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Eleven abstract storiesA physical yawn. A stretching of self, a reduction of form into a queue of cells that stretch out and flounder like a cat's tail. My eyes are planets and spin silently, slowly, in the darkness time will never wake up from.
Self is input. The ones and zeros and seconds were all made for each other. There are no doors for the keys that make up our fabric. Just a glisten as illumination, a gliding spotlight, picks out the patterns in our breathing metal. Space gives space and more space, an infinite jumpback when 'more' is uttered. Else there is staring at the surroundings and see nothing but oneself, and the space inside, that gives more, and more, with an infinite jumpback. It's the entirety of universe or the entirety of me. My body is the pinch in the double helix.
Meaning is an indescribable picture painted by a blind universe. Mini portraits carried inside physical, breathing cavities must have been received from it directly. Nothing I or you can do to emulate the brushstrokes of
Waiting roomWe've had conversations while
we've sat in imagined waiting rooms,
nervously awaiting feedback
on the condition of our emotions. Don't fuck about,
just say it like it is.
And I wondered if I was angry, if I was hurt,
wondering if that was even okay;
a nurse wouldn't deliver the news in front of him
to leave me to watch his expression fall into darkness
while we watched weeks of sunsets
and talked about how clouds look like cotton bandages
on an aggravated wound of sky.
Your sunset expressions were always beautiful
and your eyes always made of an undefined anywhere;
but I couldn't marvel at your fading colours when
I couldn't roll a sunrise under your weary eyelids.
On days when I'd come in, arms laden with magazines
that told of lives as glossy as a rinsed scalpel,
I didn't know if I was tending to you, or me,
If our heads were houses
we would have always had a light on at an upstairs window
through the night.
I hoped one day
a discarded star in a
before we're old/before we're too tired/before we have lung cancer and die/
grey/before we can no longer bear the fight of getting up everyday/before we're too used
to being used to things/
before we're sick of trying/before we admit it's too late to change/
before we're too drunk/
before we're too sober/
before we concede the best part of romance
is when it's over/before we're arrested/before we're on a flight to Venezuela/
before we're holding a child
that looks like someone else's but isn't/
we're staring at the blackboard from the other side of the chalk knowing we know less now than ever before/before we're
watching repeats of TV shows we've seen before/before
it's too late/
before we say it's too late when it isn't/before we say it's too late and it
/before my sighs became so deep they could fill the Albert Hall and
fill the lungs of the five thousand spectators like goody bags given after a child's party/before we're
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More