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Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls
chipped away by the wind;
cobwebs align them
like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in a broken window,
gathering in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic)
My eyes seek out the sermon,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
(beneath nick and scratch)
as light needles the shade,
breathes new fire over candles,
measures the weight in these empty rows,
breaths that haven't ceased being prayer.
Shaping CloudsThe sky is always a fixture over oceans,
another cliched postcard;
this is a place where the only distance is upward,
and I lose myself in the memory of shapes
as if your foam fluked tide
stretched as high as it could
and decided to stay.
A horse's gallop
is slowed through the blue
before a piece of his snout breaks off
and drifts away;
as the sun sinks
into the depth and contrast--
heaven over the clothes line,
and corrugated metal,
I realize no one ever mentions clouds in a sunset;
only their absence in a clear sky,
where the light spreads thin into nothing,
and no one notices
lest it be over oceans.
Observing SilhouettesTheirs is still,
arms linked in the face of a sky--
overexposure and time
unlike the the herd
that comes together, and comes apart,
the brief romp of a pair of wings,
the crane's arch to the pond,
the strand on the down of a feather
that knows how to be alone again,
the leaf, the blade of grass.
To Earth, The Parts Of YouAt oceans I feel the sulfur of your hand
spinning shadows into shoals
your allotropic breath
in the sky
going every which way--
bones shifting in your axis,
I feel the indifference of your breath
shifting along tree tops,
the age of you
there are crowds to be heard--
protests and rallying cries.
I want to climb to the highest point of your horizon--
closed like a lid,
away from the beating heart of you
coaxing me to lie upon the ground
Unopened LettersPulled ribbons
fall around the ephemera
like disbanded sails.
I knock around with envelopes,
too close to discern
a shape in the ink
like scrawled twigs
drawn from the slow,
lost to the grip
And yet the kettle on the stove
because we need it to remain the same,
even if in novelty--
like the doddering, ghost
of an old hand,
gesturing for time to slow.
The Stubbornness Of Homethe canopy
parts from its roof,
to the sky
with no memory of blue,
the tired wave length
sinking into the brown and gray
that can no longer hold its red;
in the last heavy wind;
the distended metal
shoved upon the beach,
with the memory
of its place in the world.
Veil Tail GoldfishAs the vein
runs through the fine
you have the light by which you glide,
the current that moves beneath you;
fragments of lamp lapped up
in the shadows of a room
while my feet try to pick apart a pace
in the metronome of
day to day
whose time has all but buried the satellite
of where I need to go
between bits of brick and mortar
and so I leave the window open
the memory heavy in a lifting curtain
as this room sits like a sunken ship
in the waltz of light and turning earth.
I curl up in the womb of it,
leaving the sky as my glass,
feeling the heaviness of Heaven's eye.
IntegerI tried to think of colors,
or a place that would embody a poem
one day, in the event that I lose
the chance for words;
a tree seemed too simple,
but a worthy candidate
as the forest thinned its limbs
to the sun
like futile arms
in the sighs of future buildings.
And then it was too complex,
and green sufficed,
or maybe blue, or whatever color
broke out into the sky.
I tried to walk without a beat,
and summon what feeds
on every bit of youth it could get
from our bodies
like water to a desert-fiend;
tried to think
of what a minuend would be
if not the razor backed edge
of a number,
but the crumbling of cells
piece by piece to the elements
of time as it sorts infinities,
and I am nothing but the breath
that escapes me.
EveI remember when time was time,
when Eve fell into the sea, eyes burning--
her great arm unraveling from the night.
Her breath made its way into
the path of sun.
She became the long road, arriving;
for me the cradle of Winter,
a quilt of windows and hills.
It was a beginning.
She walked with me,
our pace measured in the length of buildings
as she sighed into the wood, textures,
and the joints of stairs.
I almost remember when the thick oak of doors
only ran beneath my fingers
long enough to explore.
This was a beginning too,
and I know that it was here that time began to bleed,
and Eve died young.
Today thoughts almost seem to
in the melted snow of windows,
falling away into Spring.
I watch the spaces emerge in the fence,
the transparency of glass.
Her vision now rests in the pool of sun upon my floor.
She is almost better suited without a form,
as shoveled roads and time wait for me to carry on,
the world cracking beneath an unforgiving sun,
nails rusting in
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
I amI am a body of glitches;
one measurement short of perfection
and a lifelong supply of malfunctions,
achievements in your eyes
and defeated failings in mine,
sparks between wires that should never touch
and the defibrillator restarting your heart.
An inconvenience of challenges;
the questions of aggravation
and uncomfortable lack of answer,
sewn seeds of doubt
rising neck hair from toxic green eyes
as teeth are bared in defence.
I am a wealth of chaos;
the first raindrop to condense
and last breath over crackled lips,
in vast, complex patterns,
the whisper of shockwave destruction
creating a chain reaction star birth.
An ambush of strength;
the refusal to give up, kneel or surrender
despite beatings and promises of execution,
stubborn tugs of war
breaking frayed ropes,
a falcon's uncertainly spread wings
in the halted plummet of her first flight.
I am a frustration of absurdity;
hyperactive hysteria bursting seems
and sudden uncontrolled laug
train station souvenirsthe vibrations of the train rumble below me;
the clatter of my teacup on the table creates
an urban symphony that curls through the air,
igniting a flare of nostalgia inside my brain.
it wraps its dark tentacles around my frontal
cortex, pulling me deeper into the distant past
as the train bears me farther into my future.
Blank CanvasesThere are canvases whose depths
cannot be observed in a lifetime.
His room has a glide he cannot see.
The clouds sauntering across the blue,
a slow and steady turn of the world
as the tint drains from his walls,
leaves arcs of shadows in its place,
rising and falling--
the world and its elusive brushes;
so tender the application,
the ebb of tides, and tidal waves,
the people he meets.
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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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