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urban oceanThe wet roads are my urban ocean.
Some men see God in the break of foam--
I see God in the freeway.
I see God in the spray off the backs of eighteen-wheelers hauling consumer garbage to southern Maine
as I walk along the side with my boots soaked from puddles.
The sea reflects the sky and Route 2 reflects the sky
and the waves go shush, shush, and the cars go shush, shush
and the clouds roll over,
the clouds roll over.
The wet roads are my urban ocean.
a rotating restaurant on the top of a hotela rotating restaurant
on the top of a hotel
neon below you,
like you're going to fall
a girl in a suit meets a boy in a dress
meets an enby in red
everyone in nail polish
priklyucheniya holmes and watsonsometimes I get to wondering what landfill houses the time I spent on you
sometimes I think of all the origami cranes I folded while I was in London and the British countryside before I met you
sometimes I think of Total Wipeout and the Russian Sherlock Holmes
that hot little room
a title you did not deserve
sometimes I get to wandering
when life becomes a tunnel,
I leave my stalely air-conditioned sanctum
I pick basil or walk to the corner store
I buy another novel
when I forget I am a human being,
I try to speak with people who swear I have value
I lie next to the man who loves me and,
though I still have fear,
it is because I can see a future
where before I saw only void
never mistake another for a metaphorI dreamt of her last night for the first time in a year
she condescended and disparaged and claimed I'd made hurt
many came to comfort her
blueberries are the sweetest just before they rot
told myself do nothing and nothing will changeI remember five years ago
homeward on the train
your knee touched my knee, and I wanted it to never end
constancynew icebergs are rising under my skin
some tear and some are smooth like polished wood
your constancy holds other end of the kite-string my body is attached to
what does hashtag yolo mean to youremember your body is malleable
photograph yourself as though you are someone else
talk about yourself in the third person as though it gives you distance from yourself
don't get me started on googolsI was thinking about a trillion today.
I read an article in the New York times today that said
we domesticated first-world humans consume one trillion plastic bags every year.
I read online that the United States combined national debt is sixteen point nine trillion dollars.
Imagine a trillion plastic bags.
Imagine sixteen point nine trillion dollars.
Imagine a string of a trillion plastic bags full of sixteen trillion dollar bills,
stretching out in a tied-together line around the earth, spiraling out in orbit.
Imagine a beach.
Imagine counting the grains of sand on a beach.
Imagine a trillion grains of sand.
Imagine a trillion seconds.
Imagine how many leaves are sitting on your front lawn yet unraked.
Imagine how many.
Imagine how many lawns it would take to get to a trillion.
Imagine how many bottles of soda you buy every year.
Imagine how many bottles of soda you
and your friends
and your friends' friends
and your friends' friends' friends
buy every year.
Imagine how many stars.
i understand if you have to
with the sun painted gold on your
tiger back bone, i won't move
everything else is in it's place,
if you open your eyes up wide,
put your ear to
the lungs that breathe inside
but not in mine, no not in my holy waters,
my still still waters, but still
the sea will surge over
the sand, and i will take whatever
you can give me and sleep, i will say
i want the hand of god between
my ribs, i want a mechanical life,
i want no part in the winding evil
curling itself inside me, please
i want no part in settling down, i want
to see stars the colour of champagne, open
wrists like blind slats so i can see
the light, keep fresh inside
with cling film stretched across,
go on then do it, listen, i will let you,
i will take your lover's song, the blame
be storyteller to them all, sit in
their kitchens, pet their dogs
conceal the fact and smile
as life drags me down the aisle
to that bastard standing there
dressed all in black, the king of all
yes, all womenmonths or years
from now my therapist
will click her pen at
me in the static hum
of her silent office,
perhaps before popping
the question so many
others have before:
why haven't you
gotten over it?
if it's hard to
understand why the
i've undergone has
scarred my skin and
nearly taken my life,
then i'll explain.
i am not over it
because panic attacks
rattle me when i see
my abuser's face -
in person or in memories.
i am not over it
because a tank top and
short-shorts does not,
under any circumstances,
mean "yes", and neither
does his teeth on my neck
or the silence between
the two of us.
