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pyrite girlNote: Pretty please listen to the audio version for the full effect.
you noticed things
little things that came sneaking slyly in
smiling crooked like good children
with bad deeds freshly done.
of course you loved her all the same,
your little lighthouse among the tendrils of east coast fog
she tasted like mineral water
and you lived in soft, sweet depression
gazing out at a broken world from a tenth-story window
and breathing in the cigarette smoke.
your little pyrite girl
bright eyed and dark mouthed
a tiny dirty moon, dragged through the gray city snowmelt
and left to dry in the glare of rooftop suns
"who would live here?"--
musings from the tenth floor
and you knew the answer.
broken cities feed on broken souls
and even they need angels.
all that hasn't happenedPretty please listen to the audio.
i want to remember
the rumbling piano baritones
high notes like hailstones--your hands
running soundless scales.
i want the summer seas
the vineyard overlook, the olive
trees and sunwarmed coasts.
we filled the empty pages
with whole notes and halftones,
oceans and lovesongs.
we lived, we live
inkstained and drowning
through nights thick with words
and days shot with sound.
SmokeYou smoked, and everyone hated that. The cigarette would hang loose between your knuckles, tendrils of smoke mimicking the tracery of veins and tendons that stood out along the back of your hand. You could do the most graceful French inhales, and sometimes you'd lean in close and grab me and kiss me, blowing warm smoke into my mouth. The scent would always cling to meI'd drag it back home with me and there would always be a fight over it.
You were sparrowlike, all taut pale skin and prominent bones. Your hipbones jutted slightlysharp elbows, sharp knees, a sharp jaw softened by cornsilk hair. When I ran my fingers down your back I could always feel every vertebra in your spine, a steel column anchoring you down. More smoke. More fights at home. You never belonged here and never would.
Lay back. Relax. Anythinganything you want. I'd close my eyes and forget to breathe because I knew you weren't mine. If anything, I was yours, a toy that trembled and kissed back.
the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyes
are still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,
and there's a softer curve to your waist
and freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,
and I think,
What have I missed?
You tell me about the weddings
the divorces. You tell me
about the babies
and the losses, and how last year
your dog died--easy, in his sleep--
and there is a hollow lack in you,
a space reserved for things that won't come back.
Long ago, was there a space like that
When did it collapse--when did it
fold in on itself
under the weight of things that matter more?
I tell you about Cambodia. I paint
the jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heat
of it into your lungs. I tell you
about the kids in Africa
and how the heat is different there--
belligerent and fierce.
I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,
and how much you would have hated Rome.
And I remember all the things I
can't tell you--all the things I don't hav
let's start a fire“Can I get you anything?”
She shifts, splaying herself along his couch that is quietly becoming hers.
the empty glass on the back of his hand. “A drink?”
“Yes, please.” A luxuriant stretch. She watches his pupils drag all the way down the curve of her hip before continuing.
“I’d like a glass of Kafka—distilled, mixed with
dark rum and a splash of Dostoyevsky—poured
so sweetly down my throat and
chased with a lungful of smoky Fitzgerald.
“I wasn’t aware this was a book club.” He pours a soda before joining her, taking
a biting sip in the half light.
“There are too many book clubs,” she says, hooking her legs over his.
“Too many streetcorner ladies and their lace-veiled
threats over coffee and New York Times bestsellers.”
She harbors a
derision for New York Times bestsel
.:Sweet Everythings Two:.
jumping at the light, consumed, by enigmaticsmile
#723, by holyolyoly
I read and adored this so long ago,
and just found it again.
The Gold Watch, by Ja-mes
It starts with a bang and a snap
and pulls you along
for a breakneck ride.
sunshine streaming, by forestmeetwildfire
Soft and sweet
fifty shades of blackout, by flawedfairytale
Beauty from the ashes, perhaps?
Date a girl who draws, by Enn-Chan
There's so much heart here.
Tips for the Messy Writer, by LiliWrites
Messy writers unite.
A Portrait of Suburbia, by sydnerella
"Deb has a big gaping hole in her f
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-four. I counted."
The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.
And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense of looming disdain. The rough oak had bitten her hands and it bit them now, when she pressed her palms against it. The doors eased open like wings outstretching, coming to rest against stone doorstops.
