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I wish you lifeYou, my Love, owe me nothing.
You are free, to stay or leave,
as you wish.
Dreams and memories descend unforeseen
but fantasy speaks of hope and happiness,
and that is worth the listen.
Shed tears, for sorrow can be good for the soul
but whisper no words of death.
And a heart, even when broken, still holds life and there is joy in that.
Silence is transient.
Embrace no guilt or obligation.
Be kind and forgiving to others, and also to yourself.
I wish for you, not sleep, but peace
(for in sleeping there is waking)
and understand that
I wish you light (to see)
I wish you love (given generously)
I wish you life (lived free)
You and I conjugate with instinctual easeYou and I conjugate with instinctual ease
so abundant that grammar grew green
as sin at our grasp of verbs, for we
are present tense doing and breaking rules as we please
so that fixed form at ‘speare point shakes
and melts liquid into more form-less and less
tradition and a, b, a, b, c, d, c, d, make
greater sense and the most beautiful mess.
Circumventing stutter-in-struct-ure, slip
slick quick electric free in defence of verse
‘til meaning and love run
on and out and meet halfway, crossing
every line together
so there is none… (none for there is no need)
just you and I, in a single breath -- we.
what I love most is her undressingI am weary of those tired phrases;
those too large T’s and tattered jeans worn-out too frequently and too freely for we all own a few,
close at hand, versatile and abused for it.
I find myself charmed by elegant verses;
a lavish flow of sleek, silk sophistication and understated accents,
class and perfection, for occasion.
I am wary of arousing images;
that sheer black lace racing down cleavage and spine, up inner thigh gartered high, bits of material
(for clothing is generous in its naming as lingerie is to revealing) seducing my sound judgment.
I am fond of those earnest words;
those woolly jerseys (or sweaters if you will) worn with nothing beneath, no airs just simple, soft, honest whispering,
beside a book, beneath a blanket, to tiny paw-prints of pattering rain.
But more than each outfit or phrase what I truly enjoy,
what I love most, more than any combination of clothing or wearing of words, is her
When undressed I can most appreciate, (take time to relish and
I look at him and snort derisivelyI look at him, that
hopelessly idealistic romantic, and snort derisively
at his doting over Love,
his love… a love… any love, if only he had
He can't know what love is, never having had
any serious applicant and avoiding
the topic and chance at experience
for embarrassment--the notion of faithfulness. For whom?
For himself, that it might be more precious, for her, he thinks,
because he is naïve, frustratingly so.
He isn't even sure, but hopes in quiet confidence.
I can't help
but sneer, as I interrogate,
his pathetically sincere excuses and explanations,
pressing against rose-tinted glass to shatter
his blinding vision.
on him, that hopelessly idealistic romantic, with disdain
because I am one too.
How are you really?"How are you?" she asks.
"Well, thank you,"
I reply a shrug.
(No screaming highs,
no crushing lows,
and no flat-line of course.
I smile politely.
"How are you really?" She looks fixed,
because I really am,
well, that is…
no anguished despair
nor joyous celebration
behind an expressive mask (or lack of).
Steady, constant content,
(not drifting, nor rooted, stuck,
just am) and hope she is content that I am,
Too much emotion and effort,
(though truly do I appreciate the love and concern)
and choose the awkward silence instead,
continue the conversation with
a change of topic,
"How are you really?" and silly smile,
and hope she laughs because humour
does us all some good.
And Now It Is YoursBreaking waves elapse against the shore
in a sea of late evening conversation.
Even amidst company there is distance between here
and now I look across the horizon and upwards to the light.
Pulsing orange, or copper perhaps
it is simply a plane, old and dotty
in the darkness?
So, I turn a shoulder back
to the conversation to find that when I return,
before I can ask, the flickering ember
(of a maybe star) has since faded and disappeared into
I will never know it, or if it was,
but if I will, it was, is, and will be,
mine at least.
And now… it is yours.
And tentatively, I tell her so, because I am shyDespite siren songs and half-closed eyes,
early morning light will always be
more romantic and sensuous, and I
tell her so; and she says to me
how I always say things in such a sexy way.
Though sense never chose her, never chose words,
for sex or sensibility, still I yearn to stay
by her fingertips, for her skin – for her.
And love her wit, her scent, her hair
And draw her close, breathe in as much of her as my desperate lungs will – hold
my breath… like the stillness of summer air,
hoping to keep this memory in my heart,
so I will carry her in my heart(I carry it in my heart).
And tentatively, I tell her so,
because I am shy.
And she tells me that I’m not shy at all.