i am not over it
because i was ridiculed
and rumored to be a slut
because his hands
decided i was.
i am not over it
because i still get
prank calls from private
numbers and nightmares
shake my fitfully
i am not over it
because i am scared to
cross the street to work,
and i have been
harassed more times
than i have fingers
by men with the same eyes
as my ab
post mortem.Some days,
we grow old:
little love letters,
dated and sealed,
on the roadside,
with the fag-ends
and drifting crisp-packets
of the fast lane.
onyx crowns (headstones and the brush of winter)she credits the metal bars
for finding footing in sunday soils,
the stone slips down the fronting steps,
slick in rain -
(and rock, and rock, and rock,)
there is a fading kind of shout;
the clouds are the sky in her muted,
mystery-failed militia, and to arms
went the ploughshares, not to return
until the evening tone of the cathedral
brought them home
this skin is paltry, the eyes, the eyes -
a phantom carved into the brushed-steel
of these ancillary altars
the winter wrought everything,
and struck it from her hands:
"fresh out of ploughshares, dear" -
not an apology, just
at the sea(m)s
of tidal vacancy;
I am the ocean, and
the moon has
cling to reason,
I stumbled on
abrupt. bedridden yet
ever chas(m)ing, I
fell to salt-soaked
ground from a
words were all it took
but all you do is take.
I am waking
and I am shaken
tsunami waves that break
in empty frantic fury;
the briefest repose
or instant of stillness,
I yearn; instead
I am abandoned by language,
I am bound to languish beneath
tempests that swell,
even the most desperate of breaks
for the shore.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is the
scent the violet leaves
on the foot that stomped it;
I am beautiful in remembrance:
I am beautiful
in a body two sizes too
large, in eyes dilated
with questions (eyes
you cannot name; gray
like the ocean, blue
like the heart, green like
the fever dream I cannot
wake from) I am the
hair of a lion, a wild
thing, ignition upon
tempted glance. I am the skin
you cannot name, always fleeting;
you always see
but never truly take in.
and I know a boy
carved of ivory silence,
you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i was
fell in love with a boy
with razor sharp
teeth and a
poet's heart. it's really a
pretty kind of thing.
using his borrowed
tongue, he took me in like a
four a.m cigarette (slowly, and
with loneliness in every one of his
joints). we both thought
that enough smoke
would fill in the cracks in our
rib cages; we were both
he told me that he would
like to be a
planet: "all that open
space, all those dying
stars. it would give me room to
instead of telling him that
there is no oxygen in
outer space, i
watched him feel his lungs
implode. it broke my
bones to witness it; but it's really a
dreadfully pretty thing to
wilko's flea powder is full of permethrinhalfway through, words bloat like dead birds falling
out of your mouth.
sparrows nest every spring above my window and drop naked from the gutter and it's like this:
standing on the patio staring moronic at pink rows of skinbags,
three minutes behind discovering one alive.
someone else is doing a bad impression of listening. she scribbles two-tone down the wrong
side of the page, turns on the fan and all i can hear is a turbine
scooping up armfuls of air and vomiting
all over my neck and you talk
about stuff that happened
last night and i guess
i was there but
FaultlineShe loved me with her car, this girl who wasn't a girl, who was a mountain in the guise of a girl. Hips swinging, lips an alluring red O of laughter, she shut the door behind me and drove me across the States with those baby shoes swinging by their laces from the rear-view.
"You got a kid?" I asked, and she just cranked up the music. Cher crooned I Got You, Babe over the snowy radio.
She didn't have a kid. She'd never had a kid. She had an ex who I met at a Minnesota truck stop. "Watch out for earthquakes," warned the ex, bending her head close to mine, our hair coming together in a curtain of confidentiality. I told her that in Minnesota, I wasn't worried.
The girl had hands like foothills grounding the wayward steering wheel to the road. They never quavered—steady like she was. When we kissed, she held me up, though she was a head shorter than I.
I trembled at the knees. She trembled at the tires.
We hit a storm in the Heartlands. Wind buffeted the car and set the baby s
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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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