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The Art of ForestryIf it were only appropriate to speak
of a single touch, of what it means,
of what it feels.
Our forearms graze and so I hold very still,
I never want to lose a second of
you against me.
My entire being shivers along the
shores of your skin
and all of my nerve endings are electrified
when I imagine our relationship evolving into
lilac limbs, freshly kissed lips, and
lieing next to you on rainforest floors.
We create a completely nuclear reaction,
a mixture of fusion, friction, and fascination.
So believe me when I say, oh boy I love you,
I really do,
yes, I want you so,
closer than tires upon pavement,
and like a car you turn into me,
and like a car you take me places,
you even take my daydreams to extraordinary realms
where I wake in the midst of the woods,
the air is slick and crisp
and I can feel your muddy, autumn hands
dancing along my flaking, fir tree flesh,
the dirt runs damp between our toes
and we become nothing but creatures of the forest;
living off each other's lo
can't breathe, at least not steadily,
paint me turquoise
or be the forest to my fire,
actually I'd rather you were nothing, at least nothing to me,
now I can feel nightfall coming upon the manifestation of a July moon,
so let's let those clouds burst and rip wide open
just as though the clouds were my organs and
the rain were my blood.
And I will Always be the MoonWe have gotten so attached to these days and these months,
but a deer doesn't know a Tuesday from a Thursday
and a caribou can't comprehend that it was born on a September afternoon,
but they can understand this instant, this moment, this breath,
only now, no longer the past, and only the future when they get there,
there's a healthy lack of awareness in that,
escaping the fear of death but thriving off the instinct to live,
everything so primal and based off gut reactions,
I guess you could say ignorance is bliss,
but ignorance only actually applies when it comes to humanity,
oh I would like a life like that,
one that is organic, tangible, and ripe with bloody berries,
one where carnal creatures run rampant,
one where we rise from the dirt with muddy thighs
because we were bred into these earthly bodies
to hold seconds in our palms like newborn children,
and to throw our heads back and howl against the awareness that we are dying,
for oh this skin is only our host,
cratersI like to think that over this past year you've come to understand
that my heart is a cratered sun
and my veins make up constellations across my vulnerable vertebrae,
because when I close my eyes,
it's you that my subconscious summons as I sleep,
There's just something about you that completely electrifies my skin,
your touch draws conclusions between the freckles on my forearms
and I'm left wondering how you even connected the dots,
But you make me nervous in a young kind of way
and there's this fragile sense of longing that I'm not quite sure i understand,
although tonight I could feel your laugh settle between my palms like a lost lamb
and for a moment I let your innocence brush over my fingertips
and it felt like that moment was ours and ours alone,
So let's hold onto railroads
like we're about to be run over,
and let's hold onto candles
until our waxen limbs burn down to the wick,
and let's hold onto each other
while the stars drip down over our shoulders to melt away our sins.
Monsters and Dreams and Red, Red WineThere's this vivd beach that I occasionally frequent while asleep,
the water is clear and a shade too blue
but the creatures below are a sharky grey,
there are monsters amongst the mist
and so I make a circle between both hands,
but the distance from the center must be 3.75 inches in order to work,
and then I push my hands away from my chest and focus,
breathing still, eyes closed,
then the monsters melt into a slow red wine,
spilling into the abyss
until the fog, the water, and the wine become entangled with one another
in a hazy painting of clouds and blood;
in my dreams, I am always being hunted.
I'm Not Ready to Let GoYour fingertips carve melodies into my songbird skin,
carbonizing my charcoal bones
so I can write sonnets on the sidewalk
with the ends of my chalky joints.
Oh how your grazing hands
Your propane eyes
burn me up,
your toothy smile
ties me down.
I hold my breath
because these moments are fragile
as they are finite,
and I close my eyes
because love shouldn't be this ugly
or this hard to find.
