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a secret oath.a secret oath.
"madness need not be all breakdown; it may also be
break-through. it is potential liberation and renewal
as well as enslavement and existential death."
- r. d. laing
imagine your bone structure collapsing in on itself, birthday sticks in the mudpie of your flesh, and eyes like glass, blue as all the oceans and glinting as the light curves through them, odd little chips of endless third dimension. imagine as i do, these separate features animated. an awkward caricature of limbs at impossible bends and intersections, levitating in the space between worlds where your half-body splinters, the shards of your bones are swallowed by the earth and i wake to the familiar sense of a gaping, yawning loss.
sundays run fluidly into one another until suddenly each moment becomes a disjointed struggle between will and sympathy and some sort of hybrid, a collaboration in soulache of disappointment, anger and the guilt that drags itself after, a crawling heavy sense on th
caro levarecaro levare.
i think of you in carnivals, a tale of teenage existentialism in a
city by the sea. celestial star-empire stretched calm above gaudy
circus lights, wrong in their stillness, where you are at once a storm
and a silence. suspended in a ferris cart above its lawless city you
speak of fire, lionboy, of freedom, in your mind an oppressed radical
aching for a dream to come to pass. in secret, you were born to do
this, inspire and impact and fight your tiny wars with words. and even
the cosmos itself stops for you, we stare as one, in awe of the lionboy
shifting earth's momentum as her people sleep below, unseeing.
you beneath the sun, you are a caged hurricane of rage under
your skin, a thin façade of cool apathy. catatonic schizophrenic on
your back in the grass and you see something hazy that escapes
me in the depths of blue, but i see the gears of epiphany finally
churning for you and for the first time it strikes me that we pass
these messages in s
-: there is only so much others can do to help you. you know this. don't you? you know. and yet you do nothing. you change nothing. in the pit of your eternally whirring mind. all that ties me to you is guilt. i don't understand why you keep coming here, to us, to me.
+: the night children, my father.
-: i don't understand. you.
+: he who comes after, beelzebub, all things to all men. i cannot tell her i am her brother. she deserves to be happy.
-: you do not think she'll be happy to find her long lost sibling, whom she has been searching for her entire lifetime, whom she left behind the ice for? you don't think she will be happy?
+: i am black inside as coal. i have died and yet, i am not dead. how could she be happy to know her only living family member is a convicted felon, outcasted? i will care for her from a distance and she need never know. it's the way i want it. an act of love.
-: love, by its nature, desires a
in the mountains, i feel free.in the mountains, there i feel free.
Q: i think, if i do this, there will be nothing left of me.
X: it's the push and pull, your gears will grind and scratch together but everything equates in the end.
Q: it's not quite so easy, not as simple as you make it sound.
X: except it is. there is one key difference between you and i:
you wallow, sorrow spat you out.
i believe happiness, not achievement, is the measure of success.
Q: i am dead to me.
X: you know, that's not how the play begins.
Q: i think you think i have lost all sense of direction in my life, and so you drag me around all sorts of detours keeping your eyes peeled as potatoes for ways in which i can be used for your benefit.
and you think i am unaware.
that's not it. that's not it at all. i am not oblivious to you and your motives, i just stopped carrying myself long before we met.
i am not oblivious.
i am dead to me.
Q: there will always be questio
nemo sine vitio est.nemo sine vitio est.
and alaskan winters cloak themselves around
my bare and boney shoulders no matter
where my current location happens to be.
the skies are going black at just four thirty in the afternoon
and sometimes it can be another's past you cannot escape,
their curse may be yours just as your sorrow can be theirs.
he was a boy who found loneliness in all the corners of
town, crooked little side streets where suns of summer
could never quite penetrate the back walls and shadows
would stalk from end to end, he believed. cosmic shadows
that could be magick doctor know from some unexplored
foreign galaxy if only anyone would dare approach them.
secrets, from a life forgotten.
i forget sometimes that nobody is without fault, and this includes you
too. i guess i'm scared that you'll disappear if i don't make a conscious
effort to recall all the trivial and menial things about you.
so i compare you to australia the earth deity
or paris the city of love
or new y
father faust.father faust.
you are listening to the heartbeat of the child you left alone.
