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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
Patience, My LoveThe humidity weighs on me like a cloak meant not to protect, but to smother me. I feel my body perspire and an uncomfortable droplet of sweat starts in my cleavage. I was not created to thrive in this weather. I am a delicate creature of the winter, fall, and night. With the aid of baseball caps and umbrellas, I shy away from the sun .
Tapping my foot to a beat that continuously evades my grasp, I wait for her. She is always late. Actually, we both have a tendency to show up later than planned, but she-- she shows up egregiously late. Apologies fly from her mouth like an eagle at at American pride parade and I, being the forgiving person that I am, graciously wave off her apologies and grab her hand in mine as a silent way to say, "My love, it's okay."
However, her lateness feels peculiar today. An hour passes and my vision is yet to be filled by the beautiful girl I call my girlfriend. Slowly, a memory invades my senses. The memory replays before my eyes, pounds my ears, and coats my
Cars and the Concrete They LoveWhen most ponder the relationship between concrete and cars, thoughts concerning the smoothness of the road against their new tires, yet-to-be-reached destinations, and dull stretches of driving dance around the mind. However, most never bother to consider the deeper connection – and disconnection – cars and concrete have to one another and society.
Cars and concrete represent similar parts of the modern human experience. Both hold distinct memories of one’s childhood and show the markings of civilization. As children grow into disillusioned adults, they reminisce about the times they played hop-scotch on the edge of the concrete slab used as the playground basketball court. They almost can feel the tearing of their flesh and the tears blurring their vision the first time they fell on the rough, unforgiving material without protection. They recall the first time they stood near a road and amused themselves with the glint of the concrete-asphalt. Concrete holds a colle
The Edge and the Immobile CatcherHer lips were so cracked and bloodied, they looked as if she had attempted to carve every negative self-commentary she had ever thought into the crevices of her thin, pink lips. Her face -- florescent pale and glue quality pasty -- hadn't seen the sun since Microsoft has seen innovation. She had been reduced down to nothing but the clothes that loosely draped over her back and the sickly thoughts that dragged themselves through her mind. She wanted nothing more to do with herself. She wanted to pull her brain out of her skull and place it in a jar next to her heart and spirit. To never think again meant tranquility. No more disturbances from the demons that ran amok in her veins. No more thoughts or whispers of an indelicate, blade-equipped word. Her soul was made of the thinnest of paper soaked in the most polluted of water. She had nothing to offer the world except a dim sense of self and utter disillusionment. The black-and-white world advertised to her as a child turned out to be
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
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,
The Most Selfish Poem I've Ever WrittenPlease be
Just half as broken
Please just once
Have a problem so big
All you can do
Is cry it into my chest
Please let me
Stroke your hair
Til you’re calm
Like every single time
You’ve stroked mine
Please can you
Just be so hurt
That you need me
A Dying BreedI am--
Not an artist.
A writer, a mediocre one at that.
Not an artist.
I don't know what to do.
I'm a writer.
On an artist website.
It took years to get my niche.
And that niche is still small.
I don't belong, do I?
Another day of second guessing myself.
Another day of not measuring up to standards.
Empty the gallery.
Empty my mind.
Keep what's recent.
It'll be trashed just the same.
Nothing measures up.
A waste of space.
No one reads anymore, anyway.
A dying practice.
A dying... art.
I'm a writer.
Not an artist.
I paint with words.
Not with a brush.
No one reads anymore.
They look at pretty things.
Let others craft their imagination for them.
I am a writer.
A dying breed.
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!
^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