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a lover's observations.when you asked me to define love,
i answered with this.
i. a collection of sighs
by remembered dreams
and rapid heartbeats
ii. fingertips on knuckles
and the hugging of thumbs
iii. making silverware
on the mattress
in the company of the stars
iv. exchanging dialogue
with our mouths shut
and our eyes open
v. cheekbones and crow's feet
vi. turning every what if
into a reality
when i asked you to describe love,
you took the answer from my mouth
with your lips.
why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
we still wonder why
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place
loneliness is a disease
the world is infected.)
we are all waiting to be found.August 17, 2012
I met a girl five years ago on a train to Paris and she told me she was running away. I asked her why, and she said she didn't know why—just that she had lots of things in her life that would justify her escape.
She held a cup of coffee in her left hand and periodically, she'd inhale the steady steam and sigh. I think she caught me staring at her once when her nostrils were on the plastic lid, so she explained that the smell of caffeine kept her heartstrings alive.
Her eyes were forever open, as if she never stopped to blink because she was afraid she'd miss something, and the sun sat on her eyelashes like birds on a wire because she told me she didn't know how to cry.
She had a habit of dropping things, and the third time she stooped below the table to pick something up, she screamed and hit her turquoise beret against the desk and spilled the sugar out of my tea. She apologized like a little kid, with her bottom lip sticking out ever so slightly, and said
the man at the ticket counter.the man at the ticket counter told me
he had never sold a one way ticket before
and i said why not
to which he replied,
because people need to believe that
they have someone or something
to come home to
i scoffed at him,
well i guess i have no one
but he just stared at me
with lantern eyes
until by some ungodly urge
my bottom lip trembled
and i spat out the words
no one here cares if i return or not
he was silent as he completed the transaction
but his forehead frowned at me
and his implied pity became unbearable
to the point where
i snatched the ticket from the counter
without so much as a backwards glance
even though his eyes followed my spine
through the crowd
i didn't relax until i reached the platform
where the conductor beckoned me to the door quickly
hello miss may i see your ticket
of course sir, here it is
thank you very much
your seat is located in compartment three
as is your return seat
he pushed me through the door
before i could s
if only, if only.i.
we drove nowhere
and we spoke a language
that nobody understood
underneath a foreign sky
blanketed in the scent of pine.
you told me
my eyes were like envelopes
because they were always
fluttering to the sound
of breaking seals
and ink stained fingertips.
i told you
we should run away
to a new land
with new faces
i was enamored
with people i had never encountered
and places i had never gone.
you laughed at me
and said that
if i didn't spend
so much time with my head
buried in world maps
i would realize
that i was living on one.
it rained that day
and the tea went cold
but the wind kept whistling
blue skies are coming
and i sighed
vi. our film expired in may
but time replays it in my dreams
as a flock of birds
head north in the sky
(if they can move on after summer
and gather their souls
then maybe i too will try.)
the anguish of the sky.( look up and get lost )
for the sky is a thief with a pocket full of jewels
that gleam through the holes of his trousers-
and each night he fiddles with his stolen treasure
crudely fashioning constellation crowns for his beloved.
but often times, she disappears
and the sky cries in comets and meteors-
as the thunder rolls around the earth
like the unsaid prayers on his tongue
and you can see it in his planet eyes,
he is nothing when her light is gone
and he stumbles blindly across the galaxies
with black hole corneas and wet eyelashes.
adieu my love!
he cries as dawn kisses the horizon-
but the moon never replies,
too caught up in her own lust
( chasing the sun )
the scatterbrain's guide to the galaxy.sometimes i forget that
the sun is not a candle
even though each night
it melts like wax
into the forgiving arms of the sea.
sometimes i find myself
at a loss of breath
when the moon erupts from the water
clad in nudity
with the shy demeanor of a virgin
exposing flesh to the naked eye.
sometimes it's hard to remember that
i cannot touch the stars
despite the fact that
they know me like lovers–
watching the air escape my teeth
in the milky twilight and
catching my 2 a.m. whispers to my notebook
when my tongue is swimming in coffee.
sometimes i lose myself
in the vast expanse of our universe
because the feeling of being small
is nothing compared to
the feeling of being nonexistent.
sometimes i intake sharply
at the sight of the ink
neatly pressed into my feet
and with good reason,
for my mom nearly fainted
when she got the call from me
informing her that i had recently gotten
a rendering of the solar system tattooed on my soles.
