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a sunsetthe sun is a badly bruised
knee, blood leaking
through the mud.
for him there was no such thing
as a beautiful failure,
sunsets made him impatient.
smog is sprayed across the sky,
a lonely purposeless light
shakes its feathers
and begins to gleam.
surrender was a sweet bathtub of petals
in which he sat up like a baby
refusing to be laid down.
on a day like this
we sat on the roof like two pigeons,
horns blew smoke across citytops.
he was not the one who fell down.
the light resisting muddied pink is his silhouette.
he was not the one who lied.
dear sacred, unnameable, unapproachable youeverything is interconnected.
on that rough patch of a slippery road
in the passenger seat i stared into the noise wall.
i knew then.
to carry this conviction in the purse
of my stomach like a leaden bullet.
there are ways to smuggle this
and make it out alive, i repeat.
she the catalyst,
empty bullet case
shifted gears and became a stranger.
you turn around and see
a wall of a slippery road.
one to zero,
limp neuron. and i believe
we all switch modes
but is it circular and are there ways back to foreground.
i am god i am fraud,
(as in) here is where we converge
and conversely split up.
here at self-pity our cultures briefly meet
listen i do not play chess.
i am not faking it when i say i am reaching out.
it is very clear that i am on the edge.
and nightsky synapses lock arms
the circumference of the
suspension bridge before it
find what you hateon my skeleton alleyways are built,
gaps and craters. suicide pact-bound teens
walking into lava.
i spied on them like an nsa angel.
a xenocryst pricked my toe.
i was the one veering off the fiery sidewalk,
and saw chunks of motorway half-
regurgitated, ashen smegma
fallout. the language into which
my onanistic fire
suddenly everything had meaning
first of all,
there was someone watching over
our wreckage. and it was
the chemistry of softeningyou adopt the melancholy tone,
memorize foreign anthems
vulnerability is a new medium to explore the separation
of voyeur and architect roiling the prefab primordial soup
lead on the eyelashes and glue on the sclera it is hard
to turn away
in five minutes leviathan will float up fully cooked
this is the flag of a self-proclaimed republic submitting
to the wind of isolation spitting left and right
it is to pull your enemy close
to you and turn the lights out after a polar night of fighting
it is to allow yourself to be hand-
cuffed to bed for a night on earth (you say,)
to understand the enemy (you claim,)
to justify your little gastro-mental motions
but they do not exist, or they do
but they're irrelevant to the story you're trying to get
out of your bloodstream. because they are not the cause
of your distress,
deprivationlook at him all dried up,
coughing up hot air.
no lubricant to grind
thoughtcogs into cornstalks
the road is paved with,
any road. just to get away, lord.
in the laundromat
...the ocean floor holds the map of petroleum vaults...
the information is pricey,
while he figures the tax rate,
memory careens into drought.
look around him,
the buildup of frustration in the washing machine drums
so why add to it.
the sloshing of pain, so why add to it.
look but don't probe,
the corruption of soundso many of those who used to doubt
have ceased to move, coordinates
collapsing into dead flies
and post-tidal residual slime
on the giant's infected foot.
the sword-ends of stilted conversations
are left at the doorstep,
the preacher the anarchist and undefined
drink to the obvious,
dishwasher weedrags in their flat beer,
this is the liquid that would froth with pepper spray,
lava no longer ages, its wrinkles have healed,
broadcast to mortal enemies: HEAVENLY PERFECT SPHERE ACHIEVED.
like a selfish baby,
a shamelessly rouged planet peers through the blinds.
pillar of mothssooner or later, the stench of the streets rams
your knuckles into the wall.
you will feel its nose cold and moist on your shoulder
like a rifle barrel.
sooner or later, it will get you;
it will drag hairballs and garbage into your room,
it will be-paw scratched in blood in public urinals.
with the loyalty of a husky, a hybrid, a wolf,
it gets you.
i wanted to be your house of unbreakable light;
i was a pillar of moths emitting a cracking
room to breatheget away; "should i be
giving more" how does it matter?
rewarded for giving
rewarded for taking
the breadth of your world is confined
to globules of jellywords anyway
like raindrops touch
my hand: feel the sweat
of your palm and the heat; raindaggers'
dimensional onslaught; one by one
you offer colours of the spectrum but
i don't want to know what blue feels
like. i want to take it all in,
all at once, please,
suffocating in a sarcophagus, sun-starved,
field-starved, i don't want
your body or rubbing
one sense back to life,
oxygen. maybe birds calling,
maybe echoing thunder.
not the canvas but space. a mountain.
letter to a birdthe last of the rooks comes into view
swaying in trash bag
meaning when it lands the leaves
will have to get up and change colour
but if it never does.
to keep traversing this shifting
it’s been a long road trip and you drink
and it numbs your heart
and it tastes like cinnamon
doesn’t mean that you don’t
if you land, i’ll morph
out of this household
to replace you,
pour into the desk
veterans of foreign whoresIt's like this. I have so many dreams where everybody dies. But that means nothing.
You ask me what we are, something like the internal video store, going out of business.
(in defense of the semantic contradiction in disappearing permafrost)
Instructions for my ultra-dimensional alter-ego:
A piano yields to a lake of graffiti as the sun multiplies in its surface,
remember these things.
Fuck more paranoid women, do not go gently,
haunt on as slowly dying trees, take years,
watch as spectators are drained from the scene like light.
