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dont go to barsher hips twirling in the candlelight, barely contained beneath tentative layers of sequined silk twinkle star bright, and while she writhes,
the very meaning of motion,
the soundless berating of everything you have ever doubted of love
(for there is love there, spoken in the language of full-to-bursting flesh)
moves over you in the waves of sweat cresting your collarbones,
tidal-waves of wanting only the impulses of your body betray -
in your eyes, there is nothing but echoes of sweet smoke and the charred, timber-brown residue of poppy flowers swaying,
like the serpents of her hips
in gentle spring breezes.
the curses of her skin are writing prophesies over the scars of the sky,
tomes and heresies to the greatness of man
with the scent of her womanhood
sweet as perfume
clogging the darkness through the parting of your lips -
there is no breath left in you,
only the deep incense off her warflags,
waving you down
with bullet-blasts of red lips
swollen in their wanting of you
The Day I Met God.I met God one evening.
The funny thing is, i wasn't wanting to find him.
God was smoking.
"Why are you smoking?"
"I'm God Kalea, i'm stressed."
We sat atop a big balcony and watched his creations move.
"They're so beautiful", God was breathing hard.
But I know they aren't. they aren't. they aren't.
How do you tell God that?
"Why do people rape, and murder and steal?"
God's mouth is the shape of a sinking ship
his face carries the wrinkles of one thousand dying souls.
oh, i don't know.
a weird photoshop doodle.
all artwork in my gallery is © me, bailey elizabeth. do not use or modify my images or writing in any way without my written permission. don't steal my art. please.
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