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ALBERT ROAD AT NIGHTA fox skitters down the street on claws
sharpened on kerb-stones and dumping-grounds
It glances up at this two-legged stranger
as it passes, speeding up to escape perceived danger.
A man sleeps in a doorway; it is a warm night
so his possessions bundled make a resting-place
for his weary head, and he sleeps uncovered.
The fox pays him no mind, he is part of the furniture.
A drunken group sashays along the pavement, the silk-garbed
crowd parting for the casual stroller in denim and boots.
Giggling, they speak in high pitches of nothing at all.
The fox gives wide berth, fearing the noise.
Two men, loud, walking along the middle of the road
white lines providing guidance, kicking food containers
like so many footballs. The fox senses real danger,
and like the two-legs, is on full alert.
The men pass, the women long-gone, the man sleeps.
The traffic lights change from red to green, but no cars
are out at this time. Distantly, a siren wails.
The road is quiet but for the skittering of the f
thrillsthe roughness of the top of your head on my lips
the day after you've shaved away the hairs
sends tingles through the core of my being
the roundness of your belly pressed against mine
when we are skin-to-skin like newborns
is warmth and joy and lust-filled friendship
the fingers tough from plucking guitar-strings
tracing unknown words into the small of my back
feel like secret poetry written through my skin
and I'm no good at writing love poems
even into the soft skin of your back
and I'm no good at telling you my heart's words
but you need to know your body thrills me
and you need to know that even though
I find words so hard they stick in my throat
I love you, the core of you, your soul
fits mine like tiny puzzle pieces nobody can solve
but us. I have no words but these
and these are all I have to offer.
Untitled 08.07.2014And now we wait for the magic to begin
with scarlet lights in our eyes
and stars twinkling in our veins
we watch, noiseless and screaming
and wait for the spectacle.
And then, then it begins
every dot of carbon in our bodies
effervesces in glittering fireworks
and our minds write poems in the stars
which course through us like lightning.
And then the moment peaks
and we swim through the artist's strokes
painted with a brush floating through clouds
each of us a mirror of the other
reflecting star-filled words on words.
And finally, post-crescendo breaths
skim softly rounded pebbles on our hearts
leaving stardust as they gently bounce
and our souls come back to earth
until once again, the magic begins.
Cigarettes and BirdsongI roll another cigarette. The sun
is beginning to come up; tiny rays
of hope for another day
as the rest of the world sleeps.
Birds sing softly, songs of joy
and pleasure. I am alone
yet never alone. My world carries me,
the Universe has plans for all of us
and I sip slowly on hot tea
and contemplate its plan for me.
I roll another cigarette
and listen to the world awaken
around me, tiny stirrings of hope
for another day for all of us;
the saved and the damned.
I wonder if each morning I hear
the same birds, if they sing for me -
and feel too self-important, they
sing for anyone with a mind to listen.
We spend too much time not listening.
I roll another cigarette, and filled
with the tiny burgeoning of hope
the knowledge that not all of my days
begin this way, that my mind so quickly
slip-slides from side to side,
becomes untied; but not today.
I want to grasp this day, this peace
and imprint it on my mind, sear it
into place like a brand, a tattoo
of joy and peacefulness on my heart.
what's in a name?What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet
but what a name really means no-one knows
a word we give each other when we meet
and meaningless, for some, who feel that they
are nameless, who lack identification
with the label they were given on the day
that their so-kind mothers gave them incarnation
Even names we've chosen feel like clothing
that doesn't fit or rubs our skin too hard;
to speak aloud our name invokes a loathing
for that which others use like an ID card.
And so we nameless avoid speaking aloud
the name of which we're meant to be so proud.
HazeI spend my days in a haze
of nicotine, caffeine and codeine
so I can function; there's no option
with a kid who needs me upright
compos mentis, sweetness and light.
It keeps away the headaches
burning skin and aches and pains
so he can hug me and I'll feel him
without wincing and pushing him
away because my skin is burning.
