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Anything else either. Whatever the universe
it has resulted
in my inclinations
rather than cities,
rather than numbness,
rather than fear.
If I refuse to call it benevolent
it's only because
to call it
Secret admirer. Is the universe allergic
Does it ever pick up
on my signals,
the way I look at it,
even when it's not looking back?
Does it ever notice
the way I leave it little gifts
throughout each day?
A small act of bravery
on behalf of an injured sparrow,
a smile at every passing stranger?
An improvised song
belted out in my empty
Am I going to have to say
what I mean?
The universe results in so much
allows so many love stories
you'd think it wanted
the same things,
Aching and holyPerfection is never
as the absence of flaws,
as the specific portions
of algebra and silence
into some kind of music.
Instead it lives
that all your parts,
both wonderful and wretched,
List of favorite things. drinking from green glass bottles
. experiencing the change of seasons
. growing my beard
. touching my beard
. looking at the female form
. occupying the male form
. pulling on gloves
. peeling sunburnt skin
. walking through an empty town late at night
. painting in watercolor
. reading until I fall asleep
. leaving christmas lights up all year
. watching good movies and shows
. looking at my green walls at different times of day, in different light
. feeding and petting fritz the cat
. playing with fritz the cat
. fritz the cat
. reading Kurt Vonnegut
. waking up not having to pee
. staying up all night
. writing poems
. feeling inspired
. being happy
. going for walks
. remembering as much as i can
. watching my thoughts spread over what i see
. having interesting ideas to explore
Black holeIf chronicles of every year
in human history were amassed
in a single heap:
the spiral-bound calendars,
the cylindrical scrolls,
the stone tablets,
the empirical frescoes,
the ceramic jars
of thousand-year old honey,
the primeval notches in petrified wood,
the phases of moon painted onto stone,
the delicate bones of twelve miscarried
infants mapping the zodiac,
the animal guts in a maze
of each priest's psyche,
the chronicles of silence
the internet's role
the digital coding of 365 images
of every woman's face--
the collected mass would collapse
that the solar system would topple
and be swallowed by the flawless
Making lunchI visualize waves rolling up
and down on the sand,
but they are actually
the soapy froth
between your fingers
that the faucet has missed,
which you wipe away
by cracking your fingers
inside a towel.
I look at my own hands,
they are sad, narrow,
Sometimes they seem doomed,
fated eventually to a blue-purple
ending either deep in the ground
or in an unbelievable
As a child I saw the hands
of many dead relatives,
folded ceremoniously over a rosary
or a single flower
or just a little emptiness.
The hands always made me saddest,
lying there abandoned.
I never touched the dead hands.
I imagined they wouldn't let me go
if I did,
or they would give me something
I didn't want,
as irreversible as a gift,
as terrifying as darkness.
Which happens to be why touching
is so fearsome and confusing--
the fear that they might pull away
mixed up with the dread that they might not
You snap me out of my thoughts
by sliding a still-damp finge
Skin.I love the way life leaves its mark on our bodies.
Every laugh and smile etched in the crinkles around your eyes and mouth;
Those tan-lines the time you forgot about sunscreen
Because you were so hell-bent on reaching that mountain peak
Or when you just became lost in the gentle lap of waves at the shore;
The scars you got skateboarding in the park at summer dusk
Or when life became pain and it was your only release.
Our bodies are a record of our memories and experiences
They are our travel journals and emotional diaries
Our delicate armour to the elements.
And no matter its colour, its stature, if it's not quite intact
If you sometimes think it takes up too much space, or if it has pointy corners
Your body is the vessel for your soul, and every wonderful facet of who you are
Sparkles from the surface of your skin.
Skin that may grow to be wrinkled, tanned, scarred, well lived-in
Although not always embraced by you the way that others embrace it.
Take the time to explore the s
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
The human condition of wanting to be everythingI feel as though I am exhausting
The excess skin around
in loose shadows
Across my cheekbones like
And whilst I find myself
To draw open the blinds
Because the light
is too bright
And I really can’t handle
The pane of the sky
With its obnoxious
glaring at me
With such a joyful expression
I know that lately
I am burning myself out
That I consume one too many
Cans of soda and energy drinks
At 2.45 AM
When the rest of the world
Is static in a hushed
Whilst I frantically try
To achieve something
Is too much
Or rather too
An existence for me
So I will continue
In order to
Try and destroy myself
Enough so that
I can be w h o l e
The scarsLife hurts us
It causes us to bleed
Time can heal the wounds
And stop the pain
But the scars remain
For the rest of our lives....
things i don't rememberi.
what you sounded like
as my ears were forming
what dreams or secrets
you confided in me
what pressures sunk
your proud shoulders
or the first time
i caused you
where i was when i decided
that your footsteps
should be followed
that your ideals
should be made my own
on my body
as i learned the world's ways
do not align
with our hopes
when i first
how my feet dangled
every time i wasn't strong enough and
how you made the world
how you were
figuring it all out
thought that life
To the BeautifulYou say we're beautiful,
Us who have been bullied...
But where were you while it was happening?
-I was watching-
You who say "This has to stop!",
There needs to be an end to this...
What are you doing to stop it?
-I did nothing-
It's too late now...
-I failed you-
LuckyYou talk like you always have a grain of salt,
to throw over your shoulder.
Every word is that hard cheese,
and they swing those whimsical wishbones much like carousels.
You're wasted on your self-image,
staggering down with rigorousness you don't own.
They're taking that steed and throwing horseshoes,
as if one of them might ring 'round your neck;
and save you from yourself.
You'll need a necropolis filled with pennies to barter,
and we won't lend a cent to save your sorry soul.
Your demons count clovers to kiss you,
gluing that fourth leaf to camouflage the truth.
They'd promise you an elephant to watch you die,
sucking sevens to keep you from entering Heaven.
And you can sing your superstitions into space,
but it's dead and empty.
Somewhat like the hollow shell you lounge in,
as the charms make you see spirits.
You say somewhere there's a rabbit dying to give its foot in your favor...
...but don't bet on it unless you can see that whites of its eyes.
VYou've waded through the worst,
child, so dry your eyes,
they've got better things to do
than drain the sea.
tie a ribbon 'round your wrist
lest you forget
it's only in the sun
that the shadows don't shine,
and if you say
please and thank you
the dawn will come swift enough.
(to knock you off your sodden little feet)
LightningboltsYou ease forward, prop your elbows on your knees.
The veins in your hands fascinate me,
like those aerial pictures I remember from school
of rivers worming through lush green areas of places I'd never been,
would never be. The curve of your back gave off heat,
the imaginary line where you ended and the room began
was too real, too sharp to be seen,
just felt. The look on your face seemed burnt
into the wood panel walls behind you.
You rose, pulling at your tie with one hand,
unbuckling your belt with the other, as ambidextrous
as a chef, as unsteady as water
spilled over dry ground. You tugged the belt out of its loops
and as your slacks sagged slightly around your waist,
you took both ends of the leather band in your fist
and swung it at my temple.
A blankness flashed up from somewhere
that I suddenly realized was always below me.
And in that vertigo
I came back to myself on the floor,
suddenly fascinated by the lightning-bolts forming
in the way the creases of your shirt
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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