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Upstate New York, WinterTarry black sky.
My hands drifting through it,
grabbing at stars.
My arms held upward
ten pound test, thin hooks
spread through the skin,
Paralysis. The clock and I,
we're out of sync.
I sleep through the day.
Every night I wait for a star
lighting up the line as it passes.
When my hands live again
I'll clasp them around that star-
pull it down-
hold it to my heart.
Time's EndThe sky tore open -
space erupting, impenetrable darkness,
and silent stars shining down -
I grabbed your hand.
Soon the air will be pulled
from the sky
from our lungs
but until then.
The light bent around us,
pulled us taut,
stretched us thin.
The night went on and on -
labored, I clung to the ground.
My head all clouds, my knuckles
bright as day. Every ounce
keeping gravity at bay,
as muscles seized, heaved -
finally it rended,
light bent to broken,
an event horizon stretching to infinity.
But in that final moment
as infinity approached,
and the quantum foam boiled over,
hand in hand,
frozen in time -
UnbridledI felt the ghost hand's hold.
In the morning,
when I fetched my coffee,
my hands turned to claws,
my wings ugly and grey, singed with smoke.
When you woke you stepped through the halo,
and your eyes gleamed.
How long have we lain?
And what beasts have we made?
I will fester and become more.
I have grown inside of you,
and soon my hands will be yours to command.
And soon my heart will redouble,
pumping both our blood.
I will walk through my days in silence.
My voice has already gone over.
To my back the thunder will roar, and I will bow,
my back flexed, my muscles moving.
Soon my body will lay supine, and the lightning will consume.
Tomorrow I will wake up.
Tomorrow I'll be you.
Wild Westyou've lived a billion years,
why fill them with regret now?
lying down, waiting for the world to end.
a natural death, calm and quiet.
your face harrowed,
marrow slow, then stopped.
empty eyes staring at empty space.
you've been waiting for the black holes
to consume you. and your soul?
and the heat death?
has it made your heart cold?
but I've known you all these years
through time and space, lives away
has the time worn you too thin?
what of you remains?
no, keep your lips closed.
I can read you fine from here.
the static on every band.
a billion years riding behind you
on a broken horse
through the vast open space.
I won't let you drift away.
The GardenerI was squeezing grapes with my fingers,
jamming them in my mouth,
pulling them from my clothes.
There was a hunger that all my acres
could not subsist. Could not
And with the blight a thousand wasps
carried me out beyond the fences
and past the pastures
and opened my god-damn eyes.
It was bright and sunny
and early morning,
gold light like her wispy hair
and in the concrete cell
I cried out,
"I did not commit."
26 long years.
All that's left
a field of weeds.
In the hallwayI saw death hanging around
in the hallway outside of my apartment.
I was choking on cigarette smoke.
He cracked a little smile and walked off,
rattling bones echoing off the walls.
Motorcycle Ride, San Francisco, Nighthe felt the low rumble between his legs
egging him on. stars dripped from his eyes,
white-hot wet. he pursed his li6ps tight,
contorting his face. he gripped hard,
feet flicking, wrists twisting. loud,
he pushed off into the night.
the black river below him unchanging.
not a sound to the left or right,
just the low hum to keep him company.
the air cooled and light
dripped from his pores.
he turned off the lights,
letting himself bathe in the glow.
the hum raised him back,
his eyes clear on the river once more.
it had been a long night,
and he had paddled soft and slow
trying to keep warm.
he held his eyes tight and waited for the blow.
From the Back RowI heard your soul song sung
the echoes of your voice across empty halls
and I can feel that air so deep in your lungs,
quivering in anticipation, demanding freedom.
The sweet pounding drums,
sweat pouring down your face
and those swaying hips,
prancing feet in your black wingtips.
You grab the brim of your hat,
crisp like your white suit, so clean
and you pound the ivory with your gilded
fingertips, themselves cold and steely,
like your face this morning.
Your song's always been for someone else.
But I'll keep watching, even here, from the back row.
DollBarbie’s thighs were not meant to touch;
her hair is devoid of split ends
and there's this deadness in her eyes,
impossible to mimic—a quiet crawlspace without light.
There's a pastel pale to her skin,
hairless and unblemished,
a blank un-crevice between her legs
and her rouge-stained lips are ever smiling.
She is nothing like you, child.
But do not forget
that she borrows your voice.
Liquor is one way out an'death's the other The art of growing up,
is to pour shots of whiskey
into your coffee in the morning
to make it through
when all you want to do
is lie in bed
but there’s nothing
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
Jack FrostOh, how lovely it is,
To peer out a window from the cozy warmth of your home
And see the whole outdoors kissed in crystalline brilliance!
