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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
Eternali. In psychology, association is defined as a connection of ideas, memories or feelings between each other or events.
Melissa once had birds in her feet.
She knows it because they were stolen. All she has left are the brittle bones and marks that might have been left by feathers, light as a dove’s trace. It’s painful. It makes it hard to walk, and she’s always walking.
When The Others took over the city, people like Melissa suffered greatly. People who had pretty birds and other things to lose. But now The Others have lost control to bandits and fledgling rogue groups. The rest of the citizens are just drifting. There’s no government, no power, no clamp to grip the city and squeeze productivity out of it like a dying machine.
So Melissa walks. She trails along the sides of the streets where girls like her could never walk before, smiling in the open sunlight but never forgetting her mission. She walks to track down the thieves who wronged her. She
paint until there's only positive spaceI am the street artist; rough clothes and thin visage
you are the city, vivacious and loud.
Night after night, I find myself in dark places
spraying colours on your faces just to talk to you.
Have you ever tagged a train?
The art I envy is like you –
making waves at night to leave the landscape brighter in the day.
You are the cause I just want to connect with:
fresh, something different, something new.
Hotline The kettle was boiling the first time I called you. It was strange to hear that sound;
a cold house stirring out of hibernation with the tiniest of actions,
small activities taking hold.
I didn’t think the phone would work. Or that my hands would know the number. I didn’t think you’d answer, but you did.
You spoke to me about large things
responsibility and Ferris wheels and distant nebulas
you spoke to me about small things
garden mice and sub-atomic particles and how many spoonfuls of sugar you take with your tea.
I spoke to you about things sometimes
calories and the side-effects of capitalist ideologies
sharpeners with the screws lying on the table and the blades nowhere to be found
about people with so much to say that they talk in their sleep
and how I was never one of them.
Each time that I called you we spoke about new things
I was surprised at the number of conversation topics people can find in a day
I spoke to you about picking mulberries and I laughed when
last night (speeding onwards)The stars screamed last night, and your hair
your hair was ablaze in the last shreds of sun,
extinguished by the globe's reckless spin as I accelerated
the gears never faltering
summer down here is approaching so fast.
I don’t care for costumes but when you discard them
my heart tears out a rhythm to put tom-toms to shame
you pulled your hair back over your kerosene shoulder
and tore off whatever lace-thing caught your interest this year.
I think I forgot what it means to October,
I don’t think that’s even a verb, I don’t care
summer down here is approaching like cyclones
bad things and good things obscured by your gaze and
I want you to scare me
say you love me and scare me
cut the breaks from the engine and honestly scare me
your candour is like summer; inescapable, ruthless
last night the stars were all screaming your name.
Death of a Noodle (Everybody Tells Me What to Do)I click through web pages on my computer. I’m having a little Internet Time. I spot something that catches my interest. I smile. I click it. The title reads How to Be a Writer. Beneath it there’s a list of instructions. How fascinating. I read on.
1. Go to the beach
2. Lick your friend’s eyelashes
3. Make pee-pee in a pot plant
I scowl and close the tab. Surely these things won’t make me a writer? Sighing, I begin a search for something more practical. I type away.
A link appears before me. It’s a little thing sitting on the left side of the page. I hold my cursor near it indecisively. How to Be a Poet. I click.
1. Drench yourself in anxiety
2. Seriously, drench yourself
3. You’ve gotta do some sports-drink-advertisement worthy drenching right here
4. Also bathe yourself in woe
I scroll through the list, getting more and more desperate. Where is the part about writing actual poetry? My heart is racing. I feel the
In a world where there are bats and OctobersIt’s after five p.m., I haven’t had caffeine since midday, and talking to strangers is as appealing as swallowing warts.
It’s early October and the evening sky is alight with orange. It’s the kind of orange that tells tales of the bushfire season roaring into life; the kind of orange you can smell. I shift on the bench at the bus stop, hoping to evade what I can of the conversation that the guy beside me has struck up like a match.
“You were born on Halloween?” he asks, gawking as if it’s some incredible thing. I shouldn’t have told him. It’s a deep dark secret, that.
“Yeah.” My bus should be here soon. I stare down the road.
“And you look like a pumpkin!” He slaps his knee. “That’s, what. That’s serendipity. Yeah.”
It’s not serendipity. I don’t even slightly resemble a pumpkin. I glance at him and smile. Smiling scares people sometimes. I should know. I do it a lot.
In another tongue, in a far-off townSometimes I dream that we met in a place
where sadness was a foreign language
where you couldn’t understand the words I whispered in your ear.
Where I couldn’t taste it like molasses on your tongue or read it in your smudging script,
see it painted on your face or feel it, warm between your thighs.
Sometimes I dream that I met you in some other fashion, stumbling over unfamiliar lines
but not here. Not here.
