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burning bodiesand we yearned for something deeper tangled between bed sheets
but our palms were always split open, spilling malice.
our bodies, always in dire separation
even in scalding proximity.
je dis beaucoup des mensonges.
i tell a lot of lies.
we curled ourselves alongside icicles to bury the flames.
my waist still feels like a graveyard.
even after all the times you tasted my bone marrow,
you still have the nerve to say i'm not bitter.
our mansion is burning from the inside out
and we force-feed the desire with
prolonged gestures and held-breaths.
our combined scar tissue lies in a heap on the floor of our shrine
and the skin is nearly poison when we add our cancelled convictions.
i tore myself apart until all my limbs
seeped into the dirt and sprung dandelions.
neither of our backbones found forgiveness.
we are hiding in the crevices of bedrooms
behind locked doors
underneath all the fight we never knew we had.
this is how smiles tear:
my teeth are lodged in your ribc
16 knocks on wood1.
the moon disappears every 28 days.
it wanes & waxes in fractions; it's smart
enough to not try everything at once.
i have been taught that every 7 years,
the cells in my body will die & be born again.
this means the moon will vanish & reappear 91 times
before i will have skin free of your fingerprints.
Proud Lake is located in Commerce, Michigan. at the crack of dawn,
you can find a boy with a gravel & honey voice casting fishing
lines into the abyss. you will wonder if he'll catch a good one.
time knows no boundaries;
just benevolence that doesn't always work out.
once, when i was 2 years old, i choked on the leaf of a mulberry tree.
not every seed bears good fruit.
sometimes, something is so beautiful that you can't breathe.
sometimes, you won't even try.
my palm is roughly the size of a nectarine.
in Chinese culture, nectarines symbolize mutation
and mutation is a change in structure.
i still don't know what my hands are trying to tell me.
a boy named Joshua tol
palm readingsi exist in the city limits because i want the wind to make me frail.
fragile like a ghost,
a sorry sin i promise to abstain but inevitably commit.
my bus fare is a kick down memory lane.
i walk instead.
he told me i spun words that dissolved on the tongue
before he even had the chance to taste them.
he called me sugar like a midday ritual,
dressed me in compliments more fit for kings than commoners.
i turned complacent; comforted by new beginnings
and frightened by sudden endings.
my mother never taught me how to avoid heartache.
she only told me that my heart was a gold mine
and i should never let fake jewelry lay over it.
once, out of spite, i showed her my palms and asked what she saw.
she told me that in this world full of practice, there was no time for games.
when i showed him, he said that i am overworked.
now, it is the purgatory between autumn and winter that sinks my guts.
the waiting room lacks couches and candle scents.
the smiles are either plastic or
what it means to move on1.
he told me that if i caught the next train to Detroit,
he would grab me by the waist and take me to the
edge of Proud Lake in Commerce, MI.
holding both sides of my face, he would list off
all the reasons why i was the one.
i am burying this fantasy,
pulling the hum of his voice out of my ear drums.
if you were here right now, i would kiss you
he said before spilling gasoline under my car tires
and flicking his half-smoked cigarette into it.
i miss the taste of his nicotine.
i miss every strand of his hair.
we are both addicts.
his hand was the span of Orion.
in it, he held mine and squeezed all too forcefully.
i should have taken this as a warning; a sign
of love's tendency to strangle its participants.
i just want my best friend back
he whispered in between apologies.
my arms ached to accept.
some promises are better off broken.
i spent my 16th birthday reading the palm of his hand;
little did i know i was dyslexic in the art of skin.
his canvas was c
carnival ridesJesus came from smoke & moonshine
so whenever i blow out candles,
i write God a grocery list and
set fire to wax in the back of a church
with waning moons for parishioners.
faith comes and goes like carousels,
so i guess that means that i can count on clowns
but i can't count on light.
crack your glow sticks upon our congregation
like rainfall amidst the baptized first.
i spend more time in bed with myself
than i do whispering secrets into the
onion paper of Bible pages.
i vandalize hymn books with my favorite lines of poetry.
i never bothered to ask God if he was okay with this,
but i've always been apt at assuming too much.
