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garbage menThese mornings are the preludes of small town living. Daddy collects the long, homely road's detritus: the small scraps of iron coughed up by each devilish bend, the indefatigable furniture which sit sweetly at every awkward elbow. I stick my hand out the window in its permanently agape state, catching my own shreds of sunlight shrapnel.
Garbage is our mother. It gives birth to everything novel, and the inventor who discredits it is disillusioned with his configurations because he is a fraud. He does not know the majesty of the earth, for if he did, he would understand that the things we discard are the closest to who we are: the veins which give birth to tendons which deliver nerves and thus the very crux of inspiration are made possible only by the relinquishing of cells that make fingers, function and fruition possible. And, because of this, the man who discredits garbage is detritus himself.
My father beli
my head is animalEndotherm, I am not onethere is ice in my veins and as I look at him through my bangs
I see that he is the same, here in the frozen lagoon
Here's the smoke, here's his breath spilling
from the lipped flask that faces me
with sapphires that stare at me
"Gimme another one,"
It's lust, a lover my tongue plays so effortlessly
like a thief who could pass
for a con-artist, which is a shame
because the best ones are sentenced
to no escape; I was good, I had these thingsso many things
but right now I'll just remain in this haunted movie, playing
the last kid to die, scared legless
into the roaring cold
There's no fucking running away
I'm so tired; I bet I look cute
with these rings under my eyes
lying down, dying
melting into the snow,
a new skin under my skin
I hear him laughing
but I'm a ghost
the bed sheetsThe bed sheets saw Cambry grow up like voyeurs and wallflowers: masochistically and sadistically. Upon his arrival, they made room for the supple flesh that was the boy by shedding some of their own, cleaving in the center to form a pair of hands. These hands rippled incessantly with talk, with Cambridge, the small esoteric conversation, huddled in between.
Sheets do not know fear, but they know pain. As Cambry fought apparitions in his third year, his body struggled against the confines of its vapid cocoon, unthreading, disentangling, decapitating. Living, Cambry's body burgeoned with each brush fire, the destruction of an ankle an indicator of budding muscle, a blasted tendon the initiator of the symbiosis of bone and sinew. Dead things do not recreate except in excoriation. So, unlike the boy, his bed sheets laid torn and ravaged beneath his green body after days oranged by battles of Indians, Romans and ba
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More