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I missed your voice, once upon a time.Echoes perched on vulture's wings, glazed beaks
mirror milky bones, and the west wind,
whistling, traveled through bleeding valleys.
Your head was resting on a royal
spear, your tongue no longer spoke. Once, if
I can remember, it tied for me
clever knots of pretty words: a quilt.
(I kept it on my silken breast, you
know, later buried in my ribs.) I want
to spin a robe for you as well: as
new as newborn dawn. One day it will
grow a beard, and knock on your empty
skull. The echo will silence her loud
screams, and shall arise from vulture's wings.
She will hold a needle to her throat,
and she will make pretty quilts for me.
was it them that said, i do?Let's go on tightrope walks.
Cross-eyed stars, played with string and oiled fruit.
With greasy fingers, they touched blue suns:
(Young mothers that nurse orbits,
milk lacking gravity and taste,
robbed of dwarfish years.)
Of course then... perhaps he forgot;
soon to be a wife, shackles on ring fingers,
minds on flecked bosoms.
Necks can break, their thin fibers,
woven into skin,
where moons tickle royal pores,
and never wonder why.
-40doors close behind curved spines,
poisoning hunched figures as if bones were made of mercury.
clicks of locks mimicked, tongues falling against gums.
eyes roll, pupils constrict. (we don't want you here)
they are closing the curtains to their secrets,
tiny hands pull on their eyelashes, rolling down the weary eyelids,
(shoo, shoo) they wave from the inside,
as if a bat has beat its wings against the paper door.
(we don't want you here)
hunching spines sigh, and creak.
(each movement is an earthquake)
chairs squeal as the wheels hoist, twirling.
doors close behind curved spines. (bones are mercury)
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
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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