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Consumed by the Lovers HeartThat whimsical thing, so mystically dreaming free of pain
But I love her still, forever abiding without gain.
If someplace our sight does meet—it may be some start.
Her lovers heart will come to see: love of love is love apart.
Love doesn't exist until you make it.I met her there as our lives were afire,
a beautiful woman with embers in her eyes.
I know her not, yet her mind I admire,
for she is unique, and alone under these skies.
A lovely beginning...Love is a madness hard to comprehend.
Its growing, biting need sits badly in me,
and my mind is cast into storms as I descend.
May my madness never end.
November MorningYou know the why of when the grasses blow,
and never do you err on the hands of time,
but by what and precisely where never woe—
with love it falls to who commits the crime.
1A massive ocean: full of water,
Full of life, full of death, full of slaughter.
A fish, they say, cannot love,
Until it views the world above.
The SeductressA lady sheathed in red walks through the fight
it is over, but there is more to her than meets the
eyes, drunk with blood; what lovely crimson thighs!
The guile in her smile speaks of hidden lies
for which the dead assemblage gave their lives.
10The stench of madness, if only in practice,
Strives for control, leaves in sadness.
But caring masters claim no blame/shame.
They love their stock safely tame!
A token.I feel you in the wind, and the shuffling of winter's leaves,
I see you in the sun as it graces summer's eaves.
A darkness sets upon me, because I realize what I've done,
My heart is darkened, beset by what it has shun.
What humanity was left of me is gone now, my friend,
And since you have left, I feel I've reached the end.
The Door is Death (Ch1Pt1)
Chapter 1 (part 1 of 3)
The papers on his desk eyed him with the unflinching apathy of the lifeless things they were. His desktop monitor's bright white light burned into the corner of his eye. The uncomfortable office chair threatened to rearrange his spine in ways most unnatural.
Well, he was hung over.
He returned his gaze down to the hateful papers fanned out before him, all of which presumably required his immediate attention. Researching, mailing, filing—the list went on endlessly. He had been at work nearly all day now. His greatest accomplishment thus far was not dropping unconscious onto the foot traffic flattened carpet. Which was a notable accomplishment in his current state.
Marshal Penta would likely not agree with that particular sentiment. Thankfully however, the ancient attorney had been holed up in his office for most of the day—only coming out to slap the odd paper or two down on his desk. Anna, Penta's secretary, was playing solitaire or whateve
Do you have a second?Can I tell you something?
Just listen for a second.
I think that you're amazing.
Not just you,
But who you really are.
What I see underneath.
Sure you can be mean sometimes.
But I've seen you be sweet.
I'm not blind.
And your looks are perfect
No I'm not saying you are the most beautiful
Or the most handsome person in the world.
I'm saying you are perfect.
Your eyes can hold a gaze for hours.
Your smile can draw anyone away from the world.
Your laugh can brighten up anyone's day.
And your personality can make anyone fall in love.
I wish I could tell you that in person
But this poem must suffice
Because where you are is a mystery
But who you are, isn't.
Last night, I dreamt of us.
We were together on a mountaintop,
I was sitting on the edge,
With my legs dangling above the bottomless pit,
With a lone, white chrysanthemum in my hand as I pull the petals from the stem.
While you were standing above me, looking on, languidly,
None of us wanting to say anything,
My own mental battle sewing my lips to one another,
Unable to speak,
While you were probably trapped within your own mental depths;
In my mind, I was debating between venting and jumping,
Simply over the fact I didn’t know what that look was in your eyes,
But I think that’s probably the point, that we’re no longer of the same kind,
Maybe I changed into something I’m unaware of, maybe you were the one to transform,
But I don’t get the same feel of what used to be,
This is foreign to me,
An unapologetic feeling of extreme apathy,
And that is the unfortunate reality of this situation,
No matter how long
My Dear Sons and DaughtersFall in love with everything
Fall in love with ideas: anarchy
and LaVeyan Satanism.
Fall in love with solitary back-packing
through Israel or Mexico.
Fall in love with gamma radiation
or tiger-taming, MMA cage fighting
or free-climbing the Rocky Mountains,
but do not fall in love
People will want you
for your similarities to one
or more of their parents;
they will want you
for the outline, the concept of you;
they will want you
because you want them –
they will not know
what they want.
People will take the bed you shared
and fuck other people
in the barely cooled indent
of your absent body
(they will also take your cat,
leaving you with scarred hands
and nothing for them to stroke).
They will promise to never leave you
and maybe they won’t,
but they will buckle you in with them
on the bipolar-coaster,
left flying off unfinished tracks,
and you will have to jump,
They will be perfect
except for little things –
answering their pho
my raspberry heart.i:
he was the hard rock of the city, and i
the orchestra of the forest—
where his cement sidewalks ended, my
dirt and shrubs began
on a summer day, he told me
he liked the way the sun looked
in my trees. i blushed so hard, a wildfire
almost burned me down
i kept noticing his billboards
glancing my way. i let my leaves
land on his apartment buildings, and all
his traffic lights turned red
he reached into my brush
and picked my raspberry heart, neon
shining in his eyes
dragonfly wingsi. There is an entire generation of humans who grew up learning how to be murderers,
learning how to wound creatures for an audience and a laugh, and oh
how they love to laugh, pigtailed executioners
and torturers of all that frail life
that could be contained in a quiet garden.
ii. They take spiders by their bellies and put them one each on two ends of a stick,
and they poke and prod and push until one decides to eat the other,
for there must be a duel, there must be a death, or there is no fun,
and the children will race off to find new things to hurt.
They take dragonflies by the wings and stick their jewel tails into electric sockets,
playing god in their pajamas, leaving peanut butter fingerprints
on the little pockets of heaven they find and fight over,
keeping the pretty pieces for their scrapbooks, like you could trap life
beneath scotch tape and label it between lines red-blue-red.
iii. Well maybe they know better, if you want to believe there's a muted brilliance
HyperawareI know the thumping of blood in my fingers,
the twinge in my back,
the tension behind my calves far too well.
The bristle of cold is too much
but the silence without the fan is suffocating.
My blankets are too heavy,
settled over my torso like the rock in my chest
but I can’t sleep without the weight.
This awareness is a manifestation of my longing;
for your hands in my hair,
your warmth at my spine,
your shoes on my floor.
This is what I feel when I can’t feel you –
fixations that drive me to insomnia.
Only the trains are any comfort,
plowing away into the night
screaming here I am; there I go
like world-weary tramps moving just to be moving.
Like you, working just to be working,
burning midnight oil and paper
when you could be breathing fire down my neck.
You Leave Me WantingI want to see the sparkle of the stars in your eyes,
Glimmering darkness that beholds my fallen form.
With arms as hard as redwood trees, sweeping through the skies,
You dig beneath my rooted earth and leave what lingers torn.
I want that you give agency and life to my heart.
I want to feel the quiet between our warm breath.
Most of all, I want to know we are not miles apart;
Without you by my fumbling side, I am repurposed death.
We may ride together down this road of foiling tests
Until our legs are shattered and our lungs beg air
And our bodies fall in unison, taken with rest;
Though we may be broken, we'll bask and bloom in our love's snare.
SnowI have not been in love.
No one has taken
a box cutter to my heart
and stomped the blood into the carpet -
at least not the same person
who stitched me together
in the morning.
But I have loved
pixels and magazine clippings
and the satellites of kittens' ears.
I have loved tinkling bells.
The human voice
can make me float.
(drowned or free?)
I have loved
a snowglobe world
in which people are people
and there are no words
in any languages
next to the bar code.
The more I learn,
the more my mind opens -
like the rose trembling outward,
confused in the cold -
the more I worry
that I will never rid myself
Even (especially) of
the labels that don't
think they exist.
The more I fall in love
with objects and ideas
the more I realize that
doing the same to a human being -
would be just like
watching the snow
To the one who holds my heart.I looked into your heart and found a mirror of mine;
the sacred scarlet muscle that so drives our lives.
That bloody pumping rhythm is so hard to define,
and does assault my mind like a thousand buzzing hives.
And yet without this confusion love has no spine,
'tis but a sordid wasteful thing which never survives.
In you I see something that does make stars align,
a power beyond time, keener than sharpest knives.
And it is through this Earth that we will ride
Without fair guidance or friendly hand
To guide us to that so surreptitious lonesome path.
I take the pain of this world in my stride,
and wonder solemnly if this was all planned
Or if our emblazoned love transcends all wrath.
How It Began"God, your two o'clock is here."
"I have a two o'clock?"
"He's been here since 7:45. I figured it's only polite to... sir."
God sighed. "Fine, send him in."
While He waited God cleared His desk of papers and blueprints; no need for outsiders to see His plans. Soon enough the door to His office opened and God stood, smiled, held out a hand towards one of the two visitor's chairs.
"God! Great stuff you're doing in sector 2-7-0! Great stuff!"
The man's hands were clammy, his handshake limp. Rumpled suit, porkpie hat, briefcase... oh Jes-- oh dear, a salesman. God's smile slipped a little but He soldiered on gamely. With luck He could shoo the poor guy away in a few minutes.
"So, what can I do for you?"
The man sat, briefcase across his knees. "Sector 2-7-0! Everyone's talking about it! What do you call it? Man and merman?"
"Man and woman, actually. And thanks. But we're pretty busy around here, and..."
"Oh! Right! No time for the wicked, eh?" The salesman winked and popped his briefcase,
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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