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Kink.I need a girl to sleep with
and play heavy on a bed frame,
to lick around the edges,
but never quite dive in.
I need a girl to keep her name,
and give me one that's fake,
and to go a little harder,
when I shout it out in bed.
I need a girl with deep eyes,
and a body and a mind,
to never say she loves me
and we'll get along
There is Always TimeI want you to be my Judas,
my plague; my hollow wind.
I want your subtle madness
inked upon roads; dragged upon skin.
I want such haunted beauty,
it aspires; it transcends,
the forms we lay in open ground,
shallow graves; plots of men.
I want such bloody love,
such devastation; such devotion,
to never regret the cogs we turned in life,
that we designed; we set in motion.
Finally, I want a tortured soul,
to repair; to piece together,
to tread upon a lake of fire that never quells;
that flows and burns
Church MouthI am as advantageous as a wishing well,
as stoic as a dream in Hell;
festered up with love and metal faces,
an aspiring child's hope and silver pieces,
but though they bar themselves from speaking secrets
I will always let them down.
My lost affection was chained to an angel disguised;
A prophet who fell from an open, hallowed sky
remaining upon the beach in throes with the swells,
her heart beating in time with those majestic bells,
and from out her lips, spinning stories, she tells
Long she stayed on the blazing, sand knolls
speaking sometimes in old, stone, cathedral tones,
and I asked her on what principle an aerial could decide
to fall from the gates; to deviate from the divine?
And that fleeting Seraph looked me dead in the eye,
Lying - she said she didn't know.
It always smelled of sugar plums,
long run-on days; skin cancer from the sun.
We spent years inside the ocean's salty touch,
and when the sea became too rough
we climbed the shores, covered up,
and she sang di
Bound Up TightI often feel like candle wax; like water treading in a lake.
I am the pumping, noxious heart of all empty things
carrying time and dwelling in the folds of its constant flow
and in that I exist, but barely.
Ink is my brooding malice and paper my dying mirth
and at times they whisper to fill one up with bad poetry
and malformed verse.
Tonight, they say,
I am vicarious coffin weight,
decaying social grace,
and the lungs of a monster, breathing shallow
just before it screams.
True ValentineShe said, you
to take me out
or dress up.
If you want to know
I'm okay with sand dollars
and ocean tides, and sweating
sunscreen off bodies.
I prefer long rains though,
quick feet from the car
to the door, and umbrellas
with funny designs.
I long for secrets,
and fresh breath conversation.
Sexy whispers in the bedroom
inside blanket forts,
and just a little love
before we fall asleep.
That's all I'll ever need.
Fun Lovin'We can sleep together you know,
we can tie our bodies up tight.
Lace them up like twine,
with twine even,
if you want.
Just lay your body down,
trust me, if you can.
Let us be
a bouncing silhouette
Growing UpThe woods are gone now. Decimated and paved to winding roads and large homes adorned with grotesques on pedestals in the front of reaching driveways. But at one time, it was, and in my memory, still succeeds to be, a home where brush and trees swooned and it keeps within the overhanging branches around it's perimeter, fiercely, a portion of my still beating heart.
I used to walk there with my grandparents, and my Father, I'm told, used to roam the trail between here and there with his friends. We built forts, all of us, out of fallen wood and open oak hollows, and sometimes boards from the community when they could be found, though all at different times, but always in our youth, over decades and generations. So I guess, at least in a way, I am not alone in saying that it meant something when the skin of them were marked with red, prevalent x's, to be cut down and destroyed.
For me, it holds a special place, and I'll retell it thusly, and maybe with a little thought and sensibility, so
Spirit ConstructionI crawled from out the ether
to a home in medieval mortar
and tragic, Roman Vestals praying;
daring darkness 'round a hearth.
A long and voiceless elegy
carried me far into perdition,
as I gazed upon the firestones,
and they dug me down to death.
Beyond the thread accosted,
dreaming through an ivory gate,
I saw the terror of the Vestibule,
the despairing plight of my ghost-to-be.
I lifted off my knees,
removed the religion from my soul,
and walked, and walked, and walked,
on a trail of asphodels; straight into a wood.
Enchanted in fractured moon-glow,
Artemis cracked the birch to speak,
called a sleeping thrush to hum,
and moved the wind to thrumming chords.
All became a lulling hymn,
singing softly "Child, life
is over quickly - don't forget
the beauty in it."
And I, imparted with these words,
lay down on earth to rest - swearing,
for every mortal hour blessed upon me,
I would try to live a mortal day.
Romance in MetaphorAs we sat in silence, child small,
we made shadow puppets on the wall;
and with our right hands, fingers arched,
good lord! We made a heart.
But as soon as our fingers touched,
as though preconceived, all at once,
our hands gave a jerking start;
and we each tore it half apart.
So many times it's come undone
and I've fought for love and hardly won,
but it's never, ever been much fun,
at least not half as much as breaking fingers
on a wall,
sitting in a silent hallway,
Haunted...A girl is walking in the empty corridor, but something is wrong. She walks a little too fast, she's a little too hesitated. It's making her stumble, making her jump away from something you wont see. Almost as if she's haunted.
A shadow strikes by. A glance of a stranger she once knew everything about. She closes her eyes, walking faster, trying to escape, trying to get out of here. But it's all in her head you see, it's all just for her, almost as if she's haunted.
Voices, laughter, a secret promise so filled with love, she can hear it all far too well. But it's only a little girl, so defenseless, so scared, in this empty corridor. Alone but still with the presence of something, almost as if she's haunted.