maybe, when my father's language unfurls like a Persian rug,
i will relearn the taste of cotton candy & confection sugar.
i will build monuments for my convictions
to make up for all those times i just faked it.
maybe, like a holy convict, i will shackle myself
to good deeds that do not self-fulfill but, instead,
teach every lesson i
your name has a familiar tasteunder the moth-like hum of a lamppost,
your lips molded around hers like a cast
mending a broken wrist.
i stood motionless and watched
as her figure became shapeless,
conforming to your crevices and
letting your hands glide over it
like sudden rain clouds.
as i choked in the outskirts of your paradise,
i couldn't help but wonder if we, too,
looked this way before sickening ourselves.
as we multiplied in fractions and 2 became 1,
did the crunch of the leaves
beneath our backs realize the magic?
your teeth imprisoning my tongue for never too long,
my fingers shaping themselves to the curve of your neck.
our gentle caress disintegrated
like a thunderstorm to a campfire
to solemn ashes and broken twigs.
i first sensed your absence when i knelt in prayer
and your taste was not on the tip of my tongue. from
then on, i ritualized purging myself of every memory.
2 months later and you are still not ridden from me.
regardless of all this mess, your touch is still the epitome of content.
the love machinei never claimed to be bulletproof but people aren't guns
so when a boy shoots me a smile,
i shouldn't bleed out through firing holes.
maybe i'm a shell-shocked soldier, fighting
just so i can hold onto something.
there's a difference between holding on & not letting go;
the former has a lower casualty rate.
i collect the bodies littered on battle fields
in the hopes of surrender.
there's a difference between surrender & giving up;
the latter is something i have never been taught.
so i see the ugly in a boy who has Detroit, Michigan
pulsing through his veins. i watch the firing squad
take turns twisting his insides with ammunition,
see him coil himself into an automatic trigger
with ranges set to 300 miles worth of promises.
the force behind his release is worthy of statues,
enough to alter venus' orbit.
we lost each other somewhere amidst the debris,
the space dust and rocket emission, flailing arms and all.
he abused his right to bear arms,
wrote me love letters on the strap of his AK
the leaves on apple treesSir Isaac Newton discovered that everything
in the universe is gravitationally connected.
despite the distance between two objects,
their attraction to each other will never reach zero.
a lonely opera singer sheathed in robes with braided hair
in the heart of Sicily is pulling a homeless man sleeping near
the tracks of the El in Chicago.
in Colorado, a boy with seashell eyes playing basketball
in his driveway is pulling an elderly woman on a hospital
bed in Washington, D.C. back to life.
a blind man in Germany discovering the ocean for the
first time is pulling a newborn baby out of a house fire
wreckage in New Orleans.
the moon pulls the water on the earth’s surface to life.
the moon pulls the water on the earth’s surface to life.
the moon pulls the water on the earth’s surface to life.
Sir Isaac Newton thought about the leaves on apple trees.
what happens when they float to the sky, when the hues
of blue crack open to let the chlorophyll-tinted paper in?
can you tas
it was only under the weight of the stars
that vulnerability personified
and he floated into my arms like an honest promise.
we built castles with our mouths,
safe havens with our teeth.
after all this time, i still can't tell
whether he decorated my life
or vandalized it.
and i wonder if i will ever see him again:
painted and proud with those lips like royalty.
our walls are too thinsitting together
you can hear my heart hitting
against my chest like a broom to the ceiling
& the neighbor upstairs
begins to scream
the wind breaks a hole in my skull
you can hear my thoughts:
words whispered in paper rooms
& you have a cup to my ear
i am 16 now
but sometimes we forget that
we are not teapots or socks in the wastebasket
& the holes in our heads are not signs of well-worn affection
on unrelenting, tireless lovein this version, the trees survive
softly exiting the stations of breath.
somewhere, he opens his throat and claims the dark vowelled sky
and you reword god damning the sin of ink
when the movement of poetry within my body exhausts the moans
of inundated eyes impregnated by some other night.
tonight, tongue the quiet:
we pray the water's speeches against the oddity of light,
flood the dialect between ossified bones of grief
praise the good lord on idled knees
tonight, we levy the error of unbeing youth
and plague illiterate wars echoing tireless,
EmptyIf I were a road, You’d be a traveler
With a broken transmission, slashed tires
And a light that reads empty.
