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In the QuietWhat am I to do
when every day is Sunday morning?
My eyelids droop into a slumber
I once knew all too well
and the sun outside screams cold and pain.
Where am I to go from here?
When I was a child,
the cold was a symbol of the things
I could never quite hold on to.
The snow always came too early.
I would catch it as it left through the back
door, creeping slowly as through hiding
from the sun, bitter in its nighttime failings.
I stood tall in my winter clothes,
begging for that blanket white and soft
and biting but in a way that makes you feel
Mouth shut tight, eyes bright and
burning with hope
that tomorrow would bring something
I forgot. It happened slowly, first with
to awaken to the light reflecting
bright and proud off the frozen ground,
then with apathy for the school delays
(it was always hard to find
and then finally with the understanding
that nothing could last forever,
not even the silent pl
Who WasIn early summer days Katherine would walk along the pier,
gazing down at dainty feet burnt black and tar.
No light to it.
Fishermen would watch her swaying in the seabreeze like tattered silk
flimsy on the gale,
whistling in tones low and reverent those tunes of yesterday
they knew she once loved.
They had hoped to be graced once more with that smile so radiant
and shining like a star-system born of her own
lips, blazing beacon-like.
Fishermen remember what no other men do: the softness
and beauty of girls grown old before their time,
the fragile recklessness grown gray and foolish and false.
Katherine, fifteen years in the making. She claimed to remember
her infant years, her mother would muse
over coffee, Kahlua-infused,
to a room as empty as her daughter’s own self.
Stupid girl, dangerous and beautiful
beyond measure. Devil child, sent to rid the verdant earth
of all that makes it.
Suitors came and went in lines of fire:
Adam, Jacob, Edward, John… all as uninspired
... and Other FolliesThere will be time in the morning for regret.
“We have entered the age of recklessness
if only for tonight.
Feel my bones as they move against yours.
Clattering under the weight of the bulwark
suspended above our heads,
and the ancient whine of steel
on glass, and the glaring truth reflected from within
of a million foiled mirrors. Feel me as I move
inside you, filling in the lonely spaces.
And all the words you know as
meaningless, and the subtle way I brush the hair
from your face, tendrils of light and silk and soft.
The unexpected tenderness of my hands,
rough like frayed rope and brittle brown.
The insatiable bitterness of my tongue
as it glides along yours.
Taste of this forbidden fruit and you will know
the value of waiting,
of keeping. Anticipate my every touch.
There will be time in the morning for disgust.
Follow yourself back in time
as the dead earth revives itself,
hacking and coughing through dusty morning
AnalyticsThere are parts of me that do believe
Your knuckles swollen and cracked
and gnarled like ancient roots,
calloused and rough
and ever growing.
Accumulating Life like arcade tokens,
building up to disappointment.
And the way you swagger in becoming
twice your age,
and the haunted-ness of your eyes
blue and gray and clouded.
The arch of your spine like a ladder to Dali’s Heaven.
Twisted, impossible angles.
Artist’s angles, sharp and reverent like
new age symphonies.
There are parts of me that do believe
shedding the bounded chains of solitude.
Parts that believe in you,
the easy laughter and aching truth in the way
you say my name,
bare-boned and unadorned.
The way you look at me with eyes like
illuminating every reflection, every
The simple truth is that I have loved you
in a thousand
different ways before breakfast,
and will love you in a thousand more.
Let me count them,
each by each.
Who Is and Always WasJacob thinks there is a certain romance to
silver-smooth like satin on his skin.
Velvet-touch animal furs like old Hollywood glamour
as he remembers it,
draped about feminine shoulders
perfect and white as new milk.
He inhales and chemical smoke fills his lungs,
thick and yielding like liquid metal.
It yields to him, slender fingers leaving
patterns on his skin: feather-light,
Jacob spends his nights in dive bars
and dingy coffee houses, the walls yellowing and thick
He orders grand parades of bitter drinks,
IPAs and Columbian brews
kept coming until dawn breaks, the sun peeking out
from behind the clouds blown black,
He stares at crinkled notebook pages,
pen poised awkwardly in bony fingers like daggers
in a dead man’s spine.
His nails are bitten to the quick, leaving little
to the imagination.
His skin like opals shining through clouded windows
thick with shame,
stale sweat reeking.
Jacob once loved a girl who was the World,
The HuntedIt is a place of mystery, of men
who reek of destruction and earth and
broiling sweat. Dark-eyed and leather-skinned,
crouching in the trees like cat-beasts,
coiled up in serpentine patterns.
Danger weighs heavy in the air, growing
with each silent breath.
In the distance, the open sea calls them
to freedom, crashing on the jagged shore littered
with shards of glassy rock, glittering like gemstones.
It is a song they know by heart.
