|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
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
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
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-
of me and youthe day you stopped touching me was the day i
stopped speaking to myself. and the silence nearly killed me
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.
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