But then the feeling of a hug hits her. It hits her hard, she has to run. Few steps in panic. A few steps before she collapses on the floor, no one is there, no one is near. Only the memory of something which used to bring such joy, such peace. Now it only brings pain, pain 'cause it
(c)loves and (c)loversi am no artist's muse,
i am no ship's harbor
i am no hero's weaker heel,
i am no good earth's flower
i have never been your lover
nor have i ever kissed you,
- not even once
though i dream of you (c)love-scented,
with lips shaped like a lucky (c)lover's-
kissing you and to be kissed by you
i can never profess,
not even confess
even to myself
i stay standing, (b)raving the cold nights,
pretty much batty and bootless
the absence of you weighs metric tons on my
shivering nape, and
you dam(n) me with
you are my river's boulder,
and undefined border
DarkcityYou cannot look directly at the ocean
Because the ocean has become the sun:
and it has been three long days
of rubbing you from my eyes like sleep,
the sky until it turns Kahuna blue
but it is only for the voice that's heard behind closed doors,
that we pretend we cannot hear
the things which cannot keep her eyes
from raking shores- to meet
the current strong enough to shift
the space between the islands-
so it is easier to read between the lines,
and harder through you. )
I am almost
too weak for capitals
the certainty of punctuation... is it
because i do not wish for strength
that your pupils widen to transmute
the sound of the highway into current?... i am
certain of nothing except
that you are not .
Are you afraid
to be alive? Will you not
move together the continents with
your convulsions at the ocean floor? Are you
afraid of running out
(We will uncover the finale on the fringe of our stiff fingers,
stored in the clammy fumble for the keys; the way the wind will
what it waswe weren't meant to die together,
but rather be invited into waiting benches
under trees sprawled sweetly as
the weather warms
in love unaccounted for
I found you were off by seconds, miniscule
and uncanny, luminescent like green fireflies
outsinging fireworks in summer's faint allure
the ghost between two lights.
We listened but summer never had it,
never knew the way to your house,
never knew the thrill of
being near you.
saveiii. so you said,
"let's swallow the world. if it's inside of us, it can't hurt us."
i looked into your mahogany eyes and snorted.
"you really do like the illsuion of control, don't you?"
"well," you snapped back, "at least it won't leave scars."
"okay, i'm sorry i laughed," i replied. "but let me assure you that the scars you can see don't hurt nearly as much as the ones you never will, the ones deeply embedded into the inside of my flesh that can't seem to find their way out."
you shook your head and smiled.
"don't worry," you assured me, "soon you'll never have to hurt again."
"you have no idea what you're doing!" i yelled, but you didn't listen. you never did.
i watched, mesmerized, as you quantified the entire world, dividing it into solids and liquids. hatred, savannas, novels, people, those were all solids; oceans, vodka, blood, happiness, those were all liquids. you worked tirelessly for weeks on end, and whenever anyone asked you what you were doing, you told them
She Doesn't KnowShe doesn't know
that her name actually sounds like music to my ears;
that the way she flicks her cigarettes makes me love her more.
She doesn't know
that I love when she falls asleep midsentence,
or that my new tattoo will always remind me of her.
She doesn't know
that the 5 short weeks we spent together changed my life forever
and that I meant it when I said that I'd never been happier.
But I want her to know all those things.
I want her to know
that no one can ever replace her.
I want her to know
that I still love her so much it hurts.
I want her to know
that, whether I like it or not, I get why she can't be with me right now.
I want her to know
that we're the exception that we can make it work.
But mostly I want her to know
that I want her back.
Painting ThunderstormsI will remember you in flowers, dead and never given.
We are broken promises and shattered glass.
In your traitorous arms,
I wish I'd never closed my eyes,
You are like all good headaches
in that, you will fade away,
In painkillers and flowers on a grave.
Something Like DecadenceSomething Like Decadence
Last night I dreamt of buttons
I was a man with harmonica lips
you were the number six
[six] cracks down your broken spine
I swam in Atlantis
and pulled the scales off the tender fish
I plucked them like feathers
one by one so I could hear each of them scream
I was watching the dirt collect under my fingernails
telling them thanks for the memories
but I was never one for lying
Last night I didn't dream of buttons
I dreamt of acid on cold pavement
I was a man with love-handle-hips
you were the number nine
[nine] cracks no, bullets through my spine,
through my heart
I was drowning
I was running
I was flying
and I was plucking feathers off the
PromiseOne day darling,
I'll paint you a picture
of the house you'll grow old
in, with flowers that grow
from its ears, a bright warrior
brave arriving at the front
door beating her chest.
We'll pour the sad
away, fill the space with
baby-songs and pot roasts, thoughts
of old loves in Cuba,
sleepy hands that smoothe away
the cracks in Paradise. Angel,
let me paint in your life,
the hazel stretch between
today and tomorrow
and the colours will run together
madly, make you swallow your cries
After The Last Written Word, There Is A FlyleafIt comes then; those black wings beating
and that wicked thing breathing hard
like a bloated child in a fog;
Like a ballooning bullfrog in a thicket
in and out.
Not as loud as death ought to be, I thought
but then again,
in moonlight everything seems like velvet vines;
like a lover's skinny fingers growing out of the ground -
The wretch will name me then
aloud from a book bound with paper skin,
and in it's time will weigh my sin; and I will wonder
if my dreams are added up against that weight -
or if the rest of me ever
meant anything at all.
It will raise my head to a gold sky,
and on the course I raise and pass
heavenly eyes that know my time is up;
the ticking of my clock has resigned.
deo volente consummatum est
It is finished.
Among that blessed harmony
God's hands I abandon;
remove a testament to prowess,
take the burden we all journey towards
since we stepped out the Garden's gate.
Upon a cloud in paradise, I attest
"I am Lazaru
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