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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
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.
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
neo-Freudian idealsin 1886, Sigmund Freud employed free association;
the idea that a sick patient, terminally crippled with a nameless plague,
could list off the reasons why his bed sheets had holes in them.
paraphrased: the art of free speech.
my mouth is a gun and your name is a shooting range.
damp grass, our backs, semantics.
the psychoanalysts say we establish long-term memory
by stringing it all with prior meaning.
a flurry of sweatshirts and ripped jeans, stroking skin
in sign language only lovers speak.
hands, tongue, everything else.
Freud said that sometimes, a cigar is only a cigar.
i tell him how smoke spilled from your mouth into mine.
stale breath and gentle fingers probing, squeezing,
i trace my steps back to the night we crushed leaves into potpourri.
the scent of cold coffee permeated into the forest,
the tree roots soaking up our caffeine.
i remember you most clearly in the heartbeat between page turns.
you are full and real, the lump in my throat.
you are the holes in
flight riskwe unfold wooden fans; a dozen hidden splinters
in the blades, cutting us before we have the chance.
you drew me in like a stringed balloon, your smile
faded into the wind - a daffodil breathing poison.
little black books bearing burns; we scraped
our knees on sandpaper with boredom.
laugh, you said,
and i did.
the clunking of an out-of-tune organ. the ritual
of a thousand horsemen galloping blindly into
a forever that won't last. the tousled manes of those horses,
how they vanish like inevitable sunsets.
there is an ache where your eyes once were.
i brush it out with the fans. not even the wind can
scatter the memories.
Farmington Hills, MII.
i have this tendency to hide behind tall buildings.
skyscrapers are home, but your lap
is the most familiar place i will ever know.
when Thomas Edison invented the light bulb,
he did not account for your smile.
the brilliance of the two can blind,
subsequently terminating his patents
and deeming light fixtures illegal.
every time i'm on the highway past midnight, i'm reminded that
the difference between us is a 300-mile span of lampposts.
i'm sure that Thomas Edison didn't consider this, either.
if he had, he would have used that mind of his to invent teleportation.
he wouldn't want me stranded in a bed too large for a single body,
shivering with thoughts of damp fields and crunchy leaves and interlocking fingers,
mumbling about how quickly we turned upside down.
still, i think of you in the moments before i do something brave
like tell a secret or hold someone's hand during a movie.
you taught me that forgiveness comes in floods.
my eyes are a tsunami-tide away
the art of leavingtimes like this, i am convinced that we were just faking it,
how we traded dreams and comfortable anatomy
for secrets and messy closets.
it is nothing less than an unmistakable truth
that our coils are curled around each other
like infantile fingers:
all passion for passing time, no direction or destination.
we were consumed by our desire for warmth,
by our shared ability to extract smiles and steady breathing.
we taught each other the art of leaving
and because of this,
my name jitters caffeinated on your tongue.
i am combing through my bed sheets
in hopes of finding the salt i shed
to decorate my wounds with stings.
the process of healing is one i am continuously beckoned into perfecting.
i have already tricked myself into believing i do not need you;
i have already forgotten the shape of your face.
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
it confused you, the way i carried myself like an anthem.
my honeysuckle hair folded around my face in a frame of
concealment; the way i brushed foreign words across your
tongue like a series of revivals.
we were a resurrection hiding in the shallowest of waters,
so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when we drowned
our worth in glorified tears and cheap vodka.
addiction is a dirty trick: you
with lashing language and all that weed.
me with watching it happen.
it saddened me to mention you, the way our skin absorbed
the hope of every tomorrow in just one night.
how we built castles fit for royalty from each other's morals,
yet abandoned them like stubborn subjects.
we tethered ourselves like two anchors destined for an inevitable shipwreck.
smile, you said.
it's not all bad.
and i can't help but wonder why our interlacement unwinded.
your lingering taste holds me back.
the possibility of meeting again for the first time keeps me going.
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
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
drinkdrinkdrunkanabolic alcoholic, summer
of watching you soar through
hammock seams and i had
almost found your reluctance
but then liquor dripped
and ran rather deep -
mounds of molehills
you drained with coke
vodka leaked jaws and i
told you the dreams;
the heights summer had
-ment etched in your
left cleft joints
so swallowing, wallowing
in catabolic ache
liquid froze at the
nape of your
neck and this white-red-pink wine
you love somehow
stole summer's dreams
and winds and thaw.
bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
Like this, you come to
me; moonlight on water,
a desert mirage, only
In dawn, you are
aglow: the sun becomes
a wisp of dream, like
an apology letter to my body.i am sorry,
i treated you like disposable napkins. like cheap china, or a rug feet have worn the 'welcome' off of. for treating you like fast food in a landfill and for letting others treat you that way too.
most days i can't look at you in mirrors,
when i should be writing you love letters .
i have deprived you,
i have scarred your passages and eroded your halls.
i have let your sacred places be defiled.
you are a country i have never learned to call home,
a language no one has ever spoken.
i made you into a map i told everyone not to read,
planted railroad tracks like break crumbs, like my flesh was an industrial revolution i sometimes follow with my fingertips.
for the days my stomach became a ghost town,
my mouth a forgotten portal.
for the days spent with two fingers down my throat
like the trigger of a gun reversing the cycle of food.
i'm sorry for the nights i didn't sleep
and the days ballet became punishment.
for the days every muscle felt a
white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
the rainchild, the skin dripped from his fingers & the blood beneath was clearer than the truth, rivulets of rainsong pouring down the storm drain straight to the pacific ocean ; he never needed to cry. "the clouds
shed enough tears for all of us," he told me once and i remember
when i first met him, those arms outstretched & palms like little pools, oases running through lifelines. the fortune teller told him he would only live as long
as the storm
"it's the water in my veins," he said; "it washes away the stardust & we are all drinking our ancestors' ashes, did you know my grandfather tasted," he said, "like raspberry cordial & did you know that freckles
are like nebulae & your cheeks are full of moonlight, did you know that thunder
only claps after the lights go out?"
when i was young i counted miles in the silence before those soundwaves drowned my ears in rumbles. the longer the silence the farther the light & now, my voice is racing to catch up with your radiancy. sometimes we can see but we
a guide to her sadness.her wrists are wishbones she breaks for luck,
not knowing there is no luck in the break.
her veins are unanswered prayers
her lungs an apology sent as letters to heaven,
hoping God will forgive her for being a continual disappointment.
her head is a phonebooth for all the thoughts nobody's picking up on.
the the sadness is sinking her again.
so when she leaves at midnight to longboard to the ocean,
go with her.
when she tries to climb bridges,
don't let her.
when she's drinking cold tea and playing daughter,
it means she's trying to pull her head together.
when she's in the bathroom praying to the toilet,
decide to knock.
when she avoids you,
hide her blades.
she doesn't have the will to fight anymore.
so on the bad days, fight for her.
the planets threw us into battlewe skipped over the crack of dawn, whispering
about trivialities and the span of your arms; how
they held me like a dandelion seed holds desire.
lover: once, amidst a hurricane of blind love and inexplicable anger,
i rushed down the highway like a bullet from the loaded gun of
irrationality at 100 miles per hour. i was headed toward the tail-end
of the first semi-truck i could find. your arms became my seatbelt,
fastening themselves around my waist like loyalty. i startled myself
out of disillusion and drove back home.
under the bite of a lone lamppost, everything goes sour.
my mouth no longer moves with purpose or joy. instead,
i catch myself wondering when my bones will stop striking
neptune's surface, creating more cracks for us to skip over.
i told you,
lover: i am a soldier. i barricade myself with rusty metal,
scatter moon dust with the brush of my fingers. neptune
is 30,600 miles in diameter but i will crawl it on my hands
and knees until we reach for
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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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