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The Purple and the SunSpill your blood on the seven swords –
as darkness comes, they are shouting
Artos, Artos, Artos.
You are not just a man. I’ll say it again,
even as you sweat and grunt, shag-headed,
terrible and real. You are not just a man. Let your
heavy head fall, and become
the bones of the hills
and the birds
of the sky.
Let them claim you for their own,
Emperor, o Emperor,
even as the smoke tastes bitter
on your tongue. The Sun is setting,
and the thing is done. Die, and live forever,
with what you’re given.
A crown of oak leaves,
and a lake,
for your resting place.
Touchand given that my life is not so much a life
as it is a void, and not so much a void
as a transposition,
three steps away from the
truth of things,
a smear of grease-paint vision,
given that i have spent hours with
my back on the asphalt spine
staring at the pale shell of the sky and
imagining myself as nothing but the
nothing i saw,
the paper-bone annulment of life,
some misstep between
‘born’ and ‘die’,
given all this, i had no choice
but to throw myself down
at the temple of incarnation,
and say before i drowned:
‘oh lord, save me, for i have
lost it all, and i am floating,
and i am falling,
and i am gone’.
at first i offered him blood sacrifice,
or close enough,
stinging tallies of the days
when i could not remember
what it felt like to be alive –
i decorated my skim-milk thighs
and waited for fruit,
or stars, to burst
behind my eyes.
but then i learnt better ways, gentler ways,
things that he gave me, or perhaps
things that i gave him
AcceptI fall into wretchedness
like lovers’ arms. The sting is lost –
the burning lamps of stars begin to fade,
and soft grey muslin is drawn ’cross the
Hello, I say, and pull myself
out of bed; in unison
the atoms of my bones
are yawning their lament.
The eye of the stormPull from me a hundred
thousand things –
unspool with gentle hands,
you who are so sweet
in the needled dark, cold-foot
and rabbit-heart. A hundred thousand
things: my head bowed and heavy
with reverence on your chest, honey
and flowers and flames of a fire
hot and aching and bright, a fire to
sit beside when the
windchimes jangle madly in
ruminations and illuminations [the eastern way] dew clings to my feet,
fearing dawn and the art of
dying in the sun.
i wouldn't know from
but I get the rub.
we're born incarnate beings
just waiting to dissipate.
nothing was ever
meant to exist forever -
make the most of life.
no need for the
Slow swirl and wide whirl,
Life's memories floating by.
Faster night by day
The past reviewing itself
The future searching you out.
dionysus's engine the love flowed freely
as the music was playing,
and the hippies danced
tripping the light fantastic,
*Papyrus Art 1*
Valley of the kings
Elusive world gone.
Through mist of time
listening to silenceThe party had ended, nothing to do but listen to silence
glitter on her sore and bitten lips still, she listened to silence.
She'd left the boy and he didn't know what to do with himself
anymore. He couldn't muster up tears, so he sat and listened to silence.
Taste of peppermint chewing gum in her mouth and the
woods quiet around her, she was happy as she listened to silence.
The poet sat in front of her computer, and observed the things
her heart sent fizzing to her fingertips, and she listened to silence.
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