The FuneralHolding hands,
throwing roses over a pearlescent casket
bathed in baby pink,
who knew death could be so feminine,
but funeral hymns plague the fragile air
while the graveyard is soaking up mournful stares,
maybe a few glances of relief are exchanged like drug money,
I look around and realize how everyone looks so alive
when we are surrounded by fatality,
translucent tears spill over flushed faces,
sunken eyes mirror hollow smiles
as the reapers cling to our backs like sloths
and everything feels slow,
everything falls stagnant,
then we drink from the goblet of faith and hope
and we get drunk off the elixir of life,
the fog clears
and our skin burns gold as the sun rises against our withered hides,
we can still feel the warmth which means we must still be alive,
so we don't move on but we do move forward
with our ancestors ghosts living within our hearts,
whispering in our ears,
and guiding us into the light.
i am october's love letter to novemberhopeful,
so the same and stretched out like skin over bone,
but different because one means everything and
one takes everything away.
i am not used to this kind of way,
the way where scratches don't heal and bruises grow bigger.
i try to focus on the bass and let the music pulse through me,
allow it to remove the nerve endings to my thoughts
because i want hair that's made up of bass clefs and double stops.
i want the world to come crashing down at my feet
so the ocean fuses with the burning salmon sun-drops that are molding under the collapsing sky.
it will look like citrus fruit bleeding onto royal blue flowing skirts,
it will taste like a cold copper penny,
it will smell like ripe coconut milk braided with kerosene,
and it will feel like you've been bathing in hummingbird nectar that's been set on fire.
then again, how would i know what music tastes like,
it's not like you can lick vocal chords or bite into someone's vibrato,
everything fluctuates and now i don't even know
I let the water take controlIt's been awhile since I've been underwater,
so I drew myself a bath
and let the water rush itself into the tub
like blood to the brain,
as it pooled into the fiberglass basin
I felt the tides start to rise
while the pond I created began to
encase every limb,
my lips brushed against the water
in a liquidated kiss
and my blonde locks melted into the sea
as if my name were Medusa and
my strands of hair were snakes,
but my body dissolved into what it used to be,
I became the water and the water became me.
Chasing CometsIt's the ruddy red and starburst blue of fallen giants that claims them, the cosmic outcasts of societal deprivation.
Shattered traces of childhood kingdoms cut into their smiles through bruised lips and scraped palms- the
glories of their war with parents's unmet expectations. They are deemed wasteful, asphalt skidding
beneath their thundering feet, where linoleum lined check stands should be. Loose bottle
caps pinned to torn jackets, red badges of courage that prove their worth.
Their parents drink disappointment and stare with shameful figures at their forsaken youth. Pictures of ants lining
the cracked sidewalks haunt their sleep, and pale hands clutch at toothless smiles captured in cracked frames.
Smiles remeniscent of made up words and imaginary friends. Confrontation is the answer, because their kids
are just chasing dreams. But hesitation is ridiculing, and after all they hung up their capes long ago.
There isn't a superhero to believe in anymore.
Fluorescent orange and
little white liestissue paper skin and barbed wire spines
"i haven't been sleeping well."
butterfly wing smiles and porcelain bones
"the medicine will help."
sparrow hearts and rose petal hair
undersea eyes and sailboat stomachs
"these things pass in time."
rough linesi like to draw in circles and triangles
creation in blurred lines and incoherent scribbles
straight lines are so...strange, cleaniness is an option
make people into a style, grace and grime
because that is how i like to see the world
through rose-tinted, soot covered lenses
i love to draw smokers because of their cigarettes
to drag out the smoke in its quiet, graceful, half-circular motions
steaming from tips of perfectly rolled, manufactured proprietors of disease
punctuation is, on it's best days, a tool for the writer
and given free rein-- optional; to be used as seen fit
haphazard commas, Capitals, dashes- and periods.
clean lines and definite borders are so strange...alien to the mind
how? why? hands shaking across the paper, streaking unsteady graphite
the line becomes two, then so many-- enough for army of lines
stand up! the bottle's empty, leave now
but...spinning... staggering to the car and fumbling for the keys
3 year old=- sleeping, drawings that mirror your inebriated bee
flocks droplike frostfall,
spent necks shouted down
past icicle sheets
around the surfaces of buildings.
those towers rise up in wrath,
grey whales from under earth
that spit waves from the windows
where we sit and watch the world.
like diabetic starlights, space rocks
shaven down to dullness and inedibility,
strung lines of flight held back, bent
against invisible seas. we will
be pushed by microbes
from mud-bottom graves
that send us all like zombies
the asylum is shut. the city
droops its eyes in daylight. God
takes all things back
through the windows of our behemoths.
ducks and doves and broadbills
hit like raindrops
upon the unforgiven ground.