(sometimes i wonder if
the galaxy is as smitten with
a siren's song.her ribcage burst into flowers
as her lungs swam to sea
and the world was silent
-like a film set on mute-
as it watched her dance
into her coral grave.
she grinned and laughed
and all you could hear
was the metallic scraping
of her tongue on her teeth
as her coppery laugh
fell into the ocean-
like a penny onto concrete.
her hair was a tangle of seaweed
drenched in brine
and adorned with salt flecks
that caught the sun in waves
crashing along the shoreline
in the treble notes of symphonies.
ensnared in wanderlust,
she ran towards the current
in hopes of finding herself
among the lost.
she wore fish-scales
on her clavicle
and sung her way down
to the bottom of atlantis.
the ships out at bay that day
only remember one thing:
she sunk like the titanic,
her bones tearing at the seams
and all that remained of her
were two hands
(whose knuckles were mountains
and skin was land)
receding into the curls
as the earth drowned into the sea.
and there was nothing left on the horizon
the sky was earl grey
and the clouds were steamy sips
and i wanted to drink it all.
the leaves were star yellow
and the bark smelled of coffee
and the bakery was selling a moon made out of cheese.
there was an old man on a bench
he threw his wedding band in the sewer
i cried for him.
the birds were dreams
and the mountains, my obstacles,
tally ho young adventurer tally ho
i ran into an artist today
he drew signs on corner post buildings
but he also gave his lunch to a homeless boy.
my mom holds black holes beneath her eyes
and for the first time in days, she spoke to me,
"i'm worried about you. try to make some friends?"
dear mom, i am trying
i played chess with a man in the park
i helped a girl find her parents
i am content with who i am, mom,
now i am just trying to help others achieve the same.
i ran into the artist again today
and he taught me how to paint
and then he smiled at me and said, "you're different than the rest."
we made plans, me and
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
ii. you have grown
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
Sky EyesDesert hands tell tales
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they
(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).
But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;
and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
for there is still sun in your sky eyes.
ColorblindI gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
lukewarmshe had the kind of voice
that seemed to be stuck
in the hour of four o'clock
in the morning - soft
and tired and luring,
mumbling her way through
subways and tunnel lights
all pale yellow with noise.
there was tea and long baths
and longer absences,
hiccups of breath
she could do.
long springs and
one equinox to the next
and still the bad
was never that bad
and the good
was never that
and she continues to hum
the birds continue to sing
the apples continue to
and bury themselves
where i dance alonei. I mistook a shy boy for a thunderous one in the days when I lived inside his lungs.
ii. I wanted your hands in the early morning, or in 8 o' clock light. (Does it matter? I just wanted you.) Hands like paper cranes, hands like wind chimes. Then we could've been like lovers in a parody: "I love you, I love youno, I don't. But you are beautiful." And while I was not your lover, neither was I your queen. Either way, you wouldn't hold my heart.
iii. Our fingers would've taken flight and then the rest of us, too. Then you would've known of the ballroom in my chest, the migrations inside my body, of the tiny secret nothings that make their way like monarchsas if by instinct, as if they have been here beforefrom ballroom to piano hands to the museum that is my mind to my stomach. But you are the only lost boy afraid to fly.
iv. I was a foreign land and you would not dare travel without a map. But I do not possess a souvenir shop in which to purchase one. I am a des
scraps and sacramentsyou,
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)
how far have you gone? a feather in
the breeze who won’t promise to return
again; there is a wandering warmth in
the hesitation of your harbored fear.
where will you be in six months when
the future has become itself and you
are still astray? little one, no one is like you
in the way you sway to the cadence of a
dissonant night. no one knows your
The Riverthe grooves of her old skin
are filled with the forgotten languages
of a thousand lost peoples,
abandoned by gods trapped in their infancy.
she carries the weight of these memories downstream
and carves their stories into the sides of cliffs;
but we have forgotten how to read her words—
braille-spells and earthen-magick
—her belly is full and sick,
and we are illiterate children
basking in the afterthought of our own ruin.
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More