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I may be dirtI may be dirt.
There may be better dirt.
More fertile and soft to touch.
To tread over carpets and stamp into doormats
To cover knees and leave hands grubby
mucky pups in darker dirt
to keep them dirty for days.
You're still in this dirt, in this pile,
shovelled and dug for things to grow,
daisies raised from dust with pink tips on clean white.
for love-me-love-me-nots, forget-me-forget-me-nots,
and stems without flowers
To arrange in small vases on window sills
And leave until March, through 'til April,
when it rains and rains.
So when there's sun, it glitters.
The dirt which made grass which made daises
glitters in April under dew.
before it's yellow
parched and done.
After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,
Kept simple, plain and white,
Comfortable and worn soft
so it runs smooth
and tickles the hairs on the back of hands,
arms and necks.
for dry mouths,
and lightly curled fingers
relaxed on pillows,
or fingernail palm fists.
the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,
diamonds making jigsaws.
For words read slowly
Brazen and barefaced.
Through ivy and mazes,
Through a veiled, romantic glaze.
Through all the bullshit.
To leave them anxious,
listening with eyes closed,
so they feel
For the anticlimax finish.
Circled like oceansBeating,
heard the rain and the wind
saw dust and breath,
and shadows on a white ceiling.
My heart beat heavy then, and now,
blood circled like oceans
like seashell noise
On the tableI saw time moving backwards, the sheet pulled away,
The toe-tag toy-tag removed,
White fingers pressed cold metal, fingertips and fingerprints,
Red on the white as the blood rushed back.
The hollows of their ribs filling out, the hollow chest
moving again, sloping like waves
and cold blue breath in cold silver room
with doors to coffins in the walls
and bodies served up on platters,
labelled, un-garnished and un-stuffed.
They might twitch when the blood rushes back and
they might go red and breathe too fast
because they're not used to the pace,
lips still blue.
the stitches in their Y-front chest
remove themselves, intertwined, criss-crossed,
crude and bold, they unwind,
and curl back into their bobbin.
Flesh peeled back, they get filled up
Heart, lungs, kidney, the rest of it
and the ribs, uncracked, cage them in
safe and well kept.
And they'd get up, panicked, confused
pupils dilated and darting
the white glaze that comes down when
the shows done, curtains closed,
get pulled up and t
Broken GlassShould be read in a slow voice
And get faster,
Building to a climax, or an anticlimax of a climax,
trickles into a crash,
A sharp fast bullet, and the cracks that spread,
heat spread from fingertips,
elevated senses and vibrations that extend and shiver
from pricked ears,
from a revelation,
from nothing special, but well felt.
From a world that can take no more.
And what we do touches and creeps through glass,
leaving veins, and blood and patterns,
Small and indistinguishable, but present,
Slowly weakens it,
Until we shatter it,
With the lasting echo,
Shatters like bells,
Erupting into silver, shining dust.
from sand, beaten by water,
heated by fire,
transparent and shining,
Dissolving with each vein,
Each bullet child
Throwing glass vases at walls,
Leaving no one, leaving shards,
Leaving lilies on the floor.
Yellow onceThat's the thing isn't it? Just the thing. Anytime, anywhere, any small biting coincidence. Or just some conclusion after a long series of mistakes, and words you shouldn't have said. And I get to think about that through the incessant buzz of everything in every corner of this goddamn place while Mary turns on taps and turns off taps and pitter-patters around the wet floor square we call a bathroom. And I bite down on my tongue so I don't snap at her.
I love her, sure. But god, god, sometimes. Sometimes I hate her.
She doesn't answer, she's turning on taps. She's picking things up and putting them down and focusing very hard on the mirror.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. She walks by me, past the bed, and I watch her while she peers through the blinds. There are flies. Fly paper strips doing nothing to stop them. Traps never seem to work. I've never seen a mouse in a mouse trap other than on the TV. I've seen mice walk right round it and back into its
Was it easyI used to believe that the world was small, that it was mine, and everyone else was a character in a play, and when I died I'd be born, my life a foetus dream, that would just carry on. I used to believe and that was enough. That people were honest.
I thought that things were easy.
Now I believe in science, and ghosts, and sometimes my gut, but I don't believe in much.
I was afraid of death, shouting, flapping wings, creaks and the shadows on my walls. I'm afraid it'll all get broken. I'm afraid of truth and lies. I'm afraid I understand too well and too little.
Of how little I can believe in.
The dusty light in the morning, stretching over our bed. And how it all gets when I focus.
To our place that was my place, to the morning with the dusty light, under white sheet tents where it's warm. Belong in the nook, the other side of the rest of the world. I belong in the bubble.
I can't do most things.
When I learnt about the universe and my place in it, my slow evolution, and how many thin
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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