As snow and ice decorate the earth
It's still amazing to think that,
With a single giant and chilling breath,
Jack Frost turns an everyday world into a sparkling,
the King and his moon.i.
this is an ode
to the King. We
watched him blow
away like an ocean
of black feathers,
and our Father muttered
that he was
forgiven, always, truly
forgiven. But we
all know that
nothing gold can
stay-- he had to
go. It was written.
that was when the
Queen cut her hair. Again,
we watched it fall to
her chamber floor
in heaps of strung
gold. But we already
knew that it would have
to go. We already
knew that she
would go, for it
was written, and it
was already forgiven.
the Prince grew up
with the memory of
black shoes and hair
littering the halls of
an empty palace. The
Queen was busy, always
busy, and then she was sick--
and then the Prince put on
his black robes for her, even
though he always remembered
her in shaded of red.
on his father's throne,
the boy-king realized that
this was the place
that swallowed up his love,
and it gave way to war.
You know what they
say-- "A heartbrok
Winter's SnowThe snowfall brings joy, fun to children, and allure to the world
Although, many dislike it
It's too bitter, makes them ill,
Or is a bother before they go out and take leave their comfy warm abodes
But it's soft powdery white scenery brings out so much hope to others
The twinkle and sparkle within it
The happiness it will always have and will bring
Snowmen and snow angels everywhere,
Snowballs in the sky,
Icicles on the edges of roofs, wires, and tree branches,
Intricate and fern-like designs dancing upon window panes
People see it as a winter wonderland
Especially when it first falls
The world never knows though
That I bring them this kind blessing, this satisfaction, this wonder
Yeah me, Jack Frost
The one who people say I nip at the nose and toes
Well I'm very grateful for those who do believe in me
And I will keep coming once a year for a few months and grant your wishes.
spun out so far, i can't be true to you.he's still the way i watch the stars
and how i run like no one's watching
he's what i dream of when i'm awake
but maybe i'm done waiting
maybe it's you
maybe it's me this time
and maybe that's enough
he still races through my veins
and no, my heart is not steady when i see him
but i was never one for patience
a year is too long to hold on
and he is conservative
and button downs
he is beautiful
but i am wild
i am dirty feet
and summer evenings
i am mud-caked nails
and cider throats
i am sun soaked
laced with drunken poetry
i am watercolour
he is oil based
he is canvas in london galleries
i am doodles on napkins in mediterranean restuarants
you are cheekbones and dark eyes
coffee stained fingers
smirks and accidental brushes
i don't intend to know anything more
he is confidence
i am uncertainty
i live in the wind and the forests
we both spend too much time in front of mirrors
but whilst he kisses them
i crack them
and all the while he is leather
reality vs. pretendi.
a wooden sword
and an eye-patch
i was a girl who
knew deep inside
had developed feelings
and they were all
selfishly for me.
you tricked me,
you kidnapped me,
all to tell you stories
in which good triumphs
over evil, not really;
was to walk the plank
as you planned to kill
him and feed him to
the ticking crocodile.
happy thoughts and
faerie dust would
allow me to fly,
but i only had the
first and i was doomed;
your wooden sword poked
my back, waiting for me
to take the leap
down (the stairs),
hearing the ticking
(of the oven)
go off - just in time.
surly, mother called us
down for dinner
and at the end of the night,
it was all truly
bedtime stories will
serve as my peter pan,
as my escape from reality.
Not That DifferentA writer sat down beside an artist,
Notebook and pencil in his hands.
The artists’ curiosity lead him,
To stop his sketch and take a glance.
And so the young artist asked the writer,
“Is there any chance that I could look?
Because I need words to paint a picture,
Could I look inside your notebook?
The words you have written on the pages,
Are the inspiration I need.
My hands itch to draw the scenes your mind made,
A poem, or story I plead."
The writer only laughed at the artist,
And then he simply shook his head.
“An Artist was what I used as my muse,”
Was what the old writer then said.
"Today I’ve learned something I won’t forget
I need your work and you need mine.
The threads of our works, they are intertwined
What a pretty thought and clear sign."
They looked and smiled as they swapped their works,
Flipping through pages both called art.
The only difference that separates them,
Are titles that keep them apart.
Excavationechoing off the valley walls,
metal on metal. i'm overwhelmed
that ring of ax on gold
we were rich in this valley
til the night settled in
and, surrounded, we tried to keep warm
curled around the fire,
but the stars were so bright
we both went blind.
hungry animals lurked,
just beyond the fire's heat
until we both exhausted, fell asleep.
i felt them pulling,
first at you, then at me,
and i reached up, drew,
and emptied round after round
after round after round
until they were all nothing
nothing but dust and the ash of the flames
and my eyes cleared, but yours
milky and wide.
now the mines haul hard,
the lines never slack,
the sound never stops.
every day they grind another inch off your bones.
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