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5 random poemsDaydream
At the sight of a slender neck
fingers tingle, minds lose track,
juices flow, the world turns black;
finally the eyes roll back.
Tolerance Is The Last Virtue Of A Dying Society
On scarlet earth grow the brightest flowers;
on ground untouched by death, nothing will bloom.
Wallowing in their infertile pleasures
the sybarites are blind to their own doom.
Withdrawal tremors run through brittle bones
spreading microfractures up the spine
from groin to brain, back and forth it goes
bursting through consciousness' Siegfried Line -
her ghostly image in ghastly flashbacks floats
above the fields of genocide where hopes
lie with their delicate throats slit
and dissolve in alcohol bit by bit,
until skeletonized memories are piled
in mass graves, and all the losses filed
in cold drawers that posterity owns.
Gods wade in guts and gore that runs down
their glistening armor in streams;
they conduct and compose symphonies and hymns
to their godly will out of the screams.
a song about my motherendless, remorseless, she carps and complains
about my failings due to the restraints
that she's put on me while my wings were to grow -
we always seem angry, about to blow -
in circles and circles, 'round each other we go.
It's always the same, mom, it's always the same -
but then I'll be gone, and there'll be no one to blame.
she's just a village girl whose dreams have drowned
in the noise of the Party, in doctrines bound -
but then even that had to come to an end,
no longer a comrade, no longer a friend -
if only she could see what has she become,
a child failed at life is her only one.
It's always the same, mom, it's always the same -
but then I'll be gone, and there'll be no one to blame.
she blames the fruit of a long-withered lust -
for the drunken years i've come to be the cost.
but i'm not a child now, i have secrets to keep,
i have my own dreams and a plan to sleep -
i doubt she'll understand, or even care,
when the truth comes out, on a table laid bare.
It's always the same,
With all her pomp and circumstance
came out the shining sun;
haughty, she heeds not the stars,
thinks she's the only one.
For dirt-worms, you may be a god,
an overwhelming light,
their praise obscures the cold, hard truth:
your mediocre plight.
Eyes from the icy water
in the murk below -
a fisherman found her
where the black weeds grow.
The river sighed, releasing
its old, secret friend:
fogs came to lure another
maiden to her end.
To Gods and Generals
Dirty faces, worn-out boots,
callous skin and hard-learned truths.
On their honor your glory stands,
your victory is in their hands.
Respect the grunt, for without his deed
thin air would be your skill to lead.
In your fake heart you let my roots seek ground -
barren earth, where no love could be found.
Then you pulled up the hopeful seedling weed
to toss it to your swarm of worms to feed.
Queen of Worms, you still infest my thoughts,
the corpse of a dream in my poisoned well bloats.
What lies have sustained will die in truth's light.
I hope one day you'll see it wasn't right
to play pretend like an empty child
and try to tame love, a flower so wild.
To endless streams and rivers I give birth -
but not red rivers of untamed joy this time;
no, these are clear brooks of bitterness
from my eyes that still remember thine.
Passion's red fades into grieving white
as I try to drain the pools of pain;
each drop is a love letter to no-one,
drying up on the page to leave a stain.
Hiába hoztam volna a csillagokat
lábad elé a vigasztalan égről -
nem kellett se kincs, se hódolat,
nem kértél az igaz szere
so the world didn't end, dammitPhotograph
a pair of bridal veils
dangle in moonlight
each weighted by a body
and two birds are in flight
indistinct, underlit pictures
dancing in my head -
they remind me of the nothing
that i'd have instead...
whitewashed in black boredom -
despair has gone stale...
i could try to do something
but i don't wanna fail.
I'll cover you in red rivers
to catch and drown your pain;
I want the naked soul of you,
the part they call insane...
Streams and brooks of happiness
crimson on white snow;
Petronius and Eunice -
together we glow.
Heed the calls you hear not with your ears -
the heather speaks, the raven, and the wolf.
Immerse yourself in the river of tears -
it carries you down when everything fails.
Feel the weight of salvation in your hand -
the cold metal pregnant with force and heat.
If you paint it red, you have earned the land -
cover it in gold, and you have sown defeat.
White as fine marble, you'll lie next to me,
cold and motionless,
She Rides the LightningStrapped down, made ready for the light
she smiles eager in the rapture of the moment;
her youth and the chamber are so bright,
looking forward to the white-hot current -
it doesn't judge her for her beautiful being
like this ignorant crowd around her did -
oh, the sheep! of her guilt they are bleating,
but from brave minds the truth cannot be hid:
she is simply different - a great sin
in this world! The spark she holds within
is soon to mingle with another spark -
light up her nerves, her blood, her heart and soul!
