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DesperationThe abandoned, recanted, re-broken
Bleeds its intellectual lies into the tears
Of its shattered spirit
Slipping slimy fingernails of weathered, bottled
Sliding from the scream-hole, the dripping
Punctured throat of integrity
Scratching the forever blind, child-eyes
Rolling languidly away from
The forgotten truthThe solid-built fortes of social constraint,
morally crumbling under the weight
of it’s own academic constipation
Built on the backs of invisibly-chained
slave-minds, subject to the whims of the
two-tone breaker of old men.
Reeking of rubberized meals
and immaturity’s poison barb
sets in the stagnant air.
The wandering refugees of intelligence
only, can understand the watchfulness,
of illogical reason.
Shadows of the pastI rewind my blindness
to forget and to remember.
The past blunders
the forever blank
In The PresentI found it in this moment
I found it in the shattered remains
Past shrouded in watery smoke.
Future sifted, in fate’s
heartwood dream catcher
and I stood, in reverence, of
the glass shell that somehow,
keeps our beauty at bay.
And wept that so little,
can bind the free.
So rise now, from the colorless pool
of the daily stress.
That morass that made laughter hide.
And rub your weary bones clean
with the scraps of ashen canvas
that belongs to what has been, only.
And throw that stress-worn, weary cloth
Yup, the world we live in is...A broken hypocrisy
stands before me.
Leaking forgotten laughter
from it’s body politic,
Outcast and outlasted
by the financial choke-chain
of the flamboyantly forgetful
and corrupted human notation.
Vocational notation such corrupt
forgotten in our vexed fixation on
our entertainment supplication.
We the re-vexed reflection of medieval
and our subconscious connection
to the publicly and punitively perceived,
truth story of our own faults.
Hold in our grimy, sausage fingers,
a perceived reflection of preempted
Such truth reflected, simultaneously
by the remaining few who can sustain,
Fathers and sonsBefore me sits a man
x-bent legs crossed
under a protruding stomach.
Eyes cast to hope
as he uses dead sand
to mould live sand
into a man.
The live sand, sculpted
by loving hands knows not
how the sculptor sculpts.
at the shifting sand.
To find insideAsleep in the lecture of the drab
professor, lucid waves of subconscious intoxication
And in a lecture of such conjecture forget
That in our blindness, bleeding, finds the
tablet that we take.
To subconsciously swallow the preachings
of this false idol.
And in dreaming,
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in abstract art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
Hope in my Lawyer's Paperclip JarMy lawyer's desk on a normal Wednesday afternoon
is flooded with sheafs of white legal pads and errant staples.
Today is Wednesday, but the clouds outside
his twelfth-story window are shaped like loss
and the lines around his eyes seem crater-like in the shadows
and nothing about the last three weeks of my life
has been normal, so I don't know why it surprises me
to find his desk cleared of debris.
I wait for him in a silence that ebbs and flows with my heartbeats,
the zipper on my knee highs tapping against my leg like rain.
When he returns, hands filled with coffee
and the paperwork for a restraining order
against the man he set me up with almost a month ago,
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
"There's only one paperclip left in the magnetic jar.
It's bent like a swan."
I can tell, from the awkward shuffling of his loafers,
that he's wondering if he should have brought the Kleenex, after all.
He knows women often cry at things such as these,
reminders of the men they've love
What Writers AreWriters are people from
both ends of the spectrum.
Those that know isolation
and the thoughts that follow.
Those that know enlightenment.
And those with nowhere else to go,
but deeper down the rabbit hole.
Writers are smiths of the word,
using imagination, experience,
and emotions to temper the
glass and steel we are given.
We fill the page with pieces
And writers are Gods.
Broken or whole or
barely scraping through.
We make you see our world.
We make you feel and care.
All with a bunch of lines,
which we have given life.
1969, and time goes oni imagine you
thief of space affairs, time would go on;
wonder if you'd manifest
to govern gravity’s empire
physically, just as aurally,
so to walk with a
winds at war
captivated by you; sunshine
gathered in the organized
chaos of your hair: eyes would
dance fires domesticated by
your fingertips, boasting wander-
world laws of light (reigned in
earthen measure). i’d
boast mountains by your name.
the exhaust for gods
of transience (north-
hazed) transmuted back
(for easy drawls from the east)—
i’d sip wine
from the wishbone of your
body of sea. plead
the noise of bedroom eyes
& sleepy smells to soften your
siren’s unquiet tease.
i imagine you,
thief of space affairs;
imagine you in 1969
where our time would go on.
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
Keep in Touch!
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