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Voraginous Wounds.What I want is not anything
offered here. What I want
is jeweled red horses, chains
connecting all my organs,
a mangled music box heart.
Reality is destroying me
and something great
is seeping out
through my veins.
I inhale the smoke
and accept things as they are.
It is officially dissolved.
What I want is a nostalgia
like acid burning holes in me.
What I want is angels reaching down
from their delicate ether palace,
touching me underneath my clothes.
What I want is a mosquito net
to choke you with
and a pond to toss you in after.
What I want is to watch
a river of mucus float by
filled with fish that dance
and light up like
little balls of hope.
I want to the air to smell like
candy and animal flesh and coffee.
I want to see rainbows every day.
What I want is every president's
head on a platter. What I want is
to eat and drink and have sex
like everyone but I can't.
What I want is to live in crystal castles
and her death; I imagine it soundin
25 Clockwise.Every night, I find you in my dreams.
At night I want to chop myself up
into little cubes of meat and
package myself in plastic with no label.
Every night I watch you get high while I
criticize you. Most morning I wake up
crying because yet another little piece
of me, one of my miniature hearts has died
lost somewhere in a dream. During the days
I try to blow enough smoke at the sun to
obscure it, until it goes down. I wander
and I wander and I never come down from
the clouds and stars you might be gracing.
I look at the sun and the moon, like you
told me to when I miss you, but the moon
looks like glowing knives and the sun looks
smudged. My face looks sad before I go to
bed. The last time I saw you, you were so
abject, so lifeless - it was like you were
already dead. I want to read the novel you
never wrote, read about the marijuana and
the mushrooms in Hawaii, all the scary things
you've seen, all the potent love you'
Forget Everything.Everyone I have ever loved has been as toxic as lead
or liquid in the lungs. It is hard for me to say what
will make the monsters go away. Maybe a night light
to help me see; maybe large elaborate traps that
would devour me like the sky devours the moonlight.
Maybe I could hire someone I could pay who is a
better hunter than me. If only I could run away,
truly, not just state to state, not just grave to grave.
If only I could seize the day, maybe these monsters
would fade away. The girls - all pale skinned and
on hard drugs. All as self-destructive as atomic bombs.
All selfish, self-centered moms. The men - all boys.
All hiding behind quietude or insult. All dead or dying.
When I have the chance, I will leave everything, leave
everyone, and run. And run and run and run. I will
forget everything, I will forget everything, every stupid
memory, every drunk drive in the city, everything you
You.Grow your hair out long. Read more books.
Make love happily like dolphins in the sea.
Stop hating and banging everything. Don't
drink milk or eat cookies and walk around
more. Find yourself in a tree randomly.
Treasure things and people. Fast. Before
they break or die. Pretend that you never
loved Hitler. Pretend that you never loved me.
Gross yourself out with your own body parts
and your own waste. Take a deep breath and
look in the mirror at your face. Grow your hair out.
Stop playing video games. Don't resort to TV.
Try to forget that you were struck by moonlight
and try to forget whatever you felt that
black coffee night when the sky fell down
in front of you. Get a job. Get a life.
Let go of your narcissistic pride. Become
a drummer or a butterfly or the President
for all I care; I'll be the surgeon that
Stages of Suicide.Tonight I'd like to tear myself apart,
cut one huge slice, reach in there
and take all of it out. It's all dead and dirty,
all useless and poisonous anyway.
All I want is to have you
in my grasp again. Hold your hand
through one more drunk drive, one more
oh no at a red light. Just one more
abduction or sexual assault
in the belly of the night.
One more pile of tears & clothes,
one more person telling you
that you are worthless.
When I was a little girl I had vivid
dreams of you dying and I would
wake up crying but I never told
anyone about them. I wonder if
my Native American subconscious
realized at a young age that you
were already in early stages of suicide.
Forgive me, if I never call your name again;
I have only spoken in my dreams to the dead,
atop mountains of TVs, and while watching
nightmares unfold in grocery stores,
like giant pieces of origami. Forgive me
for falling into this lightless day.
I hope this re
Television Diamonds.Falling so deep into myself I find
other worlds and get lost in them.
Finding human head sized diamonds
in caves in my heart and brain;
holding them in multi-colored awe,
up to the bright grey sun.
This means never having to see
anything but light again.
This means television does not exist.
This means freedom is chirping
in the palms of my hands.
Your ears are misshapen
so I could never love you.
Your hands couldn't break my face
so I could never love you.
