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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
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
Dizzy Girl,you can't cure sorrow. The drops
on the windshield are swallowed
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with paint blearing,
though I do wish
there was an ending,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
recollections are ceaseless.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
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.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More