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dreaming of prehistoryIn a better time for mental illness,
I would be prophet: hallucinations
of some grand design, my delusions
taken as gospel. Perhaps painting caves
deep in the belly of the hollow earth.
Dip brushes in oxide, draw wild horses,
lit by seal fat and the viscous shining
of psychosis-fever eyes.
Instead I am on unspoken suicide watch,
concerned members of the community tracking
the time of the latch on my door. Gently
knocking when they worry that I have plunged
too deep in cerebrum, broiling in dark thoughts.
I am dosed, diagnosed, therapeutically coaxed
like a bonsai tree: obedient shell, mute
and mutable, former self annihilated
for the sake of fitting in.
At Catalhoyuk, deformed bodies were held sacred,
given special rites. The curve of my spine
is only illness, they tell me clinically.
I dream of gilded shrouds, thick red ochre
dusted across my stiff-board body. Demigod
of disability, shaman of silent sickness:
forehead too high, my mind too corrupted
to seek Neolithic splendor.
It is called unspeaking. Using the voice of hands
and of moans and fingertips against lips.
The screaming keening of bashing one's head
against the console, of breaking one's hand
slamming it in a door. This is unspeaking.
This is what language becomes
when words black out, when no speech lives,
when there is nothing in the brain but dust and color.
The bright gashes of crimson, the spring damp of blood
on boxers because words have failed emotion.
The shout of no voice, the whine of air
against reluctant vocal cords that do not speak
that perhaps will never speak again,
unused organ pipes in a padlocked cathedral.
Silence that becomes invisibility.
That begets forgetting that I am a person, that I exist.
Loquor ergo sum; sed cogito, cogito, cogito.
My thoughts as loud as forever, my hands roaring
but no one listens. Whispers without wind.
There are languages that slide under the surface,
subtextual dialects that we do not consider.
The tilt of an eyebrow or the curve of a cheek.
ApoplepsyI dream rat poison tea
[soothe my sick throat],
and the slip-slip-whack of falling body
thwarted by the thrust of gravity.
Sick child, invalid, red-carded out of life
apologetically excused out of existence,
left to rot in bedroom bunker.
Escorted to the end by memories.
Tremble-sick and haunted.
Phantom pain, poltergeist muscles.
Tremble-sick and dead.
PhotographsYou remind me of my father's father,
the one I never claimed as mine;
empty accent drained of location,
filling stiff silences with requests
for lemonade. Bland hands overworked
in the insides of machines, etiquette
that overwhelms any intimate connection.
[I want always to be touched, reminded
that I am human and existent, scouring
hands searching breasts and thighs
for scant evidence of perfection.
(Don't bother, you won't find any.)
I am a commodity, to be enjoyed
and destroyed at will. Use me
or lose me.]
Perhaps it is my tendency to seek
old faces in new eyes, comparing
each new acquaintance against
the vile biters that came before.
My type is the annihilator,
inoculating me against feeling.
The ones that push my sore spots
until I no longer sense the pain.
I need to stop searching for Jake
in you, and simply close my eyes.
Graventhe horror of existence -
take your medication -
all that compressed matter
the leaden weight of people
burrowed into the earth
at the end at the end
at the end of their timecard -
punch the clock, eat your tea -
and I hear only murmurs
of the whistle of the scythe -
The Bridge WifeTo Anna Maria on the occasion of one of our many weddings
I have moved beyond humans now.
Beyond voice and touch and sound.
There is only you now - the chilling silence
the racing throat as I touch your struts.
Your peeling paint, your mid-throe arches
like a woman in orgasm - beyond movement
to venerable constancy, impenetrable
and ageless: to still.
If you are bridge wife, I am bridge husband,
kissing my bridge bride with my pinkies as I pass,
saying good morning as I fly by on the bus,
saying good evening and lingering, lovingly,
with a paper cup of tea and apologies.
Perhaps it is lonely for us, never staying the night.
And people may not ever understand your song,
the rushing crying when the wind moves through you
or the way you shudder when the trains pass.
Surely they do not understand me.
It is lonely not staying the night.
I am a jealous spouse.
This is something I relinquish to you, like a gift,
and you accept the way only you can. In s
WiresHumanity's relationship with wires fascinates me.
From birth to death, our whole lives are regulated by wires. An egg leaves the ovary and travels down the Fallopian tube, and this is the way we are made. The umbilicus connects us to our parent. Arteries and veins look very much like wires, and it is they that nourish our bodies with oxygen and blood. The most precious thing in our body, the central nervous system, is essentially a thick cord of wires running from our brain to our tailbone.
Eyes are attached to our brain by stems. Ears are hollow wires which run deep into our heads. Muscles are made of tubes of specialized cells. Intestines are essentially large ducts that move down to the sphincter, absorbing nutrients and arranging waste.
Once we have passed through the birth canal, wires sustain our existence. Wires bring us our electricity and water, power our machines, allow us to communicate with one another via fiber optics. A downed power line plunges us back into the dark ages
CrushI would touch your cornsilk hair
breathe sunflowers onto your lips
worship your wrists, your thighs
and the curl of your ankles
crossed under the formica.
The sigh you fling from white throat
when you find music in the grass.
'Protect me,' you laugh.
I will. I will. I will.
Asbestosthe implausibility of afterlife;
Yes. We sing of pain. Tempests
within kneecaps, and a swell-surge
of storm in thy gut: flourishing
and whirling come thy tender spots --
there will be blood, there will be blood;
Scrub your tongue clean of crying filth.
Apologize to joints for your curses
as you lie deep-kneed in water,
wash away thy sins. And regret
when ova met its brethren
and converted you to flesh --
compensate me for existence;
Thy gift is misery, thy fruit suffering,
and a tin of tea for sportsmanship.
Smile demonstratively, silence
scream and leave your pieces
in attic-place of skull --
and death come on kitten feet;
There is no place for cripples
amongst the living; thy place
is in the ghost.
i miss the girl i almost wasi miss the girl i almost was
she sits lightly on the edge of the bed
at 4am and brushes my hair back from my
face with a touch like spiders' footsteps
her breath is like ice and
her wishes are weightless
she wraps a strand of promises around
her fingers and kisses me goodbye again
with lips like polished crystal
she waits for me at crossroads
she is always cold
and i'll pretend i'm Leosome days i think you wonder
like i do
the way i thumb my earlobe when i hope that you're not looking
the taste behind my teeth. in
gemini circles, i'd think us a malformed constellation;
being dust specks, i exist as naught but to black hole your world
into other closeness
sometimes i think you're wrong. i can write these words, can i?
i can write them 'cause you never look, you are heavy on me, you are pressed to my hip
and you don't know that I'm writing about you
you will miss the point
i think there was a time when you never tried to cover up my voice with other songs.
a box of quartz plucked from the driveway,
i look at it from time to time.
you sway like you're sailing to china
there are things i can't un-touch and things you'll never understand, the
care and feeding of turtles and why i always
burn of fever, the sickness churns my stomach, your sickness burns my
In point, counterpoint. we'll never forget
what day you shot my eardrums out, or the
outgrowing gillssea-cradled urchin
child has a salty heart yearnin'
for a glimpse of mother moon
tiny spiked wunderkind
punk, studded belt
you know life's answers well
shuffling through the seaweed-less halls
missing the ocean swell
tidal waves foaming at the mouth
everyone is laughing now
at the boy born on a boat one sunny afternoon
cause mama loved the sea like lovers love the sheets
landlocked kid is homesick and
sea sure, he's searching for the sea shore
life's a blur for Davy Jones at his locker
capsized by sea-legs on solid ground, he finds his seizures
and he hates his earth mother
he hates her
for falling for the ocean and
how he's rocked by the moon
how he's mesmerized by her glow
her pull on his sea-conceived cells
he hates her too
for the puking in the stalls
for the ridicule
youi dug him out of my ribcage &
drowned in bleach and flames
to rid myself of
the dreaded devil's hat
that seeped from my pores
this wasn't about him.
this was about erasing the blemishes
and making my own
but you said my new freckles
spelled out your name with
across my shoulders
and i began to question
how you would sound
around such a shoulder
i have only ever been the gasping
not the gasped
astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.
we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers creator and destroyer
so close to your lips.
leavingleaving is a can that you
kick around in the street
because it's been a long day
& it makes you feel better.
some days you kick it
harder, longer than others,
& some days there just
aren't enough cans or streets.
but the thing about leaving
is that when the
street lights come on,
you always end up going home.
writer's blockstranded on an island scantily
dressed in moonlight, you stare
at roiling water resembling a
horizon of interweaving words
but when you lift your right hand,
spirals of silence shackle
the weightless sounds
LossKneel. Lick the salt. Pray.
There is a hole here, I say,
pressing to my breastbone.
No doctor can diagnose it.
There is no test to check
how deep you've been ingrained
in my woodwork, pumping muscles
and spitting valves.
And no scalpel can erase this.
The emptiness of unfriendship.
Cold eyes glinting black
where once they glimmered.
This is a flimsy half-light
coming from my cigarette.
Nothing good will come for years.
Kneel. Lick the salt. Pray.
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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