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Set For Stunread the signs
see how they run
blind like fabled vermin
headless, and hen-pecked
but porcelain smashing
they call the comet down
and in the end it's up to us
like we always knew it would be
but couldn't, and still can't
perhaps as you least expect
like Commodus killing Germans after all
like alcoholic fingers stained with death
There'll be no escape for the princess this time.
Lord, Lady, LoverLord, Lady, Lover
Elohinah lama sabacthani
Fulfill your word, let me expire
and in this form, re-suspire
then I shall finish the task
for which I was self-created
The temporal mechanics
rock around the clock
closing the gaps
on the orders of the psi-cops
They're game for you
they've got all your numbers
selling tickets to the lottery show
That's not what we're here for
and you know
This can be more real
than a tummy ache
Let your heart break
until it is unbreakable
Don't be scared of the last part
we have the momentum
or we will
and dare to no!
when they tell you what
you're "supposed to"
thelema end low easewhy knot?
why know it? who knew it?
why no it? aye, knew it.
yay! neigh. decide to say it.
decide who said it.
nuit? hadit? left it.
but I can't touch it yet. why? knot.
unravel, and be it.
Found Ten Headsclock addicts keeping score
waiting for the next feed
in time for the starting line
a past disguised as the future
I scheme, you scheme
the war of line-drawing
virtual construction dreams
and something that was once
and shall yet be
(we're all secret agents, here in annexia)
slowly, so as not to arouse
the reality cops,
plead the 23rd
"it's all a game, right?"
We love you so muchand then she reminds you of what you[re] hear [for]
the secret wink lets you know
that it's all a stage
and shakespeare had it right
but no one understands him either
even he didn't
and it's going to be fine
even if the worst happens.
But you can't go on like that
"keep fighting my little loved one,
I'll only love you more for it,
for you are the greatest testimony
I could ask for."
how great is the movie that makes you really feel pain?
the science of silence.your arms form a barrier, blocking out all sound,
there is nothing but you.
you are the only thing that
can make a buzzing fan
sound like a butterfly;
a creaking house
like a lullaby.
moaning wind and soft footsteps,
tickings of clocks, downstairs.
but you made it feel like a soft cocoon;
a weightless wall of something golden:
"silence is good in its absolution,"
The stormCartilage-smooth azure extends
above bent heads.
Furrows s t r e t c h b e y o
the edge n
My WinterCardinals will
from the branches like
and the sky will turn to smoke.
The ground crunches under your feet and its
Almost as if you could
across the ice.
Brandished behind screens of glass
are fists of ivory
They are covered in scratches and
from the dark like magnolia blossoms.
The Vampire and His Servant I The Vampire and his Servant
As I fall on the withered ground,
I stare up at the darkening sky,
Tears pouring from my pleading eyes.
I want to be free from this hell
Light footsteps sound, stepping toward me.
I turn my head, slowly, the fear sending chills down my spine
Making my heart cold.
He walks towards me, his graceful legs carrying him closer.
His long black hair whips against his pale face
As a sudden wind makes contact with his slender body
As he reaches me, he kneels down in front of my crumbled body.
I flinch visibly and turn my head a
napoleon at sevenan old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
winter footnoteswinter footnotes
your elbows were anchors
in a softly-lit parking lot,
where you sang to glass and paper:
and your visions are quiet hills
your visions are shy sounds
your visions are sheep covered in frost.
like an old shoe-
that dry rasp
that leaves me covered in skin flakes,
brushed onto the wall .
I am the raised bumps in spackle-
ripped off with the sound of a poor phonograph:
in my chain link home,
a residual ghost.
losing everything i never hadit's an early morning as the sun is rising, stepping into my mother's room and moving towards her bed, careful not to disturb the dark shadows on the walls, or the lulling silence that's filling the steps between us, i ask her when she wearily opens her eyes, "why was i born?"
her face held no expression, and she didn't reply
she didn't reply
i might as well not have gotten out of bed today.
i might as well be -
and sometimes as i'm sitting in the passenger seat, i lose track of where i'm headed. i lose track of the fact that i'm moving, i'm moving somewhere slowly across a map. i'm moving with the world, and i'm just one person out of so many. so fucking many. i watch the rode beneath the tires blur passed us. i watch the clouds drift along with us, the trees look like ghosts. i feel the time move along with us, as the sun falls to the floor and gives up letting the stars take it's place. the moon has painted my skin white, just as i sputter out my words and let them fade
brushing the willow,
swallow many branches, while
brushing the willow
they hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat.
Scratch the bark,
they hear the
brushing the willow,
They hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat;
scratch the bark
they hear the
brushing the willow
satan threw me a slumber partyim tired
of you, and
im tired of
im tired of OCD,
im tired of poetry,
im tired of counting
and miscounting sheep,
im tired of losing my mind
to cosmetic con artists who make
more money than banks,
who make more sense
than a vending machine;
who make their mind up,
not minding their dirty,
oh, how i envy those poisoned Disney Princesses
im tired of blitzkrieg alarm clocks that snooze louder than me,
im tired of vinyl pinups (un)dressing up my hypnophobic lids
im tired of the poltergeist who keeps fucking up cushion clouds
im tired of my revolving eyelash nightmares opening too soon;
and im most certainly tired of the technicolor monsters
living six feet under my bed
the ones that scream me caffeinated lullabies,
beneath bedlam bedbugs, to scare me awake,
so i can daydream of dormancy
the next morning.
the crows have risen,
and the roosters snore
until i wake u
that said...communistication breakdown,
it's always the same (or different)
heaving the neural brake down
drives me in Sane.
it's always something
or maybe it's alternatingly not exactly
you're not watery enough
because you're frayed
afraid of their myths
they got you
I'll slide you out from under
Destroy your construct and make you
Then the enemy will fall,
with nothing to enemize
no violence to economize
Think of how palestine could be one.
How the east was won.
Let go and let the world embrace you.
If you don't, I'll make you.
It's not a contradiction
my silly statist fantasists
I'm not saying you're fantascists...
Just that the ant's getting in the way
The best defense is a good defense. Get it?
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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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