with my bandit’s life, repitition
Of desertion overtakes the death of light,
Versions of stowaways dragging stories
In shoe boxes.
Disappeared travelers know my name,
That cold steam vanished, those socks lost
And, kneeling, bargained for with the settled
Necessities and the sheltered can be brokens
What I Know About ClosureHours of light follow you,
Strangers with unfinished business.
As a scientist, I try to tighten down
Your stubborn fingers, promise
That the pilot holes won’t hurt,
Because the sway of “anything for you”
Makes my tongue slowdance with the letters
Lost in the fire.
Heavy miles prove the dirt appreciates the blues,
Barking dogs chasing the way home out of view.
Stowaways were meant to go missing, mistakes
Need pioneers to threaten what might
Be lost - far away street lights
Barely looking at you.
The Humble Escort Turning GreyI am vanquished -
Kneeling on the shore of a lost idol,
Acres of car bones hide a natural remedy,
Algorithms destined to dance,
And I am vanquished.
I am dead gears clacking,
Fish mouths draining acres of shadow
Coiled on the hot stones of a fleeting nighttime vault,
And I am vanquished.
I am tired gutters cradling rain and troubled moss,
Acres of sagging fingers worshiping apparitions
Beneath their nails, cadaverous streets dropping down,
And I am vanquished.
A Temporary CarnageThere is a sibilance between wind chimes -
A path for serpents through sharp
Prairie grass and down the runnels
Of martyred remains. Cinder slag
Left by the lions in the field,
Their many mauled femurs yawning
With the pleasure of being bodiless.
I am intimate with the discarnate,
Those unreflective bits of rust
Which burst flavorful on the tongue,
Like broken plates and red blooded
Just a rogue coin clanging in the wash,
Soon to be removed.
this is a warning.i.
The first thing you need
to know about people is this:
If you cut off our head,
we will grow two in its place.
We will divide and conquer
until there's nothing left
but tiny gaping mouths,
clacking and salivating
at the crumbs of an empire.
They tell me hurt is like
a paper cut:
quick and forgotten,
Hurt is the first step
off a balcony,
the first gasp
in a chain reaction
screaming from the railing
to beyond the pavement.
When I finally hit the ground,
I looked up and saw my halo
dangling from the edge,
He said, she said,
I wanted, he lost, she won,
I ruined this, I broke your heart,
he left me,
I miss you.
This is nothing new.
Your tragedy is always
what's it like to realize
every slash on your soul
has an identical twin?
What's it like to know
you're going to die
the same way everyone does:
scared and alone?
We are disposable.
The hydra g
Peter Pan EnvyWe molded pirate ships
from heavy storm clouds,
flags puffed up
and scooped out
like handfuls of sand
while the car windows
steamed in the cold.
You told me stories
of a boy in green
and his war with
the hooked man,
said they took
those like us
to the first star on the right
and straight on to morning.
You made me believe
and when life got hard--
mom hopped up on pills,
nights filled with demons--
I breathed wishes
to be stolen away.
No pirate ever darkened my stoop
with his wayward compass
or water-stained maps;
no fairy ever left glitter
smeared on my skin
like good dreams.
I look to the sky
when the wind blows
and hold my breath
with his name on my tongue
all the same.
SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.
thirstYou tell me to breathe in
the scent of my tea:
Apple Cinnamon Spice,
it is crisp and infusing
the aroma into my lips.
Honey coasts along my spoon,
apple biting into its
golden flavor. Cinnamon bursts
forth for a brief moment and I am
Note to SelfDate a librarian; they'll read you until your spine falls apart, and still love every page. They'll underline your highlights, your endless seas of profound poetry, as if they've mistaken your manatee appearance for a mermaid. They'll hang off the cliff of your chapter 15 and dive into the next page as if you're about to reveal what they've been looking for. And when they don't find it, they'll tear out your words letter by letter with a hush, asking you oh so sweetly to stay quiet. Finally, they'll bind your broken spine with tape and set you on the shelf for misplaced books until they forget you were ever there, but they won't be done with you. They'll never be done with you; even when it seems your pages, your rib cage and heart, is filled with nothing but dust.
Stormy nightPouring rain
Just another night
In this sad existence
The rain feels refreshing
The darkness is comforting
And they bring a smile
To my melancholic face
I am one with the night
One with the storm
Standing under the streetlight
Waiting for life to happen
More to Come, More to LoveMore to come
More to love
More potbellies bulging seductively
More love handles to lovingly handle
More expanding muffintops to nibble
More inches on the measuring tape
More pounds on the scale
More softening fat bottoms to sit upon
More comfortable living
More people becoming fluffier everyday
More size acceptance
More tubby tolerance
More self-loving wonders
More deliciously sinful food to enjoy
More freedom from guilt and shame
More liberation of libidos
More opening of minds
More unshackling of hearts
More release from constraints
More living large
More emancipation of bodies
More sleeping in
More breakfast in bed
More letting oneself go
More unbuttoning of pants
More flab enveloping abs
More thickening of thighs
More softening of faces
More doubling of chins
More dimpling of cheeks
More fine fat rolls
More cinnamon rolls
More buttery dinner rolls
More swiss chocolate rolls
More ice cream
More biscuits and gravy
More bread and
Words from Another RoomWooden dinosaurs can be coaxed
To follow, if they know you, whispering,
A voice of drapes gently shuffling,
"Be good, son," and they do
Tell my hostile nerves,
Swayed by a red and wintered wind,
Perfumed by the smell of old
Shirts, "Be good, son." Would you?
I heard you, when your light yawned
And limped down the horizon, descending,
Like a dull shadow over your bleached face,
Heavy on your wet eyes, fading, whispering,
"Be good, son."
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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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