You call meYou call me a freak
I say I'm unique
You call me crazy
I say sanity is overrated
You call me a sissy
I say I'm sensitive
And proud of it
You call me depressed
I say it's true
But I'm not ashamed of it
Five AMPre-dawn darkness again, seething, quiet
A monster hugging the city
How heavy, how suffocating it is
The clock has run down on time for dreaming
A void between night and morning
Ready to swallow everything up
A time for old men's reflections
On love, and loss, and sorrow
Oppressive black sky, you eat everything
But the all-night diner
Where lonely old men sit
Drinking coffee at five AM
QuicksandYou trapped me
Dragged me below the surface
And held me there
You chained me
Put brass around my ankles
And left me struggling
You broke me
Beat me with whips made of hate
And hurt me more
You changed me
Made me who you wanted
And killed me inside
You hid me
Stole me away from the light
And made me blind
You crushed me
Blew my dust in the wind
And danced on my grave
surrounding my body
And now I'm twenty feet under
With no chance of being saved
From Your 'Secret' AdmirerHeaven,
this is not a love letter
I will swear to God,
with a halo on my head
and a hole in my heart.
But the fact is I revere you
more than I have any right to.
After all, we are nothing except
who have awkward conversations.
So why is it that every time the line
falls silent I panic, worrying that your shadow
will make my efforts nothing but a distant memory,
when every word you speak strongly marks my mind?
Simple: I fear having something to lose
and losing the nothing I have. You are a
treasure to me, and this note becomes my confession.
Sincerely- I typed this, but I'm sure you'll recognize the handwriting.
give me a challenge, give me you.i have grown
the blood in my veins
have become more
than plasma, and i
am now trapped
within my own hollowed-out
this haze of
has to be transitory--
i can't let it be anything
Death, Judgment, RebirthLast Time in the ICU
Shadow rats, beady red eyes focused hungrily
Stay still too long and they’ll swarm
Sharp little teeth rending flesh
They know the sick and weak
They can wait
Tenth floor ICU, down with the disease again
He’s resting quietly, the nurse says
She looks like a huge black rat
Does she know what’s happening?
Closing the door
She walks away
Sweet childhood dreams are interrupted
Rats gnawing away at the edges
Toothy little kisses all over
Cleaning, cleansing scurry
Down to the bone
Sentenced to Live
Firelight, poker-faced patchwork man reading aloud
An old but vaguely familiar tome, his tone is somber
Was I one of the wicked? Weren’t we all?
Who can say that they were good?
Sentenced to live yet another life
I cry; I’ve had enough living
I want to sleep forever, leave my shell behind
To crumble to dust, useless, I won’t need it
Every door opens to the same world
Is this hell, then? The onl
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutter
I have failed you,
for you were not forged
to be so insubstantial as that
You were writ
to be an epic fable
of endings ignored,
of outlasting your body
through the sheer will
of a writers starving heart
through a broken, bowed
but bravely abiding body
that fights the soul
to comprehend Beauty.
are winter fire
that warms my body,
that stokes my heart.
is velvet gloss
through my hair,
under my shirt.
is silk screen
beneath my fingertips,
between my lips.
moves like ocean water,
washes over me,
floods every inch of me.
clinging to your cheeks,
puddling the pillow,
caught inside my kiss.
palm to palm with mine,
soft and breathy in my ear,
loud and gasping
against my mouth.
pressing against mine,
rising to meet me,
applauding in rhythm.
grasping at my shoulders,
sliding down my chest,
clinging to my skin.
squeezing me tightly.
arching up to me,
tilting back your chin,
pressing us so close.
undulating in excitement,
trembling in joy,
shivering with delight.
echoing inside my head,
calling out to the universe,
telling me everything.
tender and delicate,
~days eat days
like I eat potato chips
on a couch whose
springs have thrown out
their backs no longer able
to hold even the remote up.
it sinks between the seats like
I do every lonely saturday night
or every evening I can’t quite
make it to bed, cupped with
similar back problems,
a similar sag.
I’ve begun to
take after my furniture.
"the only unattractive curve,"
a girl once said to me with a few
desirable curves herself,
"is the one a person develops
in their back.”
we dated for a month and
she called me her
hunchback of notre dome
(it’s dame, babe.)
and I called her beautiful.
and nothing else.
but somehow her leaving did nothing
to straighten my bent back but
only managed to deepen
my parenthetical stance on
those who love me
(they don’t exist).
December 21stHands held tight
While the earth takes flight,
Steep plunge and scarring red
Choking flames and acid sky
Clouded by salt tears
Last loving smile
Before the abyss eats us whole.
Champagne laughter, whirlwind music, collective happy sigh
Stoke the embers
Mark the year
And breathing starts again.
I wish the world would end.
Twenty-three years before the crippling of Crown Prince James III
He was fourteen and she was probably aged about the same, give or take a few years. It had been an hour since he'd met her.
He hated her already.
She scowled behind him and likely shared the sentiment as they scampered up the hillside in a desperate attempt to escape the roaring mob that seemed to be growing perpetually larger and coming ever-closer. Gabriel would have liked to say that it was all her fault he was in this situation, though it was his careless nicking ofwhat was it? A chicken that started the first old woman running, but how was he supposed to know that she'd stumble and fall and everyone else would think he'd assaulted her?
He hadn't. He'd taken the chicken, snapped its neck and run, because he hadn't eaten meat in weeks and he was starting to feel the affects on his already weak limbs.
This is what happens, he thought. This is what happens when you live like th
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^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