Ours is a death by drudgeryEvery morning, her Kraken-like lips yawn cavernous
with soporific starts and smothered dreams. She holds me under
waves of snooze that squeeze every last drop of willpower
until I wash up on the cold steel basin once again.
Treated with burnt toast and bitter coffee in silence
cut only by the uncaring clickety-clack of exo-skeleton,
she dyes and embalms any prospect of excitement
with routine and repetition; rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat...
The clasp of her carpals and metacarpals stills my pen,
and the gentle caress of chalkboard nails tears me away
to gaze at vacuous orbits behind shadowed eyelids
so words fall like dead stars and doomed doves.
Cerebus jealously guards the gaps of her ribs
fearful that I might steal phoenix whispers
from the jaws of Haros and breathe the life
before the constant treading of stagnant Styx.
Instead, hours of procrastination extinguish the flickering
liquid crystal display of tired eyes and tired mind,
and I reach out to my mistress.
You were rain that pours and never stopsYou were rain that pours and never stops,
never roars, and is never still.
You were the sighs and smiles of shores
You were the wind that swayed
the waves of gold wheat where I hid
but did not live; did not live until your words
were whispered into them.
You were the gracious moon that waxed
and waned so the stars could be seen
and I, dog eared and fox eyed,
was caught by the constellation of you.
For I shied and shrunk from the sun,
that shone too bright, too brilliant,
until I learnt to set my heart upon the dying light
but now it is night and you were hello
and I was ever a constant goodbye.
the trouble isi'd like life to be
quiet and lovely
like distant church-bells
chiming through snow,
muted by the smell of
an old book and the
feel of a fire warming
me into my chair, and
a mug of tea, steeping
the moment in hushed
gratitude, easily in reach.
Apologies to LaoEach day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind
"are you sleepy today?"
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.
today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail is a struggle, having a child would be too.
often times when she sets her tea down she remembers that her Bible is in the drawer beneath
along with the crucifix necklace that her mother made her.
her husband comes home late nowadays and she never questions why that may be
because she knows.
she would do the same too if she had a wife who took four different
The Best is Yet to Comeif we grow old
there will be a sigh
an attention to the change
as your muscles slacken underneath
your faded, favorite shirt
the one that's threadbare, "holy"
in a sense less than divine
I'll have washed it for
the thousandth time
our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle
in ways that start to match
and we'll hold hands and ask:
when did the nerves and veins
begin to let our hands get cold?
-if we grow old
Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate ryhtmn in
of - waves.
- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,
in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling
here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
the sea does not sleep.
6.12There are days when I recall the litany of your kisses over my shoulders and I wonder, numbly disconsolate, how I ever maintained my disbelief in god, when your movements over me were so profoundly biblical, when my name filtering between the fog of our joined breaths was so much like a prayer - when I would think, for those minutes or hours or days we spent locked in the grip of fever, unaware of the movement of those heavenly bodies outside the reach of our bed, that there was hope for me after all. That I could be saved.
I remember so clearly the feeling of loving you and I wonder at what point, when it was, the exact moment, when that love became terror, when the realization dawned that I was wrong, all along, that, with or without each other, or our sighs that scraped like sandpaper while our bodies bruised at hips and ribs and our lips bled from the force of our desperate kissing - with or without the iliad of our romance, we were doomed.
I have always poisoned beautiful things.
shhhwe are lurking too close to jesus,
on the empty edge of a lightless stage,
curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms.
he asks as an afterthought
do you believe in something holy? and i think yes,
i think this is what i believe in.
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
such a beautiful brain:
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,
your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'
and your totaled passion:
someone to hang inside out with,
string you up like a steak with.
what the hunger
is trying to tell me
my brain churns like butter,
my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,
This Is Why We Can't Be In LoveThe day we first met, she was naked. The empty gallery had turned the A/C off and she said, "it's hot, too hot for clothes," and she stripped down to skin. She was pink and raw from sunburn, shiny plasma peeking out of translucent cracks in her epidermis.
"How many times have you done this today?" I asked her. "Also, hello."
I know I flushed pinker than her, fully clothed in my capris and navy fingerless gloves even though it was already July-- burning for her, because she didn't seem to notice her own skin.
She smiled, asked, "Am I beautiful?"
"I don't even know you."
"Okay," she said.
"I have to go," I said.
* * *
She was still naked, our second encounter. I was eating a blizzard in the Dairy Queen and she was sitting at the counter with the tall stools. I tried to avert my eyes, to focus on whatever was outside the window in the parking lot, but she caught my gaze in hers and trapped me. As I watched her, she grinned and twirled, bare feet on the linoleum floor,
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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