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forget methere are silver snail trails
over my arms and
under my skin
there are holes in my hands
where the rain gets through
and a heart-shaped band
to make me thin.
i am a writer
i am your umbrella
i will offer you shelter
and never be true;
i've fallen in love with
the sound of your music
and the scent of your spirit
and the way you are you.
i will bottle you up
in a perfume of silence
and anoint myself daily
to keep you with me;
i will sometimes forget you
but never forever,
and i'll always regret how
i let you go free.
sing me your sorrow
and i'll spell out my fury;
whisper your passion
and i'll turn away.
i am pretending, i'm sorry,
i don't know how wishes
will keep off the worries
and brighten the day.
forget me, forgive me,
i am not your only;
regret me, remove me,
i will not be lost
and remember for sometimes
but just for a while
one day i will come back
ignoring the cost.
prophecyi will die in a car
five years from now.
the ceiling will be green
and all the days of the week
will be pressed like flowers
inside my eyes.
i will be on a journey.
i will die in a car.
you will be born in a garden
under the hanging shade of a willow tree.
your birth cry will be
a siren-song binding you to me
with babylon threads and a candle
on a lily-pad.
you will be growing.
you will be born in a garden.
we will embrace in public
in the middle of a motorway
with the rain streaming down gutters
like tears and the screaming of
pedestrian children walking along the
cat's eyes, as my car comes rushing
and the garden withers.
we will embrace in public.
we will be mapped out in ink
fingerprints by the roadside, and we will
watch the sun sink and dream
of an inverted paradise.
today i saw a pigeon soartoday i saw a pigeon soar
a shape of concrete, rising, grey
up and away. lumbering fog-wraith,
blind in city dyspraxia, haunting
motorways with their polyphonic roar.
today i saw a pigeon soar
spiralling upwards and outwards, through
dank and darkness, into blue and over heads
of shoppers. dulled and broken he rose and
in raindrops matted feathers rippled iridescence.
helixtoday she follows the seashell-strewn shore
distributing sunshine from door to door
and picking the flowers for a rainy day
upwards and roundwards and over the bay.
she catches seadrops in crystalline ears
and mixes them through into delicate tears
then throws into space a bottle of ice
to make starshine and moonshine and diamond-bright light.
she waltzes her way into little girl's dreams
and tells them the world is not as it seems
for spiralling staircases don't spiral at all -
a helix rewrites you and love breaks all rules.
Solar eclipseFlaming in the West, she shines
gilded phoenix over the horizon,
chanting gregorian hymns to the world.
As she crumbles into ashes,
a new power rises, lullaby-lucid,
whispering fairytales and
ghost stories. Blue sky folksongs
around darkened embers and
yin-yang prophecies of bittersweet
heartbreak linger. No-one waits
for the eclipse to end. Children
look up and smile at the duality;
day and night hand in hand;
sun and moon throughout the land.
surgerytoday, everything is rotten.
beneath the fleshy green of kiwi,
i see pulsating brown sagging inwards
and the statuary legs of my desk
are dessicated and vibrating with woodworm.
a magpie lands in front of me
and i see through and past the putrid feathers
to spot its skeleton, mangled and
lighnting-struck. thunder hits me.
in the eyes of the people i pass
i see madness. is it theirs, or
iris-mirrors reflecting my own
insanity back at me?
i decide that there is something rotten
inside of me. i must be rid of it.
i begin to peel off my skin, slowly at first.
i scratch and scratch with newborn crescent-moon
nails, perfect and illusory. the skin fragments
catch beneath them, like damp flour. i am
a pale red bloom spreads across my chest
ugly and angry and proof of the canker within.
i dig deeper, reach for a knife.
i can see myself pulling it out of my wrist, stretching
onwards, parasite, across the decaying world, an ourobouros
of sickness. there is a pulse tw
obituary for a poeti always said
that i would not get over you
until i found someone else.
i guess that was true.
i have fallen in love with the words
which tumble through my sand-strewn mind
day after day after day.
i have fallen for
the sound of them
and the look of them
and the golden chimes
when they fit together.
and i don't think they could ever betray me.
no-one else will ever love me again,
for who would love a poet? i will
grow into a spinster, dry-boned and
tearless, with the words rattling inside
like old beans in a tin can. rainmaker.
i will not cry when hurricanes strike
the people around me. i will go outside
in the midst of the destruction and
plant sunflowers to reap whirlwinds.
i will try and snatch the eddies storming
in the soil with the glee of a grandchild
chasing butterflies or bubbles and i will
scent my room with orange blossom and cinnamon.
when i am dying, i will send out letters,
and because i have travelled so far to find
the right words, i will have friends across
how not to forgeti am crying without realising it
and when i do i rub the tears
into my skin along with the memory
i wish i could forget how you felt
but i am too busy trying to remember.
i want to move on from you but i am
immortalising you in the words that
drowned me long ago.
i am a contradiction child, a hypocrite.
i am a religious scientist, a convert
to the poetry of magnesium ribbon. i am
stronger than the bones of the jurassic
cliffs. (i am weaker than february).
wish me onto a star and there i will
shine our story to planets and your
see it in so many years time. light speed
was never fast enough for you.
forget me, love. forget me and leave me
behind to my weeping and sighing and
the sudden jump in my chest when i hear
your name or anything like it. forgive me
for still remembering the way your lips
moved against mine.
please, let me go.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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