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A Loneliest Way 6 a.m., a time where I belong cocooned, caped in a bed comforter amidst vacancy. The home is quite aged for the neighborhood. Morning fog, the cloud farce. Visible proximity is twenty meters. Farther out is an artist’s favorite flavor of canvas: blankness. The sun is but a luminous speck of white, like a flashlight under covers.
A rat ahead scurries from a rusty gutter, and if were me, that rat, the world would be comfortable among darkness and scrap. The streetlight bronze measures my shadow meters longer than factual, my ears under an in-town railroad bridge; I am further from a lamp now. This neighborhood is made of brick and, rising from untilled grass, appears as nether-squares. Shaken are the doors of elder homes. The paint had peeled like the boils of smallpox, their porches creaking and missing planks.
While my heels are aching damp, clapping the beige sidewalk, I muse over my steps. Clapping soles. S
A Library ShouldHelp support the price tag.
A telepath’s wish kindles in bone.
Sale the Dragon kindred reads a story all alone.
The aisles, misty forlorn
aisles--shelve they forgotten tome--grow
their own economy on a coin currency stone.
The printing press of paper
spruces up the orphan wood.
Books never adopted, a library should.
nestled upon bed peaches tinctured
with feather fleece cover; aroused her charmingly
the swan youth who dove.
Do covet lightning hair-streams a feminine kiss,
zipping electric neon blue strands charging fleece.
Oral pearls’ luster elucidates forth
in service to gaiety.
The bed-ship sways, lady navigating an atlas female.
Brunette in repose dips her brow to vanilla neck,
source of blueberry skin aroma.
Her braids swivel caressed by the ingenious
touch of her mate.
Vision fields finally interlock;
unified eyes frolic iris meadows.
As lilac buds blossom also lips gentle brush,
casting a cerise flair of blush.
Felicity, as well a sapphic love.
I Tie Love to a Lion's BalloonI tie love to a lion’s balloon.
A salon rinses curls that soak and shake away the
scents of other girls.
Wrung-out bonnet of acacia shampoo.
A boutique is our zeitgeist.
Thalia ItaliaWhy, audience, throw tomatoes at tragic plays for being tragedies?
Life is tragic; eat them during a comedy.
To tragedy she tends to tease.
Talented intrinsic comedy release.
Acts antecedent made lacrimal the coterie
underneath such secretion manifest vineal priests.
Such vineal priests.
At branches’ ends tomatoes worship pendulous
swaying neatly neat.
Cleavers axe their thorny stems.
The atheist coterie, now above their seats
aim savagely tomatoes to the sad stage beneath.
There then seen is Thalia, comic masque in hand,
playing her funny bugle! The ivy, a fragrant snake at her command,
slithers about her feet as they skip,
leaping to actors dead.
She knows them dead;
with laughter-filled persuasion she causes them to stand!
Holding hands in merriment the cast in circles leap
like the muse of idylls delights.
Frowns into smiles form and keep;
Death atop his darkest horse removed.
The audience, although jubilant, continues to weep.
Lovers out of script reuni
Before Partisan StepsHungarian Jew Alexander White
witnessed plights antisemitic, doom’s insult chaperoned handily under Hitler’s
His heartbeat resolute,
below White watched a Budapest cinema
SS officers flittered boots, flooded the movie house as would bewildered
animals, arresting age fifteen Alexander;
as Fuhrer claims, “The problem at its root.”
A Serbian copper mine to White sent work,
awarded no serenity in time.
He told another prisoner, “For food, my coat is yours,”
afterward flying from the fences!
Sooner gunfire heard his task to endure.
There down a daedalian river
parallel to a chapeau cap
besieged by water’s curtsy: a cap diversion onto stalker dogs.
Halt, you canine Nazi!
Into mountains White escaped,
trekking aimlessly dirt distances.
Dead leaves would not bind his movement.
And at last, when tired knees he grew
stifled every step,
Yugoslavian Partisans were to adopt another suffering man’s
nearly deceased st
The Flamingo PoetEveryone uses spoons in the morning.
I’ve a fork stirrin’ my tea
served with worry in a pink cup
Flamingo porcelain aviate
my tea in crooked wing.
Feathers rattle & quiver. Wrist riots,
I shiver, spill tea on fingers
fashionin’ four searing rings.
Invited calm sips incinerate lips,
my tongue tolerates a singe.
Steam pinkish pipes a voiceless misery binge;
poetry, a flamingo by the fringe.
Acta Diurna VIIMorning, stