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I fell from the sky when I tried to kill god.I gathered wild grief stricken boys
And stored them in glass jars
Their moon shine eyes hooded,
Under the train tracks red light glow
Much like the local strip of neon slit sidewalks.
I realized I was not so much the Doreen in my queer little life
So much as I was Esther.
When I’d take slugs of cheap wine whilst reading the classics
And writing obscure essays and analysing dead poets
Licking the burgundy liquid from my wrists
And mopping up the spilled ink
With my frayed sleeves.
The autumn air smells of rot and I can’t help but reminisce
About bonfires in old abandoned warehouses
Where we’d run across open fields that split the sky
Open and twisted it into
Something like a looking glass
Except there’s no fire in your eyes.
Just watered down sonnets about girls who work at diners
For minimum wage, who get into cheap bars,
And drink martinis with rich business men.
Maybe we were born to be the lost generation
Or maybe silver linings
Are just the silver refract
The unabridged memoirs of a teenage drop outI’d be lying if I said
I didn’t want to spend those nights
Watching the moon hang between your pupils
Like a cadaver strung up high and dry
In the brittle November air.
But there’s something about that road kill smile
That was too fast, too cruel
You were intangible and indistinct
In the way you’d shake your cigarette packet
Hearing the contents rattle like a self-contained thunder storm
You were always like that,
So painfully self-aware you tried to suffocate yourself
In such a way that it was neither poetic nor beautiful
Rather disjointed in mathematics and skewed logic.
You were not romantic or tragically beautiful
You were a boy with a spine that could fracture the sky
If you pressed against it at the right angle
You had †hands like braille
That shook when you thought you were alone
Slumped against a wall in an attempt to look blasť
When clearly there was a witch hunt seeping through your bones
I saw the way the knee jerk reaction
Of your carefu
The older we get the better we used to beAll we ate that day were 3
To stifle the anxious shaking
Of our palms or
At least produce excuses for
The anxiety rustling beneath
Our scarred veins
When did the diamonds
Leave your bones
And for how long have
You been expiring without them
When did the construction
Of your false reality
Finally fall through
The fragile infrastructure
Of your factitious commentary
Lack the physical manifestation
Of your laboured breathing
Perhaps it's best if we ache
For magic and other childish things
Because the world hurts our eyes
And I don't want to see anymore
The skies are pressing against
Our glass houses and
The sun is bleeding over the rim
Of the bathtub
It's slow dripping
Pelting out a funeral song
.I wedged the remains of your bus ticket veins
And chloroform sticky notes under the floor boards
Concealing them, out of sight out of mind, but I swear
Sometimes at night I can hear them crunching
Vowels like bones between their molars
Aching for the flesh and thesis of pretty little girls
Filmy and crackling like static between the slopes
Of your shoulders, those quiet spaces between
The short lived confessions and pulpits of your
Half assed convictions and lovers trysts.
Hardly left any room
For the gods to reside in the pieces of heaven
That you scattered across the carpet
Of your apartment floor
in hopes of catching angels between ash trays.
The boy who hides in drugstores and late nightsBlindfolded airwaves hide his forest veins
Where not even the moon can touch the lonely heart
Resting on his tightly buttoned sleeve
Insomnia drawn deeply into the creases of his eyes
Galaxies humming in time with his stuttering heartbeats
He hides behind nightlights to burn out his demons
Because the devils in the detail
and he's one hour away from tearing down the sky
Splintered amber bones searching for serendipitous moments
He longed not for the stars but rather
For those moments where the horizon kisses the earth
Bonfire irises with a knack for chasing time
Longing for the sun to seem real again
Carving his name into walls to be remembered
As the boy who went down swinging
Been there, done that, got the fucking t-shirt.I left my conscience on the doorstep along
With my battered red sneakers,
As we curled ourselves into the floorboards of your attic.
Letting the dank air suffocate,
the screaming angels
Residing in the back of our lungs.
Aching to be burnt out with surges
Of nicotine fueled suicide.
We we’re the type to store pain in ounces
And place them in jars,
As though they held some kind of worth,
In a world in which pain is the latest trend.
Teenagers are the hormonal disease spread out like
A plague, that everyone grows out of
Or at least can medicate.
We were the lucky ones, who made it out alive,
Or so they say.
A chip off the shoulder
A fish in the sea
We we’re nothing special, just burnt out carcasses
Trying to get by.
We’d spend our days on concrete rooftops,
Humming constellations under our breaths
Hoping for our dilated pupils to focus on the ground ahead
And not the oncoming traffic.
