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somniMother had lost her ebullient humor. The sores had taken her smile away, and the storm clouds, having broken the tenets of time, pigmented her complexion with hues of age, leaving her weary among her timeless sisters. Her children, born without father and thus selfish, found love in only her jewels: in youth, they'd observed the strange sparkle of her skin and, beguiled, asked to borrow some of her oil. She nodded her consent, and nodded once more when they returned, desiring more. In their cities, her children, now grown, twinkled. She was content.
However, those who she'd given birth to and lent her shine soon realized that the business of sparkling was capricious. Their cities, which once rivaled the stars for brightness, had flickered out. They returned to her for oil, but grew cold when she whispered, with pleading voice, that she had none left. They thought her dreary skin a fa
Riley There is a distinct difference between lost and wandering. Most people, they just think they're lost when, really, they're only wandering. Sure, physically, they might be misplaced--out of range of whatever they're looking for or whoever's looking for them, but that's exactly it: they're still looking for something. Someone's still looking for them. A connection exists--it's just that they can't see it. I used to always think that I was lost. That, because there were twenty-eight hundred miles between me and home and I didn't know which road would take me back and which would take me further away, I was lost. I was wrong. My heart still knew a home, and although I didn't know how to find it, I knew that when I did, I would know.
When I stopped remembering what home felt like, that's when I became lost. Disconnect. It wasn't a mat
sound constellationslittle misses with ballet shoes (banana peels) dance to
the lines of idioms made upside-down and queer
by the beat of rainfall, each drop
a silver streak in the air
the factory-air streets
shiver in delight, their smiles like
music caught in chimes--
a wrinkle in genetics.
boys from another town
with smart fingers and lips that
fly kites into upstairs windows
a song of hard-lighted rooms that taste like
emptiness, like copper and nickel and
empty cups that ring with the sound of conversation
which the lilacs on the side of the road listen to as lullabies
before their slumber is disturbed by gasoline and
chanting city bells;
in the distance birds sew the sky
lines where their brother-sparrows step to receive
the brittle kisses of
thunder and dew, threadbare like the
plumage of others lost in barbed wire.
gargoyles watch with
yawn as dew laces to make
the girls with banana-peel shoes continue to dance
as lost oranges ro
moon housesTwinkle, twinkle little star,
A star in the sky. An exploding star. So terrible is the evil that hides in beauty. Neighborhoods stood still and reveled in it, eyes tantalized by the little sphere of light that disturbed the thick night sky--a crack in the heavens. Every few seconds, the prismatic mass would swell, and then draw back in on itself, as if gasping; it had its own pulse. And then--
And then the dust fell.
How I wonder what you are.
For a long time, all people saw was the star. It was a painfully human quality, this obsession with light, even in a time when light was deceiving. The same parents who stood in wonderment that silver-tinted evening, eyes taking in the colors but not the chemical reactions that took place behind them, regarded their children in the that manner; they were blinded by the radiance of their smiles, the twinkling of their eyes, and
secrets (movie stills)Listen to me, and listen close. This is a story hidden between trees and their branches, between ghosts and human fingertips, between innocence lost and
Listen to me and simply listen. Clear your mind of that maiden's kiss and the way your gentleman-to-be stroked your cheek, of that crack in your vase and your broken doorbell. Think white. Think grey. Think nothing. Think seashell air and foam kisses. Think sound, sound caught in leaves, leaves caught in earth, earth caught in spinning.
See beauty and see elegance and see the way the sky wrinkles like your palm--the way your lifelines run like the birds. See the pale white of eggshells and the harsh green of age-old trees that whisper in roars. See wardrobes and see windows and see attic doors--portals that exist solely because you believe them to.
Leaving is a beautiful thing. Do it delicately.&
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
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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