American Ataxia.I'm so sick of it here. I'm sick of
the fighting, the hallucinations,
the drugs, the cowbells on the door.
I'm sick of the loneliness & heartache.
I'm sick of men only wanting sex, &
weak women whose lives become diapers
breastfeeding & asswiping. I'm sick of
this country - the smells, the sports,
the obsessions, the little fucking boxes,
just big rat traps with big stinky pieces
of plastic cheese. I'm sick of all the
horrible, unreliable people around me,
unable to comprehend the concepts of
love & peace. I'm sick of this young
country, all of its naivete & aggression.
I'm sick of war and television and money,
sick with death. I'm sick of myself,
in all this sickness. Sometimes I want
to flee the country, fuck everyone I know,
and never ever come back.
Cuntsore.Death has killed my sex drive,
and drugs have killed my mom.
Republicans have killed my mom.
Curiosity has killed her too.
I am reading on death and dying
and the power of your subconscious
mind. I was reading Steppenwolf
and The Stranger right before you
I dream of your lips sometimes,
of your dark and jagged mind.
Death gave birth to a woman
named Sara Cline. She can't
keep track of her teeth and
in the mornings gives her husband
pills meant for the night time.
As I clean your dumpster of a room,
I found and pulled out string pieces of your heart
from a dozen orange pill bottles in half a dozen
of your drawers; I found pictures of my beautiful
dead mother, stuffed into the back of your closet,
on the floor; I found my favorite purple scarf
with the rainbow tinsel
stuffed underneath a chair cushion;
I found thousands of dollars worth of gold and silver,
and my mother's pretty in pink heart, shoved to the back
of your underwear drawer
Massacre, My Heart.The greatest loss is that
of another human being,
perhaps the sole copy
of a thousand-page
magnum opus. Once burned
both remain inside you,
but can never manifest
in exactly the same light.
Eating sun-damaged apples
through mouthfuls of smoke
I inhale the air you died in,
shaking off memories like bugs.
I am still in love with blond
cancerous girls with smoky mouths
and flat stomachs, staring, hoping
they will blow something at me.
Winter is coming and my lungs
are getting tired of the smoke injections.
My bones are getting tired of car rides.
My heart is getting tired of departure
after departure, nightmare after nightmare,
forgotten dream after forgotten dream.
This is the greatest loss
I have experienced.
Values have shifted
like tectonic plates.
I am patiently waiting for
everything to settle down,
so I can see the changes.
This shift will massacre my heart
like lunchmeat, alter the routes
of my blood, change the shape of my face.
Who knows what I will become without you
Almost-There was a boy with two middle names
and he lived almost-alone.
He had scars that weren't accidents and not his fault.
On his seventeenth birthday a girl moved in next door
and he found out that cheap bottles shatter
and embed into your skin,
then his almost-father fell asleep
and he left so he could be really-alone.
There was a boy with eyes as pale as the sun
and he was almost-beautiful.
He knew all the constellations by heart
and loved to be outside when the leaves fell.
Once the girl-next-door found him sleeping
under the trees and when he woke up she was gone;
later he realized she'd stolen his heart
in the form of spiral notebooks.
There was a boy with a shy smile
and he was almost-happy.
He was always sure it could be worse,
but his heart was too soft to harden to all of life's breaks,
and his skin was too bruised to soften the blows.
He had calloused hands and broken ribs;
one day he let her see the scars.
There is a girl with bright eyes
and she is almost-relieved.
She has th
Untitled.I sat upon a mountain top and held an empty jar. I waited til the sun came up, the trees burning like fire. I stood on my tip toes and held the jar up to the sky, I shut my eyes and trapped the rays inside. I drove slow the whole way home, holding the sun close to my heart. My whole car was glowing, the horizon in a jar. I brought the sky home to you and placed it in your hands, but you could only see the grayness, you said the world had no beauty left to give. That night you held the sunshine tightly while you slept. You can always lighten darkness, don't you dare forget.
i'm so tired..she wishes to tear cities down, exquisite bones
igniting the ocean, an ethereal holocaust, and she
speaks grasshopper dreams of nights spent spilling
secrets to strangers on crowded dance floors and
fucking without the love or condescending respect.
she paints whispers on mannequin fingers, breathing
blood into fitful heart monitor frequencies and teaching
abstract eyes to feel the space left between bedsheets
after one night stands with men from paris and milan,
foreign rejects writing misunderstood on pale skin.
