|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
FLICKERING A blanket drapes oFLICKERING
A blanket drapes over the room, casting a vacant shadow. It is uncomfortable, the way the air is a criminal that victimizes me. It flows indiscriminating and I can’t sit long with the gravity pushing up at me like a mob of pointing fingers. So, I light the tips of my toes like a box of matches that flared at once and burn my way to the flint. While the flames flicker, I see your silhouette shuttering back and forth then my breath is returned to me like an overdue book I never read. my eyes soak in the overexposure of you. I try to stabilize your image. But, when I approach, you are dissonant somehow not loosing your beat. And I began to strum the ratio of you to me. Trying to calm your image. However, it doesn’t respond. I play with broken promises and my instrument becomes a torch between my desires that is burning for you. I drop it to the floor. My dreams are becoming as unrecognizable as the fleeing rapist, whose face you’ll never forget. You are steadi
Shadow PuppetsThis is the light,
in which we meet,
onto the wall.
to imperfect things.
on a candlelit stage,
with slight of hand and shadow,
finding something real in
the things we made.
with suggestions of
a child's art once lost.
Disguising reflections of love
in the shadows that we tossed.
.357 MagnumIn our backyard, my boy cousins kill
each other from behind palmetto
bushes with Daisy BB guns.
In our frontyard, my girl cousins slap
their baby-dolls across the face
and shout at them to shut-up!
Inside my house, I'm standing on my tip-toes
palming the top of Daddy's closet,
my tiny fingers courting the Smith & Wesson.
Dancing with DaddyHe grabbed me by the forearm
pulled up the front steps
slung into our trailer
held steady to be hit
with his belt.
I ran in circles around him
missed the brown carpet
dangled by my armpit
his empty belt loops.
I Should Be Dead by NowApril 20, 2005
I wake up. My hands shake. My skin is numb. My vision is dim and blurry. I take a Prozac, Adderall, and Xanex. I can't say I'm happy or that I've ever been. I go to work. I drink a cup of coffee. I know that eventually my phone will ring and I'll have a tiny heart attack, so I take another Xanex. I go out of my way to the bathroom so that I don't have to talk to anyone. I sit on the toilet and bury my face in my hands, wondering if I should kill myself. Back at my desk, I take another amphetamine, and work a little, enough to prove I was there. At five, I drive home. I don't eat, answer the phone, or open my mail. I sit in the dark. I drink. I smoke. Finally feeling better, I stay up too late again. I fall asleep, or I don't. My hands shake. My skin is numb. I take a Prozac, Adderall, and Xanex. I was supposed to be dead by now.
Where Where You When the Princess Died?I was nearing the possibility
of approaching a reinvented Madonna
to slip a dollar between her man-breasts
when a crowd of gay men outsmarted me,
engulfing the stage.
It's just as well, I thought, as
the bouncy bare-breasted boy
returned with my drink.
Miss P (three-hundred-pounds of
hot pink) shuffles back on stage,
seems her legs were too heavy,
the shiny stuff too tight, or,
she's tossed back too many.
During an earlier performance,
she'd asked a girl in the front row
how long she's been a lesbian:
Since I was born, the girl said.
Then Miss P flapped her tongue
between her smeared red lips, and said,
oh, so you came out of
your momma's pussy—licking!
That was when I decided—
never make eye contact
with Miss P,
who returns to the stage,
props her left wrist on her
pillowed breast, and pants
into the microphone as if
back stage is miles away.
Miss P blots sweat from her forehead,
then she says,
Princess Di was
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
Hope in my Lawyer's Paperclip JarMy lawyer's desk on a normal Wednesday afternoon
is flooded with sheafs of white legal pads and errant staples.
Today is Wednesday, but the clouds outside
his twelfth-story window are shaped like loss
and the lines around his eyes seem crater-like in the shadows
and nothing about the last three weeks of my life
has been normal, so I don't know why it surprises me
to find his desk cleared of debris.
I wait for him in a silence that ebbs and flows with my heartbeats,
the zipper on my knee highs tapping against my leg like rain.
When he returns, hands filled with coffee
and the paperwork for a restraining order
against the man he set me up with almost a month ago,
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
"There's only one paperclip left in the magnetic jar.
It's bent like a swan."
I can tell, from the awkward shuffling of his loafers,
that he's wondering if he should have brought the Kleenex, after all.
He knows women often cry at things such as these,
reminders of the men they've love
Dizzy Girl,you can't cure sorrow. The drops
on the windshield are swallowed
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with paint blearing,
though I do wish
there was an ending,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
recollections are ceaseless.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
What Writers AreWriters are people from
both ends of the spectrum.
Those that know isolation
and the thoughts that follow.
Those that know enlightenment.
And those with nowhere else to go,
but deeper down the rabbit hole.
Writers are smiths of the word,
using imagination, experience,
and emotions to temper the
glass and steel we are given.
We fill the page with pieces
And writers are Gods.
Broken or whole or
barely scraping through.
We make you see our world.
We make you feel and care.
All with a bunch of lines,
which we have given life.
MICROSCOPIC THINGSAs a child my science class intrigued me.
I still remember the day we learned about germs,
organisms and other microscopic things.
I was fascinated until I realized
that I might smooch some
of these tiny creatures
each time I touched something,
maybe even entire communities.
I looked at down at the pencil in my hand,
then at my palm pressed on the desk.
I kept very still.
Even thinking about it now,
I don't want to move.
Keep in Touch!
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