(Statistically, many of us will write about cancer)
I believe in spirits and souls and ghosts. But then I think maybe just the fucked up lens; the blurry, overexposed photographic evidence. Arcing palms, bent bridges,
near-instantaneous images rolling across the silver skyscraper windows.
I want you in me like this illness,
leave nothing unwrecked,
all tables reaching upward,
all radios blasting static.
What this means is you will go on afterward.
obsolescenceSo I imagine you too much.
So we the blank harvest and we the collapsed desert.
So expect war,
the president says.
And the medium becomes what it isn't: open ocean.
So I try to tell you about loss but the truth is
you know more about winter than me.
So I imagine you go out and consult/consume the noise;
does it say the blue and sky and skyscraper suspend?
does it instruct the forest the yellow canyon the government install?
do you not paint the lab-suns
like a burning field?
You wonder why we are compelled to bomb.
All I know is that some people are a salvage of rainbowed metal,
some songs a hall of broken hills,
some raptures a hollow and empty building expecting laughter.
And it is always the same story: x enters x,
then too much forgetting god too much logging god too much god just too much god
and so what follows is eradication,
an army of videos dismembering a violent contact with a world of moving glass;
so x is a stranger or a country,
x is a constant e.g. war or wo
don't trust me unhinged like a stolen
surge of ocean, I become
what your girlfriend thinks I
am: drinking alone, forgetting
your name until it flowers
from my blackberry throat
I wash my tangled
hair in your kitchen sink,
.even the heavy rain bounces
right off your skin, i wish i could
sharpen my tongue to match yours
but it's blunt no matter how much i grind it
on the whetstone, time keeps hearts
unmalleable, insists that i must close the doors
before i open the windows, i think
i broke into a dream that wasn't mine, i climbed
the fence, i hopped the gate, i came upon
something good and i stole it - a natural disaster
grew out of my chest, a watery trail of
green, i still remember that corpse
in the oven and i know she would have loved
you all the same, don't blame yourself, i think you would
have hated the taste of spring,
just like your mum
something has happened
i can't think your name, much less speak
it out loud, you know the air won't give it
time of day, and now i'm keeping count
of all the plots i've lost, and i think that
this might be one of them, keeping a count of
the times that death has said don't fuck
me over, and i can make small talk with god but
it's so much easier w
i am too afraid
if i do -
will recoil at
and then say, come,
come sleep under me,
the sky is throwing
down its night
time sheets, let's go
grab that loose
gold thread and pull,
the stars unravel -
i might have kissed
of freyas soft and gentle,
but you know if you wade
right in i'm
rough and heartless,
the planets will
align, and then,
three ghosts, one of them
my father, and there ain't
a starving dog
will run - there will
be red on white and i will
laugh, and i will stand
at the top
of writers block
and i will
throw myself off
(sleep please take me back i'm sorry about before)
united fruit companyEvery orchard you spread, every sudden jolt in your system,
the furniture of your body quaking like pigeons
in the other room. How we struggle in the drought,
how the rain never reaches this valley.
And sometimes there are so many hands in my thoughts,
the graffiti in drift the slope stirring a skyline of your porcelain,
piles of clothes, wrecked and erect,
a bare tree reach against the window,
the palmed sun in you smiling and writhing across someone's sheets.
And sometimes come the shadow in stampede, see: wild chernobyl,
the way you build yourself in my absence
toward the bluing lakes; our condition: Weather,
wandering and hungry, the arc v. arch v. ark-
glowing and floating island in the xray.
What you must know; the ache we feel is voyeuristic/animalistic/fatalistic,
the dream is real and surreal
and there is no difference,
the exodus is internal
the pros and cons of incorrect file formatsbecause sometimes
it's worth misbehaving
and sometimes your gums have to bleed
to taste truth
i'll be damned, i did it again.
launched right into the middle
of a ghastly conversation
in my head and
i am a skimmer. pages, crowds,
i pretend that all the relevant information
is readily apparent
or contextually discerned.
but when i met you, dear,
like the library at alexandria ashed
and like they are chuckling warmly
at our memoirs
and weeping briskly at our graves
i have to type everything.
my script's shortcomings aside
my mind requires the fixed-pitch order
of clacking input
or else my notepads dim
as the ink chokes them out.
cannot be skimmed; this rampage
of think and rethink and amend
does not betray its secrets lightly
like the gravity of charybdis
or the way you sway just enough
to sink our ships and your reef
is one that i would lie and cheat and riot to kiss
it's worth misbehaving
and sometimes your gums have
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
beetlejugoBefore you, nothing but space. Then there's nothing but space before you. An empty endless asphalt parking lot, a road, a roaring sea, an unconquerable porcelain desert. Sometimes an atomic wilderness bleeding through the jagged black tree-line, a white crime scene splatter that from this distance and in this forest pours down on us like water. I've seen that wild tumble across the windshield like the hail in Oklahoma, stars and street-lights flooding and skipping down the glass, the car wrecks you keep inside unfolded and scattered along the border because there is always something blooming in this universe.
I think existence is something like this. There's so much space before us, and then so much space before us.
pre-apocalyptic response/logi don't understand the sentimental value of these arrangements,
we are foreign even to each other,
although i try to fit into your skin
suffocatingly synthetic slimy heavy and
tadpoles blasting out of my throat,
as far apart as planets can be
and you are not the world but a world and even then
black hole of a raindrop
as we all are when/(unless) we begin; i am making sounds
ending this on a flat d-drone; you see how hard it is for me
to understand mechanics; adream in
uncircumcised unsubsidized grea
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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