she remembers nights on warm mattresses with sisters
curled up under crocheted blankets, nights filled with
warnings of angry men and their inebriated affection,
newfound fear of the boy living next door and symphonies
of ohgodgoodgodpleaseno drifting from open windows.
she is a mess of broken mirrors and to many pills, ankles
aching to feel beautiful again and a close-minded view of
terrorists and the brittle bones of african babies but she lies
next to him
when i was five, loneliness killed my mother.
i'd watch as she'd sleep, her hair spread in a golden,
angelic halo that dead people usually get. and under
her mattress, in a place she probably forgot about, sleeps
a thumbprint photo of a man with sand-colored skin
and burnt brown hair--
one i don't want to remember.
she'd lie in the heat, chalky as an overcast sky,
letting a fervid maine sun warm her shivering
fingers. her hair grew thinner, like Christmas
tinsel carefully taken down the tree in March.
when i was six, my mother found Bruce.
he looked and sounded like a bulldog--a raspy voice
and short, white-blonde hair that seemed to disappear in
the red of his face, his mouth stitched straight as the
horizon. his muscled arms would wrap around her waist
as he fingered her tinsel hair. when his voice started shaking,
getting louder, she'd gather me up and let me shiver under
the purple-red flowers of her comforter.
then she'd slink back to him, trying to extrapolate the soft
Other Feathered Things little bird.
Little fragile feathery
I have been
waiting for you
for all of my life. I have been
buying birdseed and letting the bread
go stale. I caught all the crickets,
I gave away the cats.
i have been waiting
in this dark
room with my hands cupped
like a supplicant to dust.
I try not to
that you will
because you will have many friends and
you will never
your small talons will scratch
my fingers, when you come, and i
if I keep you in a cage
if i leave you a
thanatophilia.i just can't get enough of death.
here's the thing: i was six when my dad died. he was in an accident involving a cement mixer and the neighbour's dog sparky. you imagine the rest.
all i remember is my mom crying until her nose was as red as her fingernails, and thinking how fat and soggy her face looked from that ocean of salt running down her cheeks. all i remember is my mom doing a shit job at blocking my eyes from the pictures of my dad at the scene of the accident. all i remember is how much blood there was, plastered all over the blades of the truck and matting down sparky's fur. all i remember is how bright my eyes felt, seeing all that red. seeing all that death.
all i remember is wanting more of it.
here's the thing: i'm not a murderer. i'm not a self-mutilator, i'm not a junkie. i just have a fetish. some folks like latex, i like death. i've never had a problem with
Iridium.and love was never
it is when our
you always watched
films for the
me, for the feeling.
insomniayou told me you have trouble sleeping.
i'll tell you bedtime stories.
(you know those books with 365 stories; one for every day of the year?
i'll take you from january to december, and if you're still not asleep by then,
we'll do another year.)
i'll sing you lullabies.
(the kind that makes you think of the way satin feels on your skin and vanilla
smells and subtle beauty looks and bliss tastes, and i'll whisper all those things
into your ear to the tune of every lullaby i know.)
i'll lie with you.
(i'll hold you against my chest and kiss the top of your head and brush my finger
through your hair in a soothing manner. and if that doesn't help, then at least
the time is spent agreeably.)
if nothing works and you still haven't fallen
asleep, i will stay awake with you all
night and we'll pretend that
we're in your dreams.
you can pretend it's...she speaks
that once-in-a-while way
familiar to earthquakes
and the end
when she's alone
shake (alone with her)
she's buried in the bottle
you can bury me in boston
wide-eyed and wondering
this same sky comes crashing
won't claim I wasn't warned
about hanging stars from expectations
second nature embarrassment and
first nature proceed anyhow
I'm still reaching
but she's on the other side
Generational Drug Killer.She leaves poisoned needles in the air
all quietly waiting for someone to come
and disturb them, like a black widow
in a web. There are bottles of wine
and brandy hidden in her closets and
under the table in her room. She
clings to things, a shiny red backpack
with Chinese symbols she can't decipher,
a pink and purple pillow in the shape
of a heart. There are bottles of diazepam
and lorazepam and things it takes me
several seconds to pronounce. You make
me potions in the night, toss an extra
wool blanket on me, crawl on the floor,
cry on the white leather couch,
fall down the dead red stairs. There
is something evil inside you but no one
would ever guess, covered by your Christian gas mask.
A made-up face and a pretty red suit.
I dug through your underwear drawer and stole
the change out of it. I ate one of your
cherry cough drops. I looked at the beautiful
colorful faces my mother left behin
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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