Voices drowned and gargled, icy fingers
They remain among the leaf-stuff, the living moss
that takes them, one by one. Meaningless words
etched into their minds, insidious lies.
They remain crouched and coiled as the green
spreading spores into their crevices.
Far off, the ocean beats pitifully on the trapdoor
of the gods, begging for these souls
to be spared.
Its cries grow fainter as the men become harder,
statues of plant-life dreams.
Covered head to toe in grisly roots,
black and charred like death. Pride still burns
in their co
I Remember Your Breath on the Wedding Day MirrorD,
My earliest memories are of you. Organza and taffeta, snow-white Sunday shoes. The word they use is “family” but I am too young and too confused to understand. Thrown into a world you weren’t ready to belong in. I remember. They think I’ve forgotten, but I remember. I remember the vows, echoing. Empty. Colorless. I am the only one who seems to notice.
The menorah, glowing red-gold. The greatest warmth I’ve ever felt. Small hands rip apart newspaper-wrapping, exposing the treasure inside. I hold it up. A toddler’s book, carboard-bound pages. I frown, unsurprised. Mumble a thank you and chalk it up to another day of disappointment, hidden behind pretty, petty words. Promises echoing through an empty room.
He is gone much of the time, off to fantasy worlds of sand and sun. I am doing the best I can, you say and no one questions it. The screaming starts and I learn quickly to keep tears quiet, do my best to soak up the pools of Spaghetti-o sick seepin
Hum(an)Shut it out. Danger breeds outside
the box, pressed up against blackboard
chalk lines. Palms out, legs spread.
Anatomical, building block logic. Approach emotion
like you would science, draw up graphs,
color them in blue-gray ribbon.
Observe how the great lovers always die young
from the passion, the vodka and Powder that burns
their throats, burns their blood.
Fucked-up, coked-up sex, sweat like velvet
droplets beading on the skin.
Sex like that is never loving, never gentle
or kind. If you wanted to be fucked like
the animal you are,
should have stayed when you had the chance.
To be human is to be
safe, in bed by twelve,
debating threadcount and planning,
The slut in you will always seek
simple chaos, nothing more. Mouth to mouth,
skin to skin, bone
to shattered, bloodied bone. Teeth filed down to rip
and tear, consumption to satisfaction.
All speech is superfluous, replaced by
feeling: blood pounding gritty in the ears,
sparks spitting needle-fire in the abdom
Song of the Sea-GodsAbove all else, I remember the singing.
Cruel, pretty sounds
deflected off tongues, flecks of spittle decorating
the air in rainbow hues: bruised-ego blue,
They painted you life-like, filled in your
with collagen paint, acrylic humanity.
I never understood the appeal of being
empty, in some way incomplete.
You said nothing when the singers came
to make you whole,
remained silent as they fixed your blown-glass eyes
and airbrushed over the cracks
in your skin. I thought, if only we could all be
so lucky, so blessed
as to have an artist’s interest taken in us,
every last one.
I thought, I would cry tears of flawless joy if I could be made
so beautiful, so painterly-perfect.
But you looked on, and looked on some more
standing stone-strong as the song touched your lips.
The music of mermen, terrible and great.
I thought that I should speak to you.
I thought that I should know your mind, this one
so mighty as to face the sea
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
I amI am a body of glitches;
one measurement short of perfection
and a lifelong supply of malfunctions,
achievements in your eyes
and defeated failings in mine,
sparks between wires that should never touch
and the defibrillator restarting your heart.
An inconvenience of challenges;
the questions of aggravation
and uncomfortable lack of answer,
sewn seeds of doubt
rising neck hair from toxic green eyes
as teeth are bared in defence.
I am a wealth of chaos;
the first raindrop to condense
and last breath over crackled lips,
in vast, complex patterns,
the whisper of shockwave destruction
creating a chain reaction star birth.
An ambush of strength;
the refusal to give up, kneel or surrender
despite beatings and promises of execution,
stubborn tugs of war
breaking frayed ropes,
a falcon's uncertainly spread wings
in the halted plummet of her first flight.
I am a frustration of absurdity;
hyperactive hysteria bursting seems
and sudden uncontrolled laug
train station souvenirsthe vibrations of the train rumble below me;
the clatter of my teacup on the table creates
an urban symphony that curls through the air,
igniting a flare of nostalgia inside my brain.
it wraps its dark tentacles around my frontal
cortex, pulling me deeper into the distant past
as the train bears me farther into my future.
OriginsFrom salt and sweat we are born,
edges crumbling, tumbling into the sea.
From the day we come, we leave through tubes,
bit by bit
the desert forms from flakes
of sandstone skin.
We are the dunes, velvet grains sifting,
shifting. We are the air,
deathly dry, dying. Parts of us are washed away.
We ebb and flow. The sand is our ocean;
it covers our tears.
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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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