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Achromatic Dreamstoday, god gave me present.
stilted windows, white bones
decaying lungs and my mind races
at the rate of a lone moth's jaded wings
we taste better alone
clemency is earned
by the damned, by the damned
we belong to nobody
and she bowed with artless grace
kissed the sky, shed stardust tears
choked on angelic moonshine
we draw our own constellations
today, i gave god presence.
Dearly Deceased DameAnd I apologize for these neurotic abrasions,
this mercury printed skin. I digress:
I have kept your favorite black scarf
(of a thousand minute dying bells), squirreled
away from the face of these lingering years,
to live by and breathe your sweet scent: my ether.
And I apologize for such relapsed memories,
for neglecting to ingrain your tastes in my insipid psyche
apart from the shrill of your voice, apart from
your last, soul-piercing scream.
But every time I lose a tooth, trace
trailing fingers on live green vines, smooth
my voice to sing alongside divine, orphaned birds, lick
the remnants of a 2L box of vanilla ice-cream,
I am reborn-
taken from your holy womb once only to be reincarnated again.
In Riposte, Jswallow god's sense of humor, and tell me how it feels
to send gravity crawling on all fours- stir the remnants
of this violet collapse; ardent attachment:
play the accretion of your dilatory heartstrings for our silent mute
who raise a glass in toast to coalesce our beloved earth,
who study hagiography as a means of beautiful suicide
on lingering, listless oceans emptying unto itself.
and maybe your ascension was predetermined, perhaps
drawn in apologetic ink on the eyelids of our graceful blind,
who invented the word ugly to describe the fallacy of lost smiles
painted in shadow on your claustrophobic sighs.
swallow god's sense of humor, and tell me how it feels
to be inadvertent, inconspicuous: alive.
Spacebound HumanovaLet's speak in chiaroscuro accents, and play notes
Of festive peace.
We can wheeze our way through Queen of the Night Aria
And make dead art beautiful again, lest we impregnate
Our freebasing nicotine and ammonia enriched coal lungs
With an angel voice made dime.
Let's burn our living skeletons, in opposition
Of children who only dream of Afghanistan in spaces of static, and
For smoking stars celebrating the past life and torrid bones
Of protesting Tibetan monk remains made real.
I want to break your ribs, preferably save and tattoo
The eighth one down on your left side with the number eight, sideways-
An indication of my iridescent naivety, and
A mute echo of your lurid, inorganic spent breaths.
Let's lose ourselves in essence, in sanctifying cries
Of time and music, when we set sail on solar winds made holy
In the art of space and your Mother's decisions,
When science became a means of blank radiated stardust pollution
Found in the flow of rich blood within your lithe veins.
Bereaved Orphanto the ugliest part of my barring psyche:
i submit myself to you, in absolute austerity, i
present myself in all my inelegance and liability.
see: black and white, every indifference to
chromaticity the way we see naked stars at night, the way
we lose ourselves to drinking in false favor of
fanaticism and relativism, and
this is a venal apology, my
selfish justification for liberating you against your
detrimental and tragic will, my
baseless excuse for your existing inexistence, as
i bleed desperation onto these languid walls, with
the need to isolate the physical foundation of where
you are fashioned from, the need
to portrait and frame my insincerity with pressing innocence, as
i free you from the cables of my ungodly
womb, remember: we are captives of our own identities, living
in prisons of our own creation. remember: steady, toast
to the dead already, and blessings for the next to die.
Constituent Analogiescome revolution, come peace.
and through these tiring times, remember: our
textile-memory is what conceptualizes the freedom we taste
when calcified bones empty holy relief
on the artless curvature of barren wombs, on
the frail backbones of young birds, when
the difference between context and chaos unfolds
by simply isolating the trace of disjointed fingers on fervent skin, by
calculating and determining every solitary atom between
lonely earth and lethargic cosmic bonds, but
this isn't about the need for liberty marshalled by
the simultaneous release of collective sighs strung through the lungs
of our dispirited youth, but of every cry in correlation with
the stature of our determination familiarized through falling
victim to the depths of insignificance with only nicotine-stained
we resonate with married urgency our desire for peace,
and some place to reverse it.
In Self I Trusti. my being rests between each pink-to-charcoaled layer of heavy lungs.
ii. freedom is felt in the spaces amidst the limbs of a lost psyche, and forever falls one step short of breathlessness, invincible. reel back and forth, in and out of time and celebrate: you are the product of your own starving attrition. pour every emotion resulting from beautifying lost causes into the basins of fugal minds. i promised my countered self to live through the art of manic insanity, to pull free from the daisy chain amusement my body was motioned to be, setting blackness free to elope with stark-white light felt in the pigments beneath this barren skin: peace.
iii. some days i find myself descending into the choked, charted waters of kaleidoscope hallucinations; each ebb and flow a glorified example of my ruptured seams. i lay my head to break gravity's consuming cry, trying to find the smallest of silver linings in the gold-streaked sky. twilight, i trace god's melancholic fingertip paintings, canv
Light of Agei: (present) old men strolling, pondering upon
fair ladies of distant and lost oh-so-gray
"When I'm cold and distraught at night, I think-
thinkthinkthinkthink and just
b r e a t h e"
sit on a park bench with your blue eyes; reflect, resent, remember-
feel forsaken, forlorn, friendless; [and]
ii: (present) she lay on her unmade bed and smiled.
Time to go, sweetheart.
Don't do this.
I already have.
I never found you...
-the sound of telephones and broken promises-
close your eyes. bacardi 151 and marie.
iii: (past) she was nothing but a fractured rag doll.
"Just one more..." throw your life away, my darling.
nothing you do will
make murdered girls alive again.
I lost myself.
v: (---) i took my last breath on the country, the colors of
the wind carrying
my breath in a perfect tune. blind to what i once was, what i
have become, what i
will never be. times are worth giving and
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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