If I were a wreck, You’d be a passenger
With a broken windshield, bruised neck
And a face that reads empty.
If I were death, You’d be a victim
With embalming fluid, fresh makeup
And a body that reads empty.
fidelic whore-- this is appropriation
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that
the posture of your spine?
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
grieving skies release anguish
to make men whole.
the atoms collide,
stardust renews itself
light years away.
you linger amongst the stars --
space surrounds you.
a perfect body:
the natural satellite
with craters on skin.
a lone star wishes
upon a dying human --
the beauty of death.
thundering when touched --
the art of war.
like a fallen star,
you are devoured in the night --
heaven or black hole?
flowers bloom in my heart.
four billion years
of atoms treaded --
you shine brightly like
you are amongst the heavens --
thank my lucky stars.
curtains draw back &
dreams in colour are revealed --
act one: the rainbow.
heaven weeps --
mortals reach to touch
string of pearls:
sewing orion's belt.
wolves sink teeth --
fabric of society drips
red riding hood's blood.
in the dead of night,
the kill of life's left behind --
a light year
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
into a briefpoverty is the servitude of love, he says.
atlantic whispers to a time where this citied-desert
settled to dismantle the sun in a pair of eyes, fashioned oratory
and absolute- unhinged the moon to conquer its inheritance on a world
aching prismatic, dark and precise. these twinned sky-eyes sought
the softly hushed airborne lament of a divine girl; sold the orphans of gale in his chest
to uplift the quietude of her linear back, and weaved silver lining dreaming
to coiled smoke-breath, renting vacancies to stars unfurling
by her timely pacific death.
unsexed eleven consenting months, gentled the rough lining
of your spinal-coast chord and set sail on solarly winds birthed pragmatic.
our seaworthiness empties truth in fistfuls. the autistic dark of your eyelids
curtain the blink of settling dusk. thunder cries to stricken gravity, shocked stark:
i wonder when the youth of you proclaimed itself meek with unwary.
i wonder if the forc
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom pains
reborn into old bones;
oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -
what's it like to be a ghost?
five ways to kill a mansomewhere before stressing away
my baby fat, i read that five ways
to kill a man included leaving
him somewhere in the clutches
of the twentieth century without
a home to nurse
his tachycardia back
but they never mentioned
that grief doesn't always catalyze
annihilation in the hands
of your own desolate storms.
somewhere before whispering away
my horrible taste in music, i heard
that it's always too soon for the end
to be near because hope
is a once-in-a-lifetime dream
you have on the poker-night of a blue moon,
oscillating between the acrimony
of the high tide and the blues
of the low
but it never said anything
about a sunrise meaning forever;
it never did, it never did.
somewhere before writing away the rawness
of a shallow cut in my bilayers, i memorized
'if' written by the withered hands of
kipling. i memorized the four-stanza'ed
sentence and hoped i'd never have to whisper
it to the broken ears of a departed
but that's where you lost
your headstart to the metro
the lump in my throat isn't always a poema man with a scruffy beard and ice-blue eyes once told me:
when we love, we get angry when we are not loved the same way.
i wonder if he saw the hint of indignation,
the fragments of promises still swimming in my irises.
i want him to know that my smile still stutters across sentences,
that even though i haven't broken yet, i'm pretty damn close.
i want to ask him:
if an avalanche occurs when no one is looking,
will there still be a feeling of panic?
what happens to the leaves on apple trees?
if the piano is out of tune,
why do we bother dancing in the first place?
there is this lump in my throat that has not yet translated into a poem.
i think it's stuck there for good.
the human body cannot discard vitalities;
it is not designed to expel emotional things.
as he undressed me for the third time that night,
i tried to imagine what the moon tasted like.
my tongue kept clawing its way to the back of my mouth.
i enjoyed it too much.
now, his hands find themselves curled i
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
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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