And I've been tossing and turning
all night, aware that my plight
is that of hundreds, even thousands;
it helps to know I'm not alone
that others' skin, muscle and bone
betrays them, they're also in a haze
that keeps us sane, contains
the bane of our existences
sustains us, maintains
our ability to function for our loved ones
hoping we can outrun our bodies
and fretful minds, the lines
get blurred sometimes
and that haze keeps our gaze
from glazing over when we're loving
from a chair or bed that's crushing
our self-worth, confidence in our
ability to truly see the world
through our children's eyes
and we're surprised when those kids
accept us like it's normal
1.37amI wrap myself around you
hand resting on the sweet curve of your belly
absent-mindedly stroking soft hairs
as you breathe the heavy breath of sleep.
This is our time,
though you don't know it
time when I breathe in the back of your neck
all sweat and fabric softener and soap.
This is when I protect you.
When you murmur fear I comfort you
When you shift I accommodate.
The rhythm of your breathing comforts me
so I deliberate, breathing in time with you
my chest rising and falling against your back.
My knees fit perfectly into the smalls of yours
to say we are a two-piece puzzle would be a cliché
but a true one.
SongI sing his name softly as I sleep,
hearing echoes of him while I dream,
my thoughts in slumber like a tumbling stream,
his syllables bring calmness to the deep.
I sing his name quietly in my days,
a constant sountrack to my own existence;
knowing however far or near the distance
he's lighting my life with the brightest rays.
I sing him, dreaming, waking, in-between.
I sing him while I daydream, my sweet dove
who fills my life so fully with his love
that keeps my heart alive, and pure, and clean.
If life's a journey through the mists of time,
may his ever fall step-by-step with mine.
I locked my heart in a mahogany box and threw away the key.
There was no one to care for - there was nothing left for me.
My heart had ceased beating long ago
after years of misery and pain.
Through countless highs and lecherous lows
I became immune to pounding rain.
I walked without even my shadow as a friend.
Numb to all emotions that surfaced to my skin.
Knowing I would be alone to the bitter end
suffering the consequences of sin.
I was shunned and shamed -
bruised and maimed.
No one cared - no one knew.
No one bothered to change my view.
My life was a silent movie
of a language no one spoke.
With plenty of plot holes for all to see
and an ending of mirrors and smoke.
It was getting hard to catch my breath.
Surely death would be oh so sweet.
Addicted to the thought like Crystal Meth,
it skipped through my head like an erratic beat.
She stumbled upon a key that washed up on the shore.
Wondering what it could unlock.
Determined to solve the riddle and explor
if we were to never speak again.In silence absolute
I almost forgot you,
I almost remembered to forget
you, lonely afternoon
of naked breath,
the softness of sunset
as it rakes along my skin.
The nonchalance of the sky
almost unbearably falters
an outbreak of tears
weigh down my hair
memory of your touch,
memory of your heart,
eyes blinking through the rain
glimpses of turquoise-
blue souls dancing, but
not quite entwined.
claws into my brows,
furrows the flesh
rivulets of thought
that tear through my nervous system
cellular tinnitus, reverberations
in my spinal column,
raising mountains from
my body, darklight clouds
ghosting in the peripheries
of my vision
memory of your touch,
memory of your heart,
a lyrical tattoo
of ripened countryside
a vibrant concerto
washed between us
tidal colour drowning,
from your sweet humour
to my aching sternum
the cliffs fall away
and autumn breaks in upon us,
auburn sorrows of light
You AreI am the moon,
And you are the sun,
I pale in comparison to you.
I am a student,
And you are a professor.
I cant keep up with you.
I am a snowflake,
And you are a blizzard,
I will never be like you.
I am a tree,
And you are a fire,
You can destroy me easily.
I am a star,
And you are the universe.
You are simply my everything.
I shrug into Harry's shirt
underneath my autumn scarf--
cologne on the cuffs bringing
color as I close my eyes,
the brown of his hair,
laughter, pine green.
Fingers on marbled buttons
smooth as the cream
he puts in his chai.
