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Where I StandI am not a vagrant of society,
Rather a mobile observer of my surroundings.
I write, I listen
I learn, I write
What crosses my heart is the written word.
How else am I to be
For I am a learner, an art admirer
An appreciator of even the dark
That knows everything
Has words wired to its heart.
I hate that some slam their eyelids
And sew them close
To all the mystery of the world.
Our differences are at best to be appreciated
And at least to be tolerated.
I despise the feeling I get from social interaction
A sense of constant judgment,
I have social anxiety,
But despite myself,
I still try
Which causes strain
Which in turn causes stress
Which inevitably causes a breakdown every month or so . . .
There are worst things.
Like intolerance and senselessness.
Like lack of empathy for the other side.
Like too much apathy for even your side.
Those are the worst things.
What I adore is the love of someone
Who I admire
Or who I love back.
I adore the look on som
LayeredFrequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.
Her name has a backbone.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.
The name does not match the face.
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.
She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.
As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.
That ping-pong love.
I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.
Two shots of blackened caffeine
To harden my veins 'til I have no choice
But to stand upright with stand-still eyelids.
The one stop shop to no stop;
The Jazz Age in a Styrofoam cup;
Fitzgerald's active displeasure
Sprinkled as a galaxy swirl
On top of a white cloud,
Flavorful enough to inspire.
I awoke somewhat alive,
But now I'm lively dead.
Refill me again and again
Until I tremble and shake so much
I see beyond my imagined infinity.
Keeping DiggingWe work on dim comforting nights,
Kissing the cufflinks of the radiant moon
Until it throws us a moonbeam as a striking
Our mouths secrete acidic saliva
After years of our tongues massaging
The slick back of chewing tobacco.
Dirt particles crowd into our noses,
Seducing our sinuses
To create a family reunion for them.
They wanna stick like glue to one another.
Be like we-always-get-along brothers.
These brothers got some sharp skin lovers
And when they make love,
They tear the bed to bloodied shreds
And we feel the red stream into our mouths.
The moon snorts at us—
An obvious attempt to arise envy—
And it works.
We drop our tools
And we show our technique:
Seal the mouth,
Force the air,
Blow the sockets out.
We’re too blue collar to snort,
And just poor enough to fume,
So the brother’s reunion orgy
Ended with a splat in the moon’s living-room.
Until the shifting of our shovels
Start to dig into our dreams
The FearFingers grasping at the wind as the car speeds down the road,
Grazing the invisible evidence of nature and human destruction
With the crackling stems of her hand.
Perhaps she wasn't getting enough calcium to foster quiet bones
That didn't creak when flexed or yawn when still wide awake.
She feared one day her hands will mimic a recent ancestor's:
Arthritis crippling her crackling bones and twisting them,
Taking away her ability to tap away time.
What else she fears is a careless driver with tunnel-vision:
The only sight ahead is the destination
And all else is an obsolete obstacle meant to be in rear-view.
These drivers would stretch their arms across sanctioned lines!
They would break human capability to whisk away another road warrior
Because we humans are known for deadly competitiveness
In honor of our fool-ridden obsession with brevity.
While her hand continues to graze the long whistle of Mother Nature,
She fears of the grime steadily converging on her hand.
The pollution and abs
A Different Kind of AffairThey never knew the implication of their meeting
Perhaps her mistress never knew what waved before them.
Perhaps the bride never cared to tell her.
They fell in love in a flippant November.
The fall never getting quite cold enough
And the deciduous forests never giving away enough beauty.
Emotions creep and surprise
When the weather questions its own state of being,
So when that day arrived
The bride felt her heart shriek in astoundment.
The bride awoke to find the taste of love
Lingering, soaking her tongue.
She then realized that she was, in fact, an adulteress.
Her genderless, suffocating, comforting spouse already knew.
A beam of sunlight in their gray sky?
How could it be?
Who took a piece of Its bride's heart
From the grip of Its limp hands?
Who lightened the burden It placed on her heart?
It whimpered, knowing some breath from someone
Was being kissed into bride's body
To ease the damage of the years long marriage.
But still, It lingered around
Much to the indifference
Skin.I love the way life leaves its mark on our bodies.
Every laugh and smile etched in the crinkles around your eyes and mouth;
Those tan-lines the time you forgot about sunscreen
Because you were so hell-bent on reaching that mountain peak
Or when you just became lost in the gentle lap of waves at the shore;
The scars you got skateboarding in the park at summer dusk
Or when life became pain and it was your only release.
Our bodies are a record of our memories and experiences
They are our travel journals and emotional diaries
Our delicate armour to the elements.
And no matter its colour, its stature, if it's not quite intact
If you sometimes think it takes up too much space, or if it has pointy corners
Your body is the vessel for your soul, and every wonderful facet of who you are
Sparkles from the surface of your skin.
Skin that may grow to be wrinkled, tanned, scarred, well lived-in
Although not always embraced by you the way that others embrace it.
Take the time to explore the s
Mystic FlowMystic Flow
a secret and a promise.
All I have to do
is follow the river.
The human condition of wanting to be everythingI feel as though I am exhausting
The excess skin around
in loose shadows
Across my cheekbones like
And whilst I find myself
To draw open the blinds
Because the light
is too bright
And I really can’t handle
The pane of the sky
With its obnoxious
glaring at me
With such a joyful expression
I know that lately
I am burning myself out
That I consume one too many
Cans of soda and energy drinks
At 2.45 AM
When the rest of the world
Is static in a hushed
Whilst I frantically try
To achieve something
Is too much
Or rather too
An existence for me
So I will continue
In order to
Try and destroy myself
Enough so that
I can be w h o l e
ένα μυστικό και μια υπόσχεση.
Το μόνο που έχω να κάνω
είναι να ακολουθήσω το ποτάμι.
The scarsLife hurts us
It causes us to bleed
Time can heal the wounds
And stop the pain
But the scars remain
For the rest of our lives....
To the BeautifulYou say we're beautiful,
Us who have been bullied...
But where were you while it was happening?
-I was watching-
You who say "This has to stop!",
There needs to be an end to this...
What are you doing to stop it?
-I did nothing-
It's too late now...
-I failed you-
things i don't rememberi.
what you sounded like
as my ears were forming
what dreams or secrets
you confided in me
what pressures sunk
your proud shoulders
or the first time
i caused you
where i was when i decided
that your footsteps
should be followed
that your ideals
should be made my own
on my body
as i learned the world's ways
do not align
with our hopes
when i first
how my feet dangled
every time i wasn't strong enough and
how you made the world
how you were
figuring it all out
thought that life
All of the One LightIt's all for the love
(Which is all for the show).
The quiet thrill of the hunt for thought
Bites off my tangled tongue.
All fluttering eyes to the front
As my body trimmers from behind their vision.
Who's handling the supervision of
Whatever and whomever to call my mind?
The lips of my young mouth
Already engraved with the deep scratches of time.
Words drift the cracks
Only to be damned before they soar into light.
My weakness is no source of pondering pride.
I would hang my head
But the ice of the theater bulb
Stiffens my brittle bones
Strictly to face my judgment-day north.
"Go forth with the onward march!"
They shriek and they prod.
I hear the echoing slam of the tick of the tock.
I stand right there and shatter on the spot.
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