WordsmithThey call us weavers and we are, both more, and less
We are the world-makers and the mind-wakers
The ones who send songs out into the darkness trying to catch a spark
Those quiet souls who paint canvasses on portraits
Those half-mad wanderers of alleyways rambling half-drunk in the streets
We who ignore all stop signs and tend instead towards cloud formations
We are the ones who guard the doorways and throw exits onto walls
We are the mourners at twilight and the revelers at dusk
The ones who march through glass houses weighted with stones
Those rash cats of days gone by playing at mere shadows of glory
Those broken players dreaming too loud in the tenser silence
We who court strange fallacy with open palms and glittering promises
We are the ones who extend hands and bend ears
Believers in the glory of dawn and the fleeting eternity of our fears
We are the bottlers of unmastered fame and the distillers of wild clarity
The ones who make noises at higher powers to assuage our own helples
internet's best kept secretis that no matter how much
you post and blog
and write and comment
and no matter how hard you hope for someone to respond,
you are just sitting at a desk.
and you are wishing for her to write you back
or even write you at all.
hunched over the keyboard
the clack of plastic keys punctuating
your thoughts onto a digital slate.
refreshing your inbox.
and looking at your monitor
with the buzz of the television
in the background.
humming and rising with white noise
if only to fill the room with
anything to keep the illusion
that you aren't just
writing drivel that you will hate later.
anything to somehow convince you
that you are atleast surrounded by
other people online
you aren't just sitting in the dark
of your house with the harsh light of
the screen shining back at you.
to soothe you and to assure you
that as long as you keep typing,
you won't feel
Eternal Sonata There danced either a madman or a genius: this photographer of odysseys, chronicler of opus', architect of anarchy; casting flashes upon a sullen metal hull in an attempt to forever maintain the notes of a venetian master that floated skyward on the somber dark wisps created by each violin reverberation, and carried further on the thundering cello, to a black-blue of ever impending twilight restrained only by a few guardian lampposts that kept the night at baydespite how much the sonorous harbinger beguiled the looming darkness.
Somehow he managed to clear a space for himself in this mall parking lot, leaving his vehicle free to breathe the memories of a long forgotten renaissance into the night air to revivify the senses of those who walked about asleep, eyes wide, but numbed to life. The open doors allowed easy passage for the somber sounds to the heavens, up past a coffee cup slyly placed on the roof as if
Mindful RamblingsA mind so wonderful that it can catch a raindrop in its palms and hold it there, safeguarded, for a decade, and separate from the other raindrops to examine. Over your lifetime the mind's hands shake, the drops merge until they can't divide. When you look back for advice on how you handled something before, you are offered a distorted reflection of an eye staring back at you in the surface of the bead, emphatically giving neither decision nor choice. You see lights in the highlight of the drop that surround you forcing you to choose.
Eventually the raindrop will go, vaporising, maybe leaving behind some residue, ligand or impurity that stayed with you, poisoning or remedying your thoughts. You may not even notice it desert you, more worried about the lions encircling you, their voices rumbling deep beneath you. Nightmares replicating fake whims and memories, replicating themselves from other drops like a cancer. In demise, the palms fall, and leave our thoughts to mercy of the ocean be
How the Sky Turned BlueA long time ago. When the world was still new. There were no colors to be seen, only shades of gray. The sun would rise to be a giant ball in a dark sky. And then the night would come with no ceremony. The animals grew weary and the plants became sick. With no color the whole world was dying. The butterflies and bees couldn't tell which flowers to go to get their nectar from. Many animals were dying from eating poisons accidentally.
The Creator took notice of these things and was not happy. So a palette of colors was made and each plant and animal got to choose it's coloration. Even the rocks and earth had their choice. Now flowers were being properly pollinated, the insects were eating healthy, and all poisonous plants and animals were specifically colored to warn of their danger. Finally when all things on the planet had been given a chance, it was time for the sky. But when the Creator went up into the heavens, the sky wouldn't choose. The Creator tried and tried to get the sky to p
i am a book of blank pages.We're playing that game where we trace letters on each others backs with the ends of our fingers. So I drag my fingertips down your spine slowly, savoring every embrace. I'm drawing electric currents through each vertebrae and I can feel you twitch under my touch.
I'd like to hold your ribcage like guitar strings and play chords that echo beneath your skin. You'd sound like a long, soft lullaby that tugs at my eyelids to close so I can dream.
My dreams are the only place we can actually be together, my subconscious takes control
and it's your lampshade lips along the shadows of my feet,
then I'm spilling my shoulders like chandeliers onto your carcass
and I'm drinking in this surreal moment like wine, because it is so bittersweet.
In my conscious mind I'm lying awake at night with toothpicks propping open my eyelids
because days are tasting like stale bread and empty space
and I'm realizing that space might actually be what we need,
screw that, what we need is each other and I need you
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More