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Procession of the InitiatesDionysus incised into a vase
without proper torsion in
his neck bent so far edgeways
the snap in his spine suggests no difference between artistry and mutilation
you dream of cannibals, wake up
mouth filled with gravy
your daughter's voice distorts the world around it
blocking the fire exits, Eowyn cries
I AM NO MAN
aie, she is bright
a companion of laughter and light when she wants to be
and hell all else
six years as a yellow bird
and she's done no good
but no bad either and that says something
IT'S NOT THE DRINKING IT'S HOW WE'RE DRINKING
gods of wine
fghjkhistorians will tell us that
it was because there was not enough time
for the drugs to work
to empty your coquelicot skull
impaled on the spire of the cathedral the
rednecks are driving too fast
the rednecks are driving too fast
you envy your chest its flatness.
brown as a bell noise
swimming in your chest the sun sets
in the east, rises
in the west.
you tell your mother you're a homosexual and she doesn't care.
you tell your mother you're a communist and an alcoholic schizophrenic and a jihadist muslim and she doesn't care.
you're walking down many avenues
at once and in none of them do the leaves shift before your feet, a sea of red
and with no step do you receive that satisfying
of bone and heart and the frailty
of life, all life, the universal stench of human existence
drying out and flattening to the shape of the hard and soulless pavement, such deep thoughts
you should be writing poetry
outlook express crashed and i got madSara is the grey sky, she's
a doll made of you and I,
flesh-lined, she's our doll. she's
us, but not us really, she's too big
for the little clothes we bought her
last time. you're scraping
the clotted pearls
from my veins and selling them as medicine, distributing
pieces of me all across the country- I can feel myself
jangling in the pockets of every factory
worker as they bump and grind on the dance floor
of every simple grovelling greysky day. we laugh, yes, we sure would
get rich quick that way, selling my rotting blood,
me. opening the old wound,
the needle, there,
I'm eased, it's easy. you too,
loosening your crossed knees as you begin
conducting through your body the description of electricity- pure
breaking in the waves that scarper across the surface
of a sweaty and fathomless deep,
flesh-lined, squeezing the last watery guts
out of a navel orange, drip
and dripping down,
thirst unquenched, we crawl to bed, Sara is laughing
fidelity. sundews + past lives. fog.i) I am here in the red house in the mist.
Sundews, cut grass, mist, refuge.
ii) I am thinking deep, what if the sharks come through the fog-ridden air and the water vapour becomes red spray and the bones come through? I am thinking, the sun-orchids are closed today. Thinking more-coal-for-the-fire, thinking woollen-carpet-toes, cards on the table (floor table, carpet table, child's play; we curl our small rough bodies in front of the fire and pull curtains to keep the rain out) if you cannot see them they are not there. William cannot smell the salt shark smell in the water.
iii) The clouds are going nowhere.
iv) Here the creeks run hot from the burning mines.
(Thousands of trees have stopped whispering underground, silent for so long and now they breathe hot loud flame) (People do not come here for silence, though, the hush and roar of riverrainsea, calling cry of mountains)
v) Sundews to trap us and our red heart-lights. Sticky with syrup, I have flocked to them, I let them eat my h
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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