and you may not know it, may
find yourself in the car down some
deserted street at eleven pm
with speakers singing soft to you
but you are hearing my heart beating
from someplace in the north where
we do not speak and seldom love. and
you may refuse to speak of me or my
latest life, how far i could have come in
just three short months, but you think and
you hear and i beat along inside your chest
in the quiet car moments or right before
you fall asleep.
feel the cold up here in the nighttime.
i bear your name and maybe your eyes too,
your disease and your disillusionment but aside
from these we are poles apart, we are strangers
we are each a bundle of terrible mistakes and
misconceptions and fatal flaws and we fight
those few fleeting times we exchange more than
maybe three utterances between us.
night terror.night terror.
a crash course on human nature:
discontentment, lust, destruction.
we rinse and repeat.
i knew a soul like it was my own, once.
we were in perfect sync throughout our
years of discord. shells, we were, buried
in sands the colour of ash and we found
eachother through sheer coincidence.
one and the same, two rings of silver
worn over time until there was no shine
left within us. we would walk our paths
of dust for days
[never running. our lives were chasing
a short space behind, but we never ran]
until there was no grey dust left to walk
on. carried eachother when our feet bled
and lay down in the smashed glass shards
at the end of our almost-desolate journey.
i loved him, once.
more powerful and encompassing than any
love in all of history, but along the way his
jigsaw pieces got misplaced and he was
left with no eyes to see and no mouth to
speak. a portrait never to be regained.
a trained iris will see all,
just so long as you know what to look for.
you may see as
my sweet, my songless.my sweet, my songless. my caged bird.
phaedra has strayed from the path of good sense.
i know a place in which there are no questions
no tongues to speak, no eyes to explore
and in its dark centre there is a puzzle that will not be reassembled.
there is a spiderweb stretching from east to west in which i lie
and knowledge paralysed.
i am the ugly duckling of truth
(read as: i have trouble expressing myself
things i know but cannot prove,
an endless spray of saltwater against the gaping holes in my soulmeetsflesh.)
in order to get an image, you must know sympathy
another way of listening
on the sea, the sea.
in order to listen, we must learn patience.
oliver, the sun won't rise for another three hours or more and you
have me rapt until she wakes the treebranches and windowpanes.
do you have the time to teach me love?
i am not so well versed, but i've heard it means the following things:
staying cocooned in the bedsheets until noon has passed.
notes on the fridge door reminding me to use the opened milk.
letting me think you forgot my birthday,
and surprising me three days later with lindor chocolates
and a pack of morinaga sweets
and a night curled up on the couch with the foreign movies i love so much.
talking honestly about our histories.
forgiving my past mistakes.
worrying for me every single appointment with my therapist,
knowing that it wears me down talking about these things for hours on end
and running your fingers through my hair when i flop next to you with the weight of sorrow clutching around my shoulders.
admitting you've been wrong and trying your hardest to change your ways
and apologising from the ve
stupid love poems for stupid boys.he was the
smoke in my
saved for when
i'm so lonely
that i cannot
but the problem
with giving your
heart to a boy
with a pack of
for ribs is that
he will want your
well– and after
all that blood and
blue lip kisses,
he will leave you
with a coughing
lighter and a
burnt tongue (but
it's really a great
The woman from ParisI took much pleasure in losing my way in Paris' morbid and dangerous streets,
Where sole the high arrogant walls whispered me words I was able to understand,
These stretches of granite trapped me like the grave I've always dreamt of.
The Ladies' ice-cold and distant beauty inebriated me with all the bitterness of temptation;
Under a dirty, driving rain, I gazed at them and suffered
While the parisian mist permeated on my heart its burning frostbites,
And hearses of madness couldn't stop from parading through my mind.
"Veux-tu voir la face cachée de Paris ?" - A slender voice dragged me out of darkness
The Seine flowed, flowed, flowed...And stopped.
Her voice, like a carillon, announced Summer's return,
The breeze blew the rain, the sun revived these leaves dead for centuries,
As if she saved me from a waking nightmare.
