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i meant to tell youplease (tell me another story, tell me every dream you've ever had so that in case you) forget (i could remember it for you. i'm stumbling over my words again, asking, do you love) me, (do you dream of me? i love and dream of you every night, i am a mess of limbs and i remember to lie to you and tell you that i) do not (remember my subconscience's wishes on stars that do not exist, i will not tell you that i dreamt that we could) talk (underwater, and you would never come) to me (again because you would not leave me, n)ever again.
it's raining in our hearts.four months ago, the weather was warm but the sky was dark except for little glowing drops of light that sliced through the darkness and pounded on your cracked windshield. the wipers were screaming back and forth cutting the comfortable silence we sunk into. your knuckles were white on the steering wheel as if the bones were begging to get out and i swear, i could hear your heart beating from my seat eighteen inches away. your eyes kept straying from the road to my face as i stared decidedly out the window watching the storm build and calm in the reflection of my eyes as the sky poured color infused water droplets on us. i wanted to pretend like this wasnt the most beautiful thing id ever seen since that would never count for anything. i wanted to pretend like this wasnt perfect since that tends to be so short-lived. but it was beautiful and perfect as you parted your lips and let your heart sing. it was raining outside when you said you loved me.
a week a
are a middle-aged woman with skin that has turned more into leather mask than a face as you have been in the sun. you are a vitamin d addict with the burning need to stain white skin, brown. you have spent twenty-five years in and out of dermatologists' offices, asking for opinions and second opinions on the warped moles on your back and the bleeding sores on your chest. you have two children, whom you view as distractions from your mission to capture your forever-young. you are forty-five in december, but halfway through november, those riotous patches of skin will spread like poison ivy. you will die three weeks after your birthday- untanned, unloved, and bald.
are a teenaged boy with freckles and a small nose. you are a sad soul, an epicentre for all things tragic. you are run-down and marked with tire-treads and pale lip imprints, a product of society more than anyone, despite the war you wage against it. you have sharp-angled lips and stand with crooked shoulders. you are
he said, she said .collabyou said hi.
the earth shifts, a body moves, lights blow out, a star decays, veins twist,
the last dinosaur's cry finally echoes back, a language without words is born,
the sunrise is blue, sunset is red, a day is wasted, people are feeling feelings,
an insect genocide, writing on skin, why are the other planets empty,
had a life started when a baby died before it could remember,
our bodies are ancient artifacts, i stepped on a crack on purpose,
table is a beautiful word, life is a videotape, we dry like grapes,
wallets are too much weight to fly, heartbeats are not fascinating, clocks are bullshit,
diamonds are rocks, breathing is nasty, walls are immature,
touching should not be uncomfortable,
every thought and emotion to think and feel is already in your head;
everything else is just a trigger,
how are tears ready to be cried, why did God invent pain,
we're smart animals, we're dumb humans,
eyes glow, neurons rattle, blood flutters like a gamma ray burst, love is nonexistent,
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