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no longer the beast of your homelet go of my hair, you're keeping me on my knees in
this cleanly pit rank not with
bad reputation but manipulation laced with false and
misplaced good intention, i say
FUCK YOU MOMMA
fuck you, DONA.
tool poem 1The stars lay shimmering, shimmering
over the glassy sheen on his eyes
as he stood to face them full on in the chest
he reflected the whole sky.
Moon was an unfinished disk over his lips
like ultraviolet glowing white -
I've made his skin black like night and rich dirt
the swill of the soil in my teeth only pulling further his
from the nape of his neck towards me,
standing behind him in the mirror, I can see the cosmos
on the tips of his nipples
the skin of his teeth.
What else has he, if that be
but on his skin?
Stars lay quietly shimmering, shivering
on the glassy lake-sheen of his eyes
behind which lies
the tiny upside-down reflection of me
like in a glass bottle.
Ode to ToriI found your Simon and Garfunkel album under a stack
of old mix cd's, and thought
you are the bridge and the silent water.
Like that old Monet with lily-pads and soft moss,
you are the woman in light draped cloth I perceive
just outside the edges of the frame.
Byron said you walk in beauty
(though you like Keats infinitely more, Byron spoke of you.)
Shy and quiet (speak! you have more than you understand
that holds greater value than you estimate)
and endlessly generous.
You wait your turn, head down and unassuming but
and artist's soul (anyone who looks in your eyes sees)
tempered with the virtue desired
of a woman long before you or I were thought of.
You never cease to give of yourself;
before long, you'll be given to by someone else
worthy of your sweetest affection -
and, my lovely, Tori -
there aren't many that are.
BrigitteI have become feminine, with soft edges.
Less sharply shadowed with you pulling cover over me, I
curl around your fingers, slipping
falling through each hour dripping
sweetened with sunrise shared 'tween sheets that now are absent
from your bed.
My fingers are longer, nails are smoother
legs have gotten less mechanic as they're passed over by your hands,
I never dreamed I'd be as pretty as I know I am
reflected in your eyes.
This new curvature to my breast,
foreign, I feel, a woman beats beneath it.
I step light on my toes and you have your feet turned out.
I shrink and spend time at the mirror,
lining my eyes, I pull my lips to the side,
I fix my hair although you flatter
(know full-well that it doesn't matter)
stand behind me, kiss my neck.
We can transcend time to be traditional,
you widen and I cinch at the waist.
I Tried Your Vernacular FirstToo close to the finish
the song changes, my eyelids are lazy,
Slack, my bones sink into the mattress.
I want the music to stop, let me rest in near-silence,
only the sound of the wind in the ferns,
thick midnight, quiet speech,
an owl's wing-flap, screech.
Is it you, outside my window?
Are you the owl that passes by?
A stream of barely-consciousness says it's you that screeches in the night.
Right now, one foot in dream, if I say you're the owl,
you become moon-faced, feathery, and I am cowed,
calling for you in your vernacular,
reaching with two hands up, where the air is a little colder.
I put feathers in my hair,
one black, one white.
I am the contrast of your body with the sky;
you are the owl that screeches in the night.
biting the bitThree hours (post-adieu), I sit by the window.
I do want you badly, you're in my head
(sliding, slippery in my hands)
I'll turn over to you in the mornings, I become your bed,
threads in the sheets, lain across your skin.
renewal of purpose.really.I have seen today new.
Now I must pull with three fingers, rip the sinews from the bone,
slowly; I savor the moment, each that passes.
I am young and have no more shame for it -
I am young and the world is mine!
To tower in volatility, waver, I am widespread,
arms thrown out, I can hold the sensations
a little longer, choke, gasp,
scream, ecstasy, every breath belongs to me.
Why, I strain vehemently,
exclaiming under the tension, crying for release, yes.
I do these things with made fists and wild eyes, like you.
In youth, I have found a shame,
the uncontrollable wanting, reaching for everything but above all of the everything to reach for, on the highest shelf, freedom.
Now I may cry (for release, yes),
but I know I will be great, for I am young, and I stand -
tower in pragmatism -
full of arrogance-romance-exuberance,
receiver and giver.
coming up.assuranceDelicious, in between your lips,
intoxicating, sweetest drink,
to sip your open-mouthèd kiss.
That fullwide look behind your eyes before you close them -
blue surprise -
to which I answer with my limbs brown:
I'll hold your head, caress you down.
I am not
practiced, this way, it has been
far too long to be awol.
It takes many deep breaths before I pluck myself
like guitar strings (I'd play for you anytime) up and over
the barricades of self-defeat.
Confused at these new purposes, precipices, cliffhangs of
desire versus what I thought was
I've never loved well.
break at the last second, selfish with myself, bound always to
let the other one spread themselves out.
Rough, never have I pleased,
not even myself.
For you, I stepped out over the canyon.
With both hands extended, I expected to tumble quickly,
so I closed my eyes, at first;
starvation playing on my wits, I, emboldened,
wantwantwanting so bad to be that girl
(the one you breathe heavy after)
Yes, I'd Say You're Sexy.Young and warm, our
brown limbs wind around each other, I
push my heels into your calves and press back, into your chest.