I asked you what meeting me was like
And you replied
For the girl with the ashen heart and jackdaw grinShe was the girl with the autumn limbs
All wildfire eyes and bonfire lips
Aching to tear the tress into a clamour of sun beams
And crackling breaths split the sky into a smile
She had forests sewn into her veins
All thick grooves of amber and phosphate
Etched into the curves of her spine and empty synapses
Feline limbs and a lone wolf persona
Hangs on the slopes of her mountain range collar bones
She was the girl that you’d search oceans for
Her glowing fingertips and bird wing bones
Fleeting like the winds got hold of her aching soul
She’d paint constellations on her rib cage
To make the star strewn sky look a little less lonely
suburban filthMy life is a joke and
I’m not laughing anymore,
But I swear I’m trying
I really am-
it’s just that
This town has ingrained itself
Into my lungs
To the point where
Pollution is anally fucking me
And that’s not poetic,
But it’s true
and it’s honest
But honesty is over rated;
And the truth like god
sounds better in theory
The tragedy of the mook and how it died one dayThe fickle sky presses
Against the glass of the windows
And the dry strung up heat of the winter sun
Spilled over the anemic asphalt
Our shadows seared into the bottom of our sneakers
Moving with a sort of blithe nonchalance
Searching for the speckled grey of a familiar horizon
The apathetic footsteps and my clenched hands
Quiver beneath the setting sun’s bloody smear
Across the over populated sky
That was no longer clear
Rather it was the looking glass phenomena
Spread eagled across my retinas
And during those grief stricken days spent
Hanging off your rooftops and skylines
I've contemplated replacing
my heart with another
Liver so I can
Drink more and care less
And I can vow that sleeping is only
For the dead or at least
The heavily medicated and sadly
I can no longer tell the difference between
or maybe it actually is.this
a love poem:
this is not about
me and how i hate
the way realism tastes.
this is about you.
this is about how you
are one too many shades arrogant,
how nearly every night you
try to forget that time has
left you behind. this is
about your laugh and the way it
whispers "i can't remember
what i was like before i
became this." and,
if i'm being honest, this is about
how i will never see your too
cocky for your own damn good grin that
makes me go weak in the knees.
this is about you
and how you're not real and how i wish
to god that i wasn't either.
why we pity angelsto him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
Once Upon a Carcass,I loved her like the flaws in barbed wire;
it stung. & I needed to take her castle ribs-
but I was jealous of heaven.
She spoke through her bones.
She: a beautiful decay
draped along my apartment,
& the mess of my mouth.
When she left,
I cried big ugly tears
for the First Aid of her
I needed Draco.
I needed her.
“Is it sweet?” She meows even still
with all my self-doubt.
This thing, I must not feed it-
As I still long to leave galaxies
along the length of her entire bed.
Stitch and OverwhelmThe only thing I noticed when I held you
was the feeling of your ribs pressing into me.
My arms wrapped around you tightly, too tightly,
feeling your trusting bones give and bend in my grip.
As you clung to my dress, I tried to keep my fists from clenching.
You gave me a flower when we went to the beach
that I still have, half-rotted, in an old shoe box
along with a dead cricket and a forgotten promise to myself
that I would always keep my head.
When you told me you loved me, I jeered at you
because I couldn't manage to admit I was weak.
I remember the look on your pale face:
retracted, like you'd seen my soul for the first time.
I always wanted to break you; it was my only goal.
You were just too easy to snap, to crack, to rip apart,
to blow away like twirly little dandelion tufts.
Every time you whispered into my ear, I imagined
biting your lips, tasting the blend of our blood,
to prove all the things you never meant to me.
I don't remember much about the night I killed you.
the invisible wounds of warhome is so different when you're
standing behind the wall;
i wonder of the people who
live/will live in that house now as i
stand yonder on the neighbor's
my face illuminated in a yellow
i wonder if they'd listen to my winding
stories; the nights i'd scream
back at my parents as they screamed
at each other -
the tornadoes and storms that ripped
through the back yard, leaving us untouched
but devastating others -
the christmas and easter mornings, good
times and bad, dreams and heartbreak
and so much cigarette smoke staining
the walls and my lungs.
(we were a good american family with
good american values and traditions,
i wonder if they'd listen to my twisting
roots, sitting calmly as i'd tell them
of the horrors of standing naked
in front of my mother to have her tell
me my body was wrong.
i've always been told that people
abuse in myriads of ways, but never
that the walls of my old home
would abuse along.
our walls are too thinsitting together
you can hear my heart hitting
against my chest like a broom to the ceiling
& the neighbor upstairs
begins to scream
the wind breaks a hole in my skull
you can hear my thoughts:
words whispered in paper rooms
& you have a cup to my ear
i am 16 now
but sometimes we forget that
we are not teapots or socks in the wastebasket
& the holes in our heads are not signs of well-worn affection
I do not like you poetsI do not like you poets
breathing into my sorry head
like the air hasn't been wasted a half-a-million times
folding up my lungs
to place them neatly into a wastebasket
how can you make me stop hurting
& then just leave me
a limp lettuce leaf
on the backside of some dirty napkin verse
I am not the jealous type
but I'm going to call up Melpomene & ask her where she's been
send her drunk texts
because I'm too tired of filling up my skull
with cicada skins instead of led
while you make it all too easy
to sleep through a heartattack or two
my pygmalion, my god, my thing of legends
when you were being taught the siren's song
was I writing myself a migraine?
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
five ways to kill a mansomewhere before stressing away
my baby fat, i read that five ways
to kill a man included leaving
him somewhere in the clutches
of the twentieth century without
a home to nurse
his tachycardia back
but they never mentioned
that grief doesn't always catalyze
annihilation in the hands
of your own desolate storms.
somewhere before whispering away
my horrible taste in music, i heard
that it's always too soon for the end
to be near because hope
is a once-in-a-lifetime dream
you have on the poker-night of a blue moon,
oscillating between the acrimony
of the high tide and the blues
of the low
but it never said anything
about a sunrise meaning forever;
it never did, it never did.
somewhere before writing away the rawness
of a shallow cut in my bilayers, i memorized
'if' written by the withered hands of
kipling. i memorized the four-stanza'ed
sentence and hoped i'd never have to whisper
it to the broken ears of a departed
but that's where you lost
your headstart to the metro
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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