|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
pseudo-taoistic tendencieshere, to live in obsolete measurements of stasis
and find solace in the way time bends in sweet detriment of itself
to listen, enlivened
by the sound of ten thousand and one parched persian tongues
rasping of emancipation
from the underbellies of our mirrored drunkards
where the universe is felt
and God is swallowed:
on her salted fountains
on his derelict fingers tracing unadorned love
on another woman's hipbones
an elephant's dying breath, and
the smell of climax and unsettled wombs
felt, and tasted:
in hospital tubes
failure of recognition
the partisans of our cause and command
the ebb and flow of our saturated, wrinkled seas
you taught me
the only time impossible is applicable
is when i iterate how broken this feels (i am)
superseding god has now become second-nature
and wisdom only found on the gravebed of noetic trees
pure, unadulterated peace.
crimson epiphanies, molten elegies
enveloped by dirges of the dead, chanting:
when in god's world, sweet child
pray at the altars of silence
oceans bowed before the grace
of earth-worn eyes, reminders:
serendipity's lost cause.
absolving rays of enlightenment
shedding stardust skin, peeling
layers of reminiscence from
sanctified white flags-
divine serenades of rebirth.
Muted Liltmay nights brew black
on calloused retinas
I crush three shades of dissent
out of the rubble (aftermath)
on a film of labile skin
encapsulated winter shadows
patterned bruises by ghosts in ink
root-bound dead whisperings:
december's late memory
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.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
Keep in Touch!