"Je t'en prie, ne me regarde pas comme ça..." - An embarrassed smiled was being painted on her magenta cheeks
That was her, th
Soles (Forest Girl)Soles (Forest Girl)
i didn’t believe in carving initials into trees.
i always told you that was corny to me.
i told you i was a city boy,
comfortable in car drafts
and gleaming lights
that dilute natural shine.
to the sight of airplanes,
police cars and helicopters
than anything else.
but you dreamed of wings
so much bigger than aspect ratio,
so much wider.
you were higher.
so that day you took me there,
i knew i was out of my element.
your forest stories teased me;
sitting on the edge of your shoe soles.
and that riverbank that you tiptoed on.
little smirk always flashing your white pearls
when you were whisking through this place.
holding my hand in a tight grip
as you gave me a tour of your hidden burrow.
i had never been so in--
and out of place before.
the atmosphere was brisk
glancing the hairs on my neck,
goosebumps rising on my skin
as i swore feathers fell from your shoulders.
purple streaks nuzzle orange bands
that hold together golden twines
homesick for childhoodshe was a carefree little girl
with smiles hidden deep down
in her pockets, and she'd only
give them out to the most deserving.
when the quarter hour of her life
struck, however, things changed.
her world was painted black
on accident, millions of shades
turned ashy due to a sickness
that breeds on those empty
spaces between words.
she was dropped into summer
covered in homemade scars,
and with summer, her innocence
was eaten away.
pinned to a bed
like prey, she watched herself
consumed into another
(this world is the 7 a.m. frost
left on winter windows.
and it scares me)
The Cracks Of RealityI traced the tips of my fingers over her porcelain
Felt the skin raise in bumps of sensation.
My mouth fit so well into the crook of her neck
And as her her eyes closed, her breathing shaky,
I found myself swallowing and my heart beating twice as fast.
As her hips rolled into me, as her nails clenched into the sheets,
She told me once more that she loved me, and I assured her I felt the same.
But then reality came, settling into the cracks of my fantasies.
And she slipped from my fingers.
And I was alone.
the days spent on the front stepsevery time you rip the lid off
the shell of styrofoam
questions your motives.
every secret you whisper into her naphthalene
stays there. it dies a little
as protein is scrambled. home is not a place.
her curve is ejected
as unidentified. it is bile
rolling back, the sheet of ebbing tide.
you always speak of horses
armoured, whisky clattering on their breath,
kingdoms burning and knights
riding off into the valley of deep sleep
you always speak of ships
leaving, pearly cord
as a farewell extending from coast
to hull forming an image of crying Mary
it shines in front of you
it calls out your name
Parchment ThinYou left pencil lead bruises
smudged on my thin ivory skin,
your harsh fingers tracing the lace
of the baby doll lingerie
you pasted to my curves.
The angel wings
tied with tape around my shoulders
(the missing piece of innocence
you thought you could borrow)
weighed me down;
with flat eyes
and marker-blotted lips,
I watched you admire your handiwork.
A nimble flourish of knuckles later,
you slipped me between the plastic
of your photo album
and left my name dripping ink
in the corner--
just another parchment doll
too fragile for holding.
darknessHave you ever woke up and you feel like their is darkness all around you?
You are battling your own mind
You have the worst thoughts go on in your head
Don't want to be around anyone
You feel like you are doomed
You think no one understands
Waking up in the darkness is not a good feeling
Try to think of a good place in your life and let the darkness fade
when the day is done i'll be goneIn my fingertips is the devil
Daring me to touch what is not to be touched
And I care not, reaching through my own open ribcage
To touch what lies between inflating balloons that are my lungs-
In my ears echo your voice,
Begging me not to reverse the corruption in my heart
And I care not, reaching between my lungs to grasp my heart with my inked fingers
To release the sigil stitched deep into the veins of my heart.
Windsor BlueWindsor Blue
I am erasing you, and I am happy.
These roads could be consuming our souls and
would be none the wiser.
I slept on the hard shoulder, in the grass and you
drove ahead, flesh and bone and heart beating against ribs between lungs that work like paper swans
litter the tables and floors in a hotel 300 miles away
in the middle of a place where I've been left before.
There is no other set of co-ordinates on the face of this earth that looks exactly like this
exactly like you as you connect the cables and
let me sleep 'cause you know my energy levels are running low and it's
one hell of a drive, socks full of holes that you press to the pedal to
accelerate this heap of metal and plastic and tacky fabric pulling apart at the seams.
"I can't help you," consonants drifting in and out of the smoke from your mouth, "if you won't help yourself."
I am erasing you, and I am lost between here and Montauk and Idaho and home is calling,
or would be if I could catch it but
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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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