I think of him like rain on a Sunday,
a slow breath uttered in calm,
eyes shut to listen,
he is peace,
stability in grayer moments.
He is the space in my empty bed
I ache for him the way
I crave prayer and
the feel of a rosary.
I Write to a Lover Who Doesn't ExistYou must've noticed how I was left bleeding
Because all you could do was stare
At me with those gemstones you call eyes.
We danced around bookshelves in the mystery section
Pretending not to notice each other
And ignoring the fact that our eyes kept meeting.
I wonder now that if we'd danced in the romance section
Would we have still ignored that part of ourselves?
And after all, aren't mysteries ment to be solved?
You must wash your hair with sunflower petals and pomegranate seeds
Because your aroma is that of a goddess
And I was attracted to you as quickly
As if you had called my name.
Would you call my name?
And would you say yours as well
Because although I have a feeling you go by Aphrodite,
We have not yet acquainted ourselves.
Locks of LoveI haven't cut my hair
Since just before
I walked across the stage
Sixteen months ago.
I grew it out
Because, last summer, you loved
To run your fingers
Through its coppery threads.
That always made me feel
When you left for school again in August,
I couldn't bring myself
To get a haircut.
What if you came back,
And this time, my heart was ready for you?
Mid-semester, you told me that,
While you and your friends
Built your school's bonfire,
It was customary
That no one cut his hair
Or even shaved
Until the structure was finished.
I don't think I told you
That I let mine continue to grow
In your honor, except
I didn't cut it on Burn Day.
When we kissed on Christmas Eve,
You weaved your fingers
Through my silken locks
And made me feel beautiful once more.
I still didn't cut my hair,
Even after you left in March,
Save for the split ends
I trimmed in May,
Hoping to eradicate negative energy
But not wanting to let go of you.
Now it's September.
thuggish loverno more on love. tell me
instead of the hearts you've
beaten, and the way
they kept on
lukedon't leave me again;
the seasons flutter by with
the blink of spider web eyelashes
twirled around the pieces of
my decaying heart, molded
and renewed with the dawn
of your spring palms.
my senses spark in a
drunken flood of desire;
i refuse to wash away
our finger-painted memories
into the grasping swallow of
an atlantic undertow, but
the stale taste of vodka
sleeps under my palette.
you don't arc your silver
tongue to sip my salted
gums or latch your fists
into bird's nest tangled curls
--anymore, and the shivers
of shadows spin down my
splintered spine, the snap
of a twig between your
i'm alone; your cosmic dreams
and galactic eroticism treads
underneath another damsel's
breast, an arrow to her heart.
I wallow, naked and discarded,
drinking and drowning in the
alcoholic buzz of your sweat
on my tongue, all along knowing
you and i will never love again.
If I Were A Love PoetFor my Laban. For my love.
Sometimes, often enough
when my thoughts are consumed
with you- I find myself wishing
that I was a love poet.
Wouldn’t it be beautiful
to piece words together so artistically
that I could make people understand
what it’s like to miss hands
that have never held me?
Wouldn’t it be the damnedest thing,
if I could make a stranger
know how it feels to kiss you?
Sweetly, passionately, softly
Hesitantly- and yet all at once?
Even though their lips have never met yours,
Even though our lips have never met.
How lovely would it be
to sanely, yet romantically
explain to my parents what it’s like
to fall asleep with you?
We could tell them how you giggle when I beg you
to be the big spoon- because I feel like it’s to much responsibility.
We could tell them about the sleepy kisses you give me
at 3 a.m when you find me searching for
Sweet Nothingsthat sweet nothing (everything) something
that you whispered in my apprehensive ear
which made the hairs on my neck stand straight
one by one like tiny soldiers you called into rank.
that sweet something (nothing) everything
trickled past my eardrum, where the soldiers
beat a rhythm with my heartbeat, oozed stickily
into my mouth and the sickly, saccharine taste
was cloying on my tongue, involuntarily
my mouth rebelled, and spat those syrupy words
away, rejecting every last drop.
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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