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Your wayShe leant against the wall. It was
sheet metal poured around a corner,
a mercury lick. 'I don't
go round your way, love,
I don't do it. You'll have to find
another way back
A push off shrug let in water. A rain
that could trickle deep inside her bones. Looked like
it was that old, worn out way home
through an industrial clog
and despair estates, debris scattered
like dead spiders that couldn't escape the drain.
Street lamps passed like road signs. Each one
an illumination of oblivion, to better know its nature. 'You left me freezing
she heard herself say; an imagined future utterance that vibrated her
vocal chords in her rainy present to kiss the falling drops, and charge them for
an amplified fall.
Her soggy breath passed by a metallic shadow in the driveway. It would not do her good
to key her own car. He said he'd need it. And she'd have to
find her own way through this night,
that much was clear
as a rectangle doorway conveyed a convulsing skin mess
to the side of
Metamorphosis lostI caught his eye
he wore a sophistication; hands clasping a copy of Milton swimming before him
and a sly smile
I took my seat opposite, picked out
my copy of Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis
and waited to see if he could tolerate my locust breath over pages
and my hesitant, twitching hands. I glanced up from my fate
to watch his facial features calm and soar with the journey of Eden;
all indications of
an inner falling
I longed to ask him
'What does paradise feel like?'
but somehow I felt like I had already held it, held it in
my ugly hands, and my experience was like
all good prose
that no one understands.
I knew it in his eyes as he confronted bliss
and the fall.
The hours dropped into a time
when you shouldn't strain your eyes. He did not look at me
but let his fingers trail across the cover into his disappearance.
I picked up the volume of messages
written by a different age, a different soul;
but it made no sense to me
Words were just
words. It was h
education(the petulant pupil beheads himself with a compass.
he could not swing on his chair. what a kneejerk education.
you have learned life and death but still cannot draw a circle.)
The sleep of the coyoteThe coyote saunters down the road. He is fresh in his step and his hanging mouth beams out different smiling selves. Each fall of an unfurling paw is a new him and a new way of existing in contentment. The sun is burning too. Lines of stench mark the coyote's back. They are smug reminders of a night spent in delicious warmth. He had found a rotting rib cage in the plain of desert. He had lain in that fleshy, gutted train, a bed graveyard, and tousled his sandy hair though dreams and squishy muscle. One animal's life is another's shelter.
The coyote walks down the road. He is smug and confident and licking it from his lips, spreading his tongue over the breath he ingests with his ease of being. They will surely be sat on their porches, when he sidles by those scattered human dwellings. They will surely be sat on their porches. There is simply anticipation and delight because he imagines himself at the first point of mutual recognition with a human. He sees the acknowledgement of his pre
Answer machineThere's just a beep
a beep where my motivation should be
a soul removed and replaced with an answering machine,
record yourself and shiver
In a disinterested bus station littered with disused souls (a walking trash heap)
I can attain no salient points or conclusion from
the journey of finding oneself entirely static and rooted to the ground
and in the wondering and creeping panic
I, the sprouting organic concrete pulsating with the desire to have colour
have a form defined, highlighted by wires. There's a woman
of about twenty five
who catches my eye. And hers say
that she is
a seductive way to die. My eyes maintain a visual handshake while
my brain spins for the numbers that connect
to my phone
in the future. Her lips part to speak, she is
such a dazzling shade of fury
but at that moment
a man creates a protracted phlegm splutter, a rip of vomit on silence,
then hacks his guts up
in the public toilets behind us.
Reality dissipates her,
she could not stand the test of time. S
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
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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