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Reversed Singularity? but of time, i do digress
& my intentions have been writ
in sumerian, and dreamt; but
here to live obsolete:
swift swing, precarious pang
with my heart's guiltless intention
--fingernails scratch & fit
your name; tasting still
succulence, feeling still
tyranny of will, being still
drowned cortex-deep, hearing still
--the wisp of a faltered laughter
sheltered & swaying & playing
amongst the dead, the horned
honoured and torn, formed
long and forlorn'd--
oh time, my bittersweet demise
dying is no longer a sacred art
and is sincerity in its purest form
cloaked with fault & artless bourne
upon leaving edensend me far away to where
the sun shines silver like broken
mirrors and wild things wander
through the night; places with
funny names and maps etched
from tree bark & lichened stones
that line up end to end for miles:
where truth is a birthmark that
scars us by, upon the coast
glass of wine- toast to the rising
moon sublime. dreams are in third
person, cupped by the creak of
wild woods that whistle, and teach
us what it means to be alive.
come, nestle up against cedared
fantasy & watch the birds fly south
for the winter, hoping for something
other than white sand & buried treasure.
save all our tragic souls from becoming
what we should have- speak now or
forever hold insecurity like a spark in
the eye of god, and wish upon things
more infinite than a star.
like the fell of spring, bursting with the
coloured dawn of wind; like the rooted
soil we sing, the return of our ghosts
to self aerifying. to the slight of clayed
fingers reaching, deemed to be teaching
celestial crossovers & the
white speechi. street turns young with stilted rain; thought
fresh-cut flesh seeking tastes of dawn’s breath-
god reverse-engineers the derisive of life.
ii. transplendent, wreckless
pith of light undone- re-masked & matched
to fit the carriage of indolent strivers.
iii. query the grey: starve the harbingers,
foreshadow the curl thirstily. uncover inane sentiments of
dying girl. restate. restate syncopation of the divine average
of morning wandering.
iv. account for syrinx, beautiful suppression. taut,
the accurate portals of hurt boy eyes and traveling youth proclaims
v. riant re-birth.
intuitive flight aches prismatic.
into a briefpoverty is the servitude of love, he says.
atlantic whispers to a time where this citied-desert
settled to dismantle the sun in a pair of eyes, fashioned oratory
and absolute- unhinged the moon to conquer its inheritance on a world
aching prismatic, dark and precise. these twinned sky-eyes breathed
the softly hushed airborne lament of a divine girl; sold the orphans of gale in his chest
to uplift the quietude of earth’s linear back, and weaved silver lining dreaming
to coiled smoke-breath, renting vacancies to stars unfurling
by her timely pacific death.
unsexed eleven consenting months, gentled the rough lining
of your spinal-coast chord and set sail on solarly winds birthed pragmatic.
our seaworthiness empties truth in fistfuls. the autistic dark of your eyelids
curtain the blink of settling dusk. thunder cries to stricken gravity, shocked stark:
i wonder when the youth of you proclaimed itself meek with unwary.
to the person who decided to be my lover for 12mo.we keep saying the same things to each other.
"i want to eat your heart out".
and you have, i swear you have. you used the sharpest tool you could find and made careful, delicate incisions on my heartstrings. plucked each chord with meek fingers just to hear the tune my throat would draw out in ostracized agony, licked the wounds to see how much further they'd swell with tongued distaste.
but i'm a forgiving person, and you know this. you hate this about me. hate that i've allowed countless hands and lips do just the same. hate that my forgiveness lies with the course of a profound universe known to suffocate time that we feel so damned entitled to not give. hate my sincerity, my hope, that i let seep to streamline serendipity. you hate me because you call all of this absolute tragedy.
i cannot hold another being accountable for their actions. i am not god, i am not the universe, i am not earth. i mourn, i am saddened, i ache for these people but how can i mistre
You Old Bastardto me he was the opposite of love,
but that was okay. i was seventeen
and loud-mouthed, he was older,
drove his car like a bully,
made my skin cry -- you, the stoic father
that hated me, my nervous laugh, my lipstick
wrapped around too many cigarettes,
the body unapologetic.
i don't miss your son
or his face or his cruelty
but today a woman stared
at the bites on my neck and
i thought of you,
you old bastard.
so i hope there is a new girl now
wearing leopard-print on your Sundays
who sits in my chair, tells dirty jokes and takes
a drag, exhales --
blowing smoke, all over your lasagna
and all over your
vampires of the modern citydaytrading,
with your hands around my throat,
i stood at the door
we were always behind each other
and i didn’t have the guts
to push myself over the threshold,
so you took my waist,
and did it for me.
in the modern city,
the cars speed down streets
with one-way tickets to everywhere
streaming from their exhaust pipes.
the buzzing is in
the college campuses,
the sparkling water
flowing between your teeth
in the form of your words,
the confidence of your diction
that i had always admired,
and now my grey voice conveys the dissonance between us
but it is not unwelcome.
the nightlife has begun:
we drink wine made
from the grapes the grow around the fountain of youth.
our teeth are red
with the hot blood
that fills our throats,
and we are alive.
your girl and your songs and your
fast car are now and they are
and i am on the runway,
just lifting off.
we are the future.
our divergent paths are necessary
for us to reach it, and i can hear it
calling me, the vibrat
saint james, holier than thouit's getting bad because now
i can't pull myself out
and i don't know what to do
about anything, but you
make me want to,
to do things
and it's all really fucked up
because you're a musician and
it's always musicians, isn't it,
the ones with seven string tendons and
blood that burns and
i have no idea what the fuck i'm doing or what
i'm supposed to do or how
normal people handle situations like these,
and i kind of want to be angry at you
for sitting calmly in the middle of my life
as i walked through the door and causing
all this absolute fucking madness, why
now because i've known you for years
and i saw you every other damn week except now
my body is a fucking dried-out husk
and my blood is sand and there
is dust on my skin and i can't
fucking hold a conversation with you because
i like your face too much but inside
i am on fire and you are the flame
and every spark of it stings with betrayal
because my heart was supposed to lie dormant
until i allowed it not to be,
letter 3i have this absurd fantasy where you show up at my town's dumb carnival and watch some bands play in the park, maybe, and between sets people disperse to go find food or ride dumb carnival rides and we need something to do to kill time besides standing around and waiting for the next band so we decide to go on the fucking ferris wheel, just the two of us, which is pretty fucking lame if you think about it, but it's chill and the view is alright i guess, so whatever; and we're on the ferris wheel and it's doing that thing where it moves a car forward and then stops to let people off, and we wind up at the top for a while, and i guess we just look out over town for a bit and point out people we know, like our friends who are eating ice cream or trying to buy drugs, and then we shoot the shit and agree that it's pretty fucking nice on top of the ferris wheel and maybe i say something dumb like how every time i get to the top i can't help but think of jumping and then you get kind of start
born of osirisbridges,
the remains of something
leftover from a time buried
but not forgotten,
my home(s) are rotting
at the crux of it, the feet
in the dirt, your footprints
are the legend.
writing the proper nouns
on my skin in red ink,
you were buried
at the back of my mind
but you came alive again,
just in time for me to make you a god.
are drawn in the grass, the fire
burns at your back, your motions
are the warping of time and space
and i see
every part of you alive,
some pure kind of energy
inside your veins,
like you're made
of the specific stardust
that traveled out of the center
of the big bang,
a young pharaoh
claiming his land
never as terrible
as the shockwaves suggested,
a benevolent being
cloaked in black and dyed
and the residue
of all these things
has drifted through the ages and come to rest
in your stumbling bones.
the tension in my wrists
and the breaths i leave choked
off in the back of
today just isn't goodi'm afraid i'll go cross-eyed
from smoking so many cigarettes;
these days, i can't help but look
at the smoldering orange tip, the ashes
created when i inhale deeply,
then glance straight ahead at the smoke
pluming from my lungs.
i saw the great gastby and it blewpeel me from my body,
tell me that you love me like daisy buchanan--
fuck, that's not what i mean
you are unseen,
you are trees through the shredder,
with ink on my hands and my face
and my throat i wasted
the letters on a man,
a woman, no,
fuck the gender binary,
because you are not real
you are a fictional imagining
of every boy i loved
or thought about fucking
(which is every boy,
because i think about fucking
all the damn time)
and i am just delusional
and i am just a waste of breathe, don't
tell me you love me because
you don't, you can't,
because the world is so unbearable
and i can't even
keep myself from getting sad
over sunday morning comic strips
tell me that you love me
because i need you so damn much
and tell me that i'm lying to myself
because i already know i am
on old sanzu - absolutely true fictionlast fall i stole my friend down by the tama river. we sang. we danced. we skipped dead fish like rocks and watched them get swallowed by the undertow. we got sick off of bad chinese food and went skinny-dipping and then a week later she drowned herself.
her uncle was a yakuza, i think, but he really just wanted to be al pacino or something. anyway, she loved him a lot. maybe that’s why she went down the way she went down; cement shoes. not real cement, but it was the same idea. she had two cloth bags with yellow-painted cinderblocks inside, and they were tied to her ankles like the prisoners’ chains from o brother where art thou.
in my mind’s eye i can see her, limping dreadfully close to the edge of the current, her left hand gripping at her breasts through a loose t-shirt. kneeling by the wastelands, elbows in the gravel, crawling forward out into the water. angry like a dermis under wool, all teeth and salt and sand. sleepy, submissive, sublimated.
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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