Your hands grow into me, two circles above my core,
two rounds of pressure, pleasure, love and leaning
my head back, find your throat.
The smoothness of your back winding in tendrils over me
(like bark on trees)
is long to pour finger-rivers down when we,
breathe hot into the other's mouth, coming
together humid and soft.
With arms so strong and eyes so sweet,
tongue curling 'tween lips red deep,
you visit me in all my dreams,
when I'm awake, tug me to sleep.
Conversations with a madmanAm I mad? I guess it's obvious.
For you just believed you spoke to a planet.
So I'd say your insane, if you don't mind.
Well a mind? I certainly don't.
When I left this house,
I had such a feeling, the need
To kill myself.
But now that I have returned,
From my conversation,
I wish nothing of it.
I need a reconnection,
I need a re-calibration,
With our earth, the deceased planet.
Many view madness as a bad thing,
Something, some state of mind, negative.
However only through madness,
Have I found true, genuine happiness.
For what am I,
But a verbose thought.
Wrapped up in skin and sanguine,
Comprised of fleeting moments,
Faux truths and a
Personal spiritual ideology.
My mind a realm of chaos, undivided.
Constantly warping, changing.
A moment of complete silence?
I could never recall.
Yes, a pit of disorganisation,
But yet of organised anarchy
That follows no fixed form,
No certain structure.
Much like this current piece
That I have entrusted to you,
To happen upon.
Do I retain the right
The Dance.You and I dance as life and death,
unbroken and ever going,
circling and never ending.
As the music dies,
and the song stops,
where our dance is paused.
My sight goes gray,
the light in my eyes dims,
and I fall down forever back.
Your face is the last thing,
I saw and remembered so I take great comfort,
that you're forever there before me as I fall down.
So the music revives,
and the song restarts,
where our dance is unpaused.
The music is all around us and surround us,
like the lives we make and take,
and the dance is going faster to bring life and disaster.
The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Heart SongI am conscious of
Getting everything in my body going.
I can control everything in it as I need it
And perceive in it every single touch.
I love my heart as it is.
I am certain of loving it.
In my spiritual hand I take it gently
And I always pay attention to it.
It bounces and flutters in my hand,
Almost up to its edge.
My heart is beating incredibly wild
And I give it a calming picture.
With loving words I talk to it:
In a relaxed, peaceful tranquility may you serve my body.
I am full of gratitude in me,
All this love belongs to you.
You have always provided my body good
And I admire your everlasting courage.
In all fears, in all fright
You have been always awakened.
Through my body you pump the blood,
Even at very extreme anger.
All that always in love to me,
For this I thank thee.
I need all my life
Your everlasting song.
Until I have accomplished my work on Earth
And my soul will set out.
Please accompany me with all your strength,
Until the path is reached.
Till then, I will join
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
Passage to the Catacombs of TimeWhen day becomes empty
In the dusk,
When time without pictures begins,
Lonesome voices combine –
Animals are nothing more than hunters
Or being hunted –
Flowers are only fragrance –
When everything becomes nameless like in the beginning –
You will go down to the catacombs of time
That will open to those
Whose end is near –
There where the heart seeds grow –
Deep into dark contemplation
You will sink –
Already passing death
That is only a windy passage –
And freezing from the exit
You will open your eyes
In which already a new star
Has left its reflection.
baby stepsit was probably
celsius met fahrenheit
in a sloppy french kiss on frozen ground.
after all the walking,
the skin of my hands started to crack and bleed;
silence, i decided,
was the solution and the cure. i dipped
my hands into its glowing broth:
warmth suffused my body struggling
to sit still.
on marched the sun,
You're just a puppetI am everything,
I am nothing.
I am everywhere,
I am invisible.
I'm in your head and won't let go.
You beg for my approval,
I am light,
but you will never see me.
But you will never know me.
You don't know yourself.
You are lost.
You know what i allow you to know.
You're just a puppet, who thinks he's alive
You're just a puppet.
RevolutionChains and chains of hopeless bind the system together
No one feeling like they can change the world
No one feeling like our very existence is just vanity
No one feeling like there is anything to live for
Millions and millions of confusion in the air tonight
Fills the blue skies and enters into our hearts
Confusion and vanity is what the world runs by
Be this, do that, give this, believe that; all I can do now is raise my fist in the sky
As I raise my fist high in the sky, I shout a battle cry of life
There is only one voice that still stands out through the generations
I shout a battle cry with my fist in the sky; words that brings the world to life
Words that brings light back into the hearts of people from young to old
Revolution; time to end the misery
Revolution; time to show the world the true meaning of life
Revolution; time to show the world that true love exists beyond our understanding
Revolution; time to cry out into the heavens for love to come down
Revolution; time to rise
God.?This who concerns itself with
God. as opposed to (god)
is one-sided, only-faced.
Man made him in his image: many-
faceted and multi-functional,
Power in man's mind makes
(god) into God.
Creates one only one name,
bending a flow (a cylinder with no ends) to breaking into parts with flat ends,
much like snapping a tree branch
damming a river.
God is vehicle.
Creator (god) aside, God
destroys rather than breathes life.
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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