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Jamais VuI lie awake on the center
Of my floor, drawing
Little pictures of you
In the dew of my breath.
Thinking of when I
Pulled apart your
Stained my fingers on
Your rib cage.
I had painted you
A mural, and written
Endless pages of
Your name, repeating
Over and over.
All the way down,
Until it was so dark
That I couldn’t see
Your body fall away.
The Hypnic JerkI want to sleep,
But keep tripping over
The catching gears
In my head.
Things that haven't
Yet taken place.
Of your goose flesh -
The hairs rising
On the back of your neck,
Or the sound of
You saying you love me.
Dating is a Crapshoot"How very droll,"
He said, with his
Dangling cigarette unlit,
And precariously perched
At the edge of his smirk.
I said, "Is why
"I don't date."
What a Curse, to Ache the Way That I Do.There is another,
And now your tentative
Delicate phrasing, and
Quiet fidgeting seem
Like a foolish, love-ached
Of what could have been.
When I think of her,
Of a pair of porcelain bodies;
I picture my opposite.
Alabaster in the moonlight -
Long, yellow locks that
Wrap like silk around
Your cracking knuckles.
And all of her skin new,
Lacking the little rivers
Of tendons stretched, and
Bursting in a feverish want.
A delicate china doll
Blinking coyly, and oblivious
To the marks I made
When I crashed through on
My clumsy, cloven hooves.
I bet she is beautiful,
And I hope only that
You don't think of me
When she sighs your name.
As I RememberedYou are still beautiful.
A chance meeting -
The street dark, and
Your face as I remembered.
"I was thinking of you,"
Almost escaped me, but
(as I always did too much,)
And instead talked of
How happy I feel, and
Why running might not be the answer.
And your face, as I remembered
Your support, a passing comment.
But I noticed a fleeting moment,
A flash of either doubt or guilt,
And if only I could speak as
Plainly as I do with those who
Mean little to nothing
When paired to you.
I could know if it was me,
Or the things you did
That haunt you.
She paints her own face
With a steady hand,
And she only shakes
When the drink runs
Down, and her throat
Is dry and gasping.
What a sad, and dirty
Young child she was.
Where, they asked,
Are your parents, and
Who will you be
Without them to tell you?
Growing up, and
Growing old are the same
When left to your own
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, with nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More