Her boots clicked against the marble flooring as she advanced, each click reverberating through the silent room. A mute ghost of a man stood in
A Love Story in Four Actsi.
I loved a blacksmith once, back when the sand still clogged up my soul. It was only far after that I began to love the desert too.
Underneath the casual noise--glass on wood, heat-smothered conversation, worn cards slapped down in careful triumph--there was this low, thrumming quiet that wouldn't be broken. He spoke in sepia undertones. "We're getting out."
Hot iron smells like hot blood, like blood that's been poured out under the white Arizona sun. It's something you don't forget easy, like the taste of whiskey or the plasma patterns left on your eyelids after watching fire all night. It sticks.
My childhood was fed on medical books, and I've got this pain right behind my eyes and I wonder if this is what it feels like being lobotomized. Of course the brain has no nerve endings, but the hurt has to manifest itself somewhere.
ode to the summer i never hadit's june and with whiplash rapidity you rule the asphalt
the cars make way for your sunwarmed ego
this town is yours and only the loudest of bars are fit retreats,
habitats for racing hearts and wildly pulsing souls
you wander through 3am streetlight glow
until you are lost and found again
and when the chill has finally seeped into overbaked concrete
you are spiked
alcoholized by cicadas and heathaze
on the fourth of july, lazy-eyed,
you watch as well-meant flames expand
singing meat and misplaced self-worth beyond repair
and when the fireworks begin you think
that's how I'll go.
you will not crash and burn
you will expand and supernova
your glowing embers scattering among the awed applause
because there is something beautiful in destruction
and you will inject yourself into their collective consciousness
and reappear whenever their eyes close
august finds you soaring
a supersonic stellar firefly
sailing up while time rushes down and when the countdown stops
A Letter to my FatherFather,
Today, It has been nine months and nineteen days since I left. Three thousand kilometers of distance. This is the longest period of time that we have been apart. I miss you, I remember you all the time. Suddenly, I remember things I did not think about before, suddenly they all keep jumping in my face, so many memories, some warm, some cold, some tough, and some just beautiful.
Do you know that I can remember the days you were teaching me the Arabic alphabet and the French Alphabet. Whenever we have a guest, I run to them and start shouting " A,B,C,D,E,F......." They smile and ask me who thaught you all this, I run to you, I hug you and I say " Dad taught me".
You took me to the beach, you taught me how to love it, this is why now the beach is where I find my soul, where my heart feels at home, where I feel a very strong sense of belonging I dont quite understand. We went to
turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,
lying halfway underwater;
pouring your palladium hopes
down your hands
looking full of shale and broken glass
half lighting whiskey-paper on fire
with that sun tossing in your chest
and all of you rattling
in this thin-skinned pineapple percussion,
the things you're so very sure of, sweltering under
callouses, under sea-
a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera
twisting into your human frame;
but when i say something of protests
you break in,
with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,
how lucky how
lucky we are
to be alive to be
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
against these lips
a tea-stain stone
the trashbin floor.
DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane
all we remember
is the numbness
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds
winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence
bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs
until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,
graced again by feeling.
Vulgar WordsShe is worried about
sex and love
and qualities of the mind
while he is busy
We have seen this all before.
Poetry is a hangover
stirred with an orgasm,
(add cream and sugar to taste).
It is better
if they both cared,
but worried all the same;
and love destroys them.
It is best if
neither of them connected
and they were both
His children would
rush to the door like puppies
when he came home exhausted.
Her husband would
just to surprise her.
Orange juice and eggs are
and twice as delicious.
But instead, they are
going through an
existential crisis in
a seedy motel room
that smells like
cockroaches and cum.
It is poetic
lower case letters are
poetic, the way
vagueness is poetic, like odd
punctuation is poetic
and using old English
is poetic; and
trying to be deep
Damaged goods.Sometimes I tell them that
it's a birth defect,
that when they dragged
me from my mother's womb
they broke me,
that my mother left the hospital
with a cheque in hand to make up for
"the accident," of course.
Sometimes I tell them
that they said,
but it'll hurt her."
Because I live and
it hurts me and I don't know
how else to say,
"I'm sad all the time
and I can't get out of bed some
days and I've considered that
not living might be
beneficial to my survival,"
and as they try to work
that out I'm heading for the door
with my head down and
my dignity scraping along on
WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?
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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