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a liveI only feel alive in barren lands,
Where nothing else can take responsibility for my heartbeat.
Hot, sticky fields of tall grass, and
Tiny wild flowers like toys in a snake playground.
Honey hair in braids, and
Cottage smelling milk.
Here I am a virgin forever.
But virginity is lonely,
As barren lands, snakes, cottages, and pledges of integrity often are.
The Birds and the BeesHot weather has come.
Summer has come!
And the lovely little lovelies unfasten their sepals.
Their petals spring forth in bloom,
swelling and flushing with color,
engorged with eager expectancy,
even smiling at the moon.
The bee boys gather, ready to lather
Rigid with lust,
they fly from their husks,
their honey-cave prisons,
their walls tacked with the sticky sweet memory
of last summer's infidelity.
They hover and buzz between the blushing flora,
examining, imagining, but not conspiring.
They sting in solitude;
every yellow-black fellow to his own,
and to each: all.
There is no need for your rhetoric here.
There is no need for your sweet talking, cat-walking, jabberwocky here.
"dimpsy darling baby rabbit"
"creamy fowl" rose clouds of creamy, foul persuasion.
Small game still knows when they are hunted.
Lord Byron died st(r)oking his own passion.
They begin their infringement on the petals,
tickling and taun
I used to be uniqueI used to be unique.
Kool-Aid hair dye and all.
Boys wrote my name on bathrooms stalls.
I swore at teachers.
I drank vodka behind the bleachers.
I puked at football games on cheerleaders.
I had black eyes and cigarette burns and soccer thighs.
I used to wear my shirt undone.
I used to have fun.
Now I own a 6 room house,
a 4 door car,
a water-dispensing fridge,
900 pairs of shoes
a self-inflicted curfew
sexually transmitted virtue
and many, many cats.
All this between walls painted in 6 muted shades of deja-vu
from whence I commence my pin-cushion voodoo.
I sleep in pajamas.
I set an alarm clock and my snooze allowance never exceeds 4 minutes.
I spend my mornings yawning
through thick oatmeal,
undressing in the dark,
having nothing to reveal.
I work in a bank
in an office
on a phone,
making friends with dead ends.
I come home to wash, rinse, and repeat,
undress in the dark,
Come HomeIf my ceiling were a two-way mirror
You would see a tangle of limbs and mouths
of beer, some mine,
Atop the shrine you built for me.
You would see me
Under a blind black sky
Although quiet inside, counting sheep, backwards.
Over and under and under, but breathing,
Hunting and seeking, but mostly just teething
Fired by a lake of dizzy barbiturates.
Your absence instigates me to recriminate.
I set fire to Magnolia State and become a patch of real estate.
For every one of those wiry claws there is one set of ecstatic applause.
And I live to please.
Because at least on my knees
There are hands in my hair
And the devil knows you're never there.
The swinging door.
The open sores
Will scab with the lake
And it all becomes readable:
The sun is astringent and the red of my blood
is contingent with the nearness of your bare back love.
SpringIt all can happen in the hour
Between the night and day:
The dead world is brought to life
As spring blisters awake.
The Earth inhales, its breath a surge
Through pores of ragged ice,
The claws of winter thaw and loose,
Surrender their device.
Crystal thrones melt with the bones
Of kingdoms spoiled by doom,
Now ivy weaves itself around
Like dressings on a wound.
The sleepy Phlox also ascends,
Now feels it has begun,
Breaks through the gauzy sheets of snow,
Climbs sun-drunk to the sun.
Within an instant all the world
Is changed from grey to green.
Though soon is red and brown again;
As it has always been.
And weeping willows mourn for death,
The Fall they can foresee.
For in the ripest apple sleeps
A worm with sinful dreams.
I did spend timeI did spend time
throwing my body over couches,
sighing deep from the belly
to sad music and murky martinis.
I was so heavy
I would crash land
at the bottom of long-necked bottles with
red stained lips.
But I have finished that crying now.
I'm standing, whole, in heels, somehow.
Calloused and glittering.
And I'm feeling rather cat-like down here off the wing.
Devils have romanced angels since the beginning of time,
charmed them stark raving naked in organized crime,
and they've all gone tumbling down, skirts in the air,
into forests of red fingernails, lost and impaired.
I met some new friends there.
And in this forest of frost
the burning between my legs has returned
stronger than stronger than stronger than
And it's become my new master.
In this forest of frost
I am the snow queen.
ima wear my black hood now,
ima wear my white boots high
find me some low-flyin angels
to join the dark side.
I locked my heart in a mahogany box and threw away the key.
There was no one to care for - there was nothing left for me.
My heart had ceased beating long ago
after years of misery and pain.
Through countless highs and lecherous lows
I became immune to pounding rain.
I walked without even my shadow as a friend.
Numb to all emotions that surfaced to my skin.
Knowing I would be alone to the bitter end
suffering the consequences of sin.
I was shunned and shamed -
bruised and maimed.