To freedom, through pain and through the dark
leather-and-wire dress: her bridal gown!
Your hand on the switch - now you hear the call -
and as your touch brightens up her crown,
she's contorted: the jolt's screaming through
the muscles and brain, beginning to do
its sacred work. A faint smell in the air
of copy machines and of barbecues.
The glowing pain is paying her fare
for the boatman on her final cruise.
Then you click it off and let her rest;
her silent heart tells t
4 wild thingsUnderneath
in deceptively tranquil forests it stalks,
in silence and darkness-covered beds it talks;
not in night, nor in day,lust never sleeps -
one days it succeeds, and the world weeps.
vomit some words and pictures from the bottom
of your rotting, gold-addicted soul -
dazzle the masses to cash in, make the surface
glitter to reach your ignoble goal.
garbage in and garbage out.
advertising hollers loud.
you think it's art, so deep and great.
oblivion will be your fate.
i smile at your derision and hate -
you might have more food on your plate,
but i have the treasure without a price:
my integrity no one buys.
leave behind the thing i need -
leave your body - bleed, bitch, bleed!
what's in your head, i do not care;
burn the costumes that you wear -
flesh wants to grind against flesh,
everything else is just trash -
all i want is to get inside,
so shut up and open your legs wide.
beauty lies still in the snow,
throat marked red by fang and claw,
Halfway VirginOur clothes on the floor
appear so carefree;
these breasts I never asked for
and your fondness of them scares me...
Look at my blue blood, in the syringe of a pen:
looking for a fairytale, disappointed again.
I lay with reality, she hungered for a touch -
I could give her all I had, but face it, it ain't much.
Staring at our moribund affair
a memory is the third in the bed
with cat-green eyes -
and birds are flying over
Train cars filled with guilt
carry me homeward -
where my dark peace awaits,
the peace you're so afraid of...
The overturned law is still in effect in my heart:
don't ask, don't tell, for I'd rather face
a hail of lead, than this torrent of questions,
You tasted like tears, down there.
Lulled into sleep by the endless road
I reflect upon the sins of the night
as the corpse of innocence grows rigid.
Lily and Mary sat on a tree
wondering how they could be free;
a cord for each, no ground to reach -
now they are swinging with glee.
doubly romanticBallad of the Lovers
Arrows of madness have pierced their hearts,
yearning's disrupted the tender flesh -
what regard do they have for the powers that be
when in the throes of passion they thrash?
They dance among graves on feet lightened by
love's maddening magic - they could nigh fly!
Above the bed of a hero they stop,
gown and girth to the ground they drop,
then in a bare, lovesome embrace unite -
the flame of their desire rouses the knight.
"How dare you to disturb a warrior's rest?"
He stands; honor's trinkets gleam on his chest.
Dawn will still find them together - cold,
covered by shiny dewdrops of gold.
The Cold-Handed Queen
Silver silence woven in her hair;
wherever she goes, a chill in the air;
majestic wisdom in her eyes of frost;
delicate skin as pale as a ghost;
soft and alluring voice that exits
a perfect pair of cold, bluish lips;
she comes to deliver with a tender kiss
each soul from pain into stillness and bliss;
hands of stern beauty the eyelids close -
she's the nobl
Cigarettes and SilenceThe soft snow settles like the silence;
I can feel the weight of both on my skin.
The lingering scent of your last cigarette's smoke
Still drifts through the air of my conscience.
The cold wind howls—I feel it cut through my clothes,
Reminding me how naked I am.
I watch the stars wheel,
Circle and swirl in the swell of night sky
And I think of the stars in your eyes
And the lies in your smile.
There is loneliness in my breathe;
It crystallizes in the darkness
And floats away like it means nothing—
Like I mean nothing.
I'm wandering and I'm pondering
How I hate that you've made me know
That happiness tastes the same as sorrow
And feels like cigarettes and silence,
Like the stars and snow.
Word ProblemsA is on a train traveling west at 60 mph. A is going to meet his friend, B. A can only misuse the things he has – A always buys a new pair of shoes instead of taking care of the pair he owns. A is careless with the words that compose his existence and is now down to one-hundred-and-sixty-four words; twenty-eight of them have been misplaced, snow taking the place of sleep and substituting happiness when he meant alone. A likes trains because they follow narrow, predetermined paths.
B is A’s friend. B is the synaptic connection at the end of a line of thought. B has accommodated A’s trajectory points of interaction for twenty-nine years. B has owned the same pair of loafers for the last eleven years. B has been waiting at the station since one-oh-eight PM for A’s arrival. It is now seven twenty-six PM. How many of A’s remaining one-hundred-and-thirty-six words will it take to fill the silence between them?
.you should have
emerged with life; your
little roots should have
clutched the soil in their
tiny white fists, and
i did not mean to trample
you, i did not mean to
let my body kill
.karma sits on my sofa
whiskey doused, eyes rolled up
to the top of his head, and he says
just do whatever the fuck makes
you happy, mate, just do
whatever you want
(what a terrible thing to be full to the brim with emptiness)
October Full MoonYour blood-red fruit in the sky let my soul flow,
You draw me slowly to yearning distances,
And while the crows’ croaks echo on foggy fields,
I travel to the stars, full of nostalgia.
The wind in the willows whistles with sorrowful flute tune,
And while I follow you to the destinations of our dreams,
I cast a glance at the scenery full of fruits.
From the depth of the earth, song and whisper raise.
Our love was already gone before it began.
I could only search but I never found you.
The sand of the hourglass vanished between our hands,
I had to get over the unavoidable farewell.
The gossamers of past dreams
Cover my thoughts like a web.
They make the brown-colored leafless trees shake
As well as my walk.
October full moon, take me with you on the journey.
Help me to fly to the other side of summer.
In a magical, eternal way
You and I will walk together under the fresh green leaves.
. live .
"I'd die for you."
“I think that dying is the easy part of life; for in waking each day and living in every moment, therein lies the challenge”
- Jeremy Aldana
"Dying is easy, it's living that scares me to death."
"All good is hard. All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity are easy. Stay away from easy."
- Scott Alexander
"I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart. I got tiger blood, man. Dying's for fools, dying's for amateurs."
- Charlie Sheen
"Yeah ... take the easy path ta gettin' away from me ... I'm gonna live forever for you."
Amanda © 2013
*blue ermin loop™ a singular corporal existence*
Image: "Scarred heart of a love junkie" by :iconKissTheSunrise: © 2013
GenerousThere’s this pressure building
in my chest that I don’t know
what to do with so I cram mason
jars with cookies, craft mix
tapes full of Americana punk, leaf
through used bookstores, looking
for a taste you never savored, songs you never
heard, books you never read and maybe
I can give you that instead of my feelings.
AsthmaHis apartment is an aquarium
but he needs a birdcage;
his lungs are shivering,
breath stuck like cold molasses
in his lungs. Sheets ragged as his
breathing tangle around the bed,
white waves surging, cresting,
His inhaler is in a shoebox
with the other mementos of 1976;
a bicentennial quarter, a flatcap
from his paperboy days, and a letter
from Sally Keepers, whose kiss
left him so breathless
he mistook it for an attack.
He’s in that Chevrolet
again, knees knocking the backseat,
fighting to breathe, inhaler lost
somewhere on the floorboard
and she’s kissing him, drowning
him, and he can’t get enough air
but he can’t get enough of her either,
blonde locks lashing with electric
current like a defibrillator
trying to get his heartbeat back to normal.
He rummages around the shoebox
until he finds the inhaler
and presses the trigger,
sighing to himself. It never
could have worked; she tasted like
This is not an apple - A FeatureReality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.
- Albert Einstein
Illusion is the first of all pleasures.
What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet.
- Woody Allen
Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion.
- Miguel de Unamuno
Morteguerre by lombregrise Reverie oceane by Esguelay Vita by GaelleP
riding on cats dressed in linen by Nabium Hungry Stars by Bark in dreams we meet by silvernium Skip Brooklyn Gambling by The-Mirrorball-Man
Life is a mirage; we run for it in the glare of our never ending desires. But it vanishes right at the edge when we start thinking that we are about to grab it in its true sense, leaving ‘Death’ as its ultimate reality.
- "Nawaid M. Sabri"
- by Anne Sexton
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
I am only a translator.
From the pictures in my head,
the language of monsters,
I am transfigurating words.
I am only a woman.
The visions impregnate my mind,
and I give birth to worlds to be described.
I am only a worker.
My true executives live
in the most luxurious tunnels of Hell.
I follow the instructions
through well-honed instinct
to produce them anew.
I am only a human,
using the peculiar art of speech
trying to communicate ideas
higher than humanity.
The trees are stretching their spines
trying to reach and claw the sky -
dig into blue flesh for an answer why -
extending greedy and curious vines
into the air:
into the lair
of the howling, swirling dead -
and inside your lonely head.
Throbbing lines on my body -
wet kisses, vicious bites -
the fatal lust of a woman
in these voluptuous rites
bursts forth, like a fountain
of my boiling blood -
she engulfs me and drowns me
in her scrumptious flood.
Silence Is The Song Of The Dead
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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