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The Spiral"Why do those planes fly so low to the ground?" he asked for the third time that morning, raising a piping hot cup of coffee to his lips, darker and thicker than his sheaf of feathery ebony hair. The two youths were sitting in a detour from the departure terminal, one of thousands littered through-out the wired, tubed, blazing city; this one happened to be hovering above sixteenth underpass to main street. The standstill traffic below cat-called furiously, the rust coloured fumes settling above the glossy tops of the stationary cars, whilst the private lanes streamed sleek, panther-like, privately owned vehicles, their expanse great, their oily windows tinted. Even in the economic downward spiral, the rich still had their debonair roots deeply spread. The wealthy had become revered and a thoroughly despised elite, the few that had refused to succumb to the leech of the government, who had wisely planted their fortunes in industries that had gone wild during the war: they were sometimes
Acid CultureWe're sitting in his car. A couple of lights on the dashboard flicker on and off like fairy lights. Outside it rains heavily on the windshield, so hard I think a couple of times the glass is going to give and cover us in a blanket of shards. The way he holds the steering wheel, his hands curled and the knuckles sickly white, makes me think he'd like to yank it off. And from the way he glances to me, his harsh brown eyes reflecting the floating lights of the road, suggests he'd like to do the same thing to my head. He turns on the radio to drown out the silence between us. He moves to roll down the window but hesitates. His hand lands firm on the wheel again. My hair lies on my shoulder, thick and trickling, the ponytail a fat lizard. The back of my neck prickles uncomfortably.
"Rich," I say softly, but he raises his hand tensely, like he does when he wants me to shut the fuck up. So I do.
This isn't like us. We're not these kind of people. We sit in crowded rooms and count
poisonedi am his poison
the venom that fills his heart
and pulls the strings of lonliness
like the chords of
my tears are rotten
charred from the black lies i told
and my eyelashes fall in clumps
like the wings of
at last i will die
in to the ground i will melt
and soft white powder, arsenic
like the poison of
DamageHe was staring out of the window again, like he had been for most of the morning.
By now the room was alive with the comforting radiance of the unwinding afternoon sun, illuminating the glossy posters of generic youths tacked up on the walls, their dull faces smooth, creaseless, in the sublime trickle of warm, yellow light. He too felt hearted by the warmth, beneath it just a crisp picture, a greying portrait of a boy, listless and.. impudent. His skin itched around the collar of his jumper, and it was a struggle not to remove it. He waited on tenterhooks, in the literal sense, as his shoulders were hitched high above their natural restful stoop, rounded beside his ears, shielding himself from the door. He busied himself with fruitless endeavours, examining the layout of an immaculately clean desk numerous times, inspecting the shimmering window pane, making sure the room, was spic and span. That way, he supposed, his father's scorn would not upturn the peaceful, sterile sa
childrenOnce there were two children
and they loved
as children do
They sang of growing older
is not good enough
nothing ever is
One child said to the other
"I will live
only for you."
And together they stayed sweet
but time itself
was bad to them
as they grew taller
Today stand two cold men
smile as they did
Children of their own grow
all things become old
and loose their faith
as children do
l'amour perduSometimes its hard for me to understand
why you don't love me
In those glances you give me while we're sat
on opposite sides of noisy rooms
Our eyes watching the movements
but blind to anyone
but each other
It's difficult for me not kiss you when you talk
And you talk contantly
like white noise
Your lips, so dry, whisper nothingness
and hurt me
I want to drown
in your voice
Your eyes suffocate me
Bottomless, warm, dark
Your smell, the rich textures of your skin
My insecure faculties
written on a bleeding heart
You play me such beautiful songs
You don't know I cry over you
You hurt me
I forgave you
You still hurt me
This is another note you'll never read
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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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