No one cared - no one knew.
No one bothered to change my view.
My life was a silent movie
of a language no one spoke.
With plenty of plot holes for all to see
and an ending of mirrors and smoke.
It was getting hard to catch my breath.
Surely death would be oh so sweet.
Addicted to the thought like Crystal Meth,
it skipped through my head like an erratic beat.
She stumbled upon a key that washed up on the shore.
Wondering what it could unlock.
Determined to solve the riddle and explor
RoseThe greatest romance
Lies in your deep crimson color
Your many petals
Softer than skin
Your sharp thorns
Cause me to bleed
My love for you is infinite
The pain you cause me
Is a pleasure
You may be just a flower
But your beauty
Knows no rival
You AreI am the moon,
And you are the sun,
I pale in comparison to you.
I am a student,
And you are a professor.
I cant keep up with you.
I am a snowflake,
And you are a blizzard,
I will never be like you.
I am a tree,
And you are a fire,
You can destroy me easily.
I am a star,
And you are the universe.
You are simply my everything.
I shrug into Harry's shirt
underneath my autumn scarf--
cologne on the cuffs bringing
color as I close my eyes,
the brown of his hair,
laughter, pine green.
Fingers on marbled buttons
smooth as the cream
he puts in his chai.
I think of him like rain on a Sunday,
a slow breath uttered in calm,
eyes shut to listen,
he is peace,
stability in grayer moments.
He is the space in my empty bed
I ache for him the way
I crave prayer and
the feel of a rosary.
Locks of LoveI haven't cut my hair
Since just before
I walked across the stage
Sixteen months ago.
I grew it out
Because, last summer, you loved
To run your fingers
Through its coppery threads.
That always made me feel
When you left for school again in August,
I couldn't bring myself
To get a haircut.
What if you came back,
And this time, my heart was ready for you?
Mid-semester, you told me that,
While you and your friends
Built your school's bonfire,
It was customary
That no one cut his hair
Or even shaved
Until the structure was finished.
I don't think I told you
That I let mine continue to grow
In your honor, except
I didn't cut it on Burn Day.
When we kissed on Christmas Eve,
You weaved your fingers
Through my silken locks
And made me feel beautiful once more.
I still didn't cut my hair,
Even after you left in March,
Save for the split ends
I trimmed in May,
Hoping to eradicate negative energy
But not wanting to let go of you.
Now it's September.
If I Were A Love PoetFor my Laban. For my love.
Sometimes, often enough
when my thoughts are consumed
with you- I find myself wishing
that I was a love poet.
Wouldn’t it be beautiful
to piece words together so artistically
that I could make people understand
what it’s like to miss hands
that have never held me?
Wouldn’t it be the damnedest thing,
if I could make a stranger
know how it feels to kiss you?
Sweetly, passionately, softly
Hesitantly- and yet all at once?
Even though their lips have never met yours,
Even though our lips have never met.
How lovely would it be
to sanely, yet romantically
explain to my parents what it’s like
to fall asleep with you?
We could tell them how you giggle when I beg you
to be the big spoon- because I feel like it’s to much responsibility.
We could tell them about the sleepy kisses you give me
at 3 a.m when you find me searching for
thuggish loverno more on love. tell me
instead of the hearts you've
beaten, and the way
they kept on
lukedon't leave me again;
the seasons flutter by with
the blink of spider web eyelashes
twirled around the pieces of
my decaying heart, molded
and renewed with the dawn
of your spring palms.
my senses spark in a
drunken flood of desire;
i refuse to wash away
our finger-painted memories
into the grasping swallow of
an atlantic undertow, but
the stale taste of vodka
sleeps under my palette.
you don't arc your silver
tongue to sip my salted
gums or latch your fists
into bird's nest tangled curls
--anymore, and the shivers
of shadows spin down my
splintered spine, the snap
of a twig between your
i'm alone; your cosmic dreams
and galactic eroticism treads
underneath another damsel's
breast, an arrow to her heart.
I wallow, naked and discarded,
drinking and drowning in the
alcoholic buzz of your sweat
on my tongue, all along knowing
you and i will never love again.
Old hauntsSomber rays of sun drift oer the cornice,
Melting in its exit, dreamless and breathless.
Flora, but not fauna, stretch arms along the floor,
Barricading gates and blockading fallow doors.
Its cold, laying hands on these stone castle walls.
Footsteps resonate, caught in these yawning halls.
But, at night,
Voices not my own echo down through the rooms.
Whispers round the bell do battle with the moon,
Asking it to wait.
Wraithlike breezes from the North rattle papers, feathers shake.
Theres scratching, clawing on the headboards. None sleeping, none awake.
Whittled wands cast little spells, spawning lazy earthquakes
And grapes on the vine listen to three witches wait for long lost mates.
Somber rays of sun plunge into windows, retreating to the precipice for fear of waking
an anxious, thrashing,
of restless widows.
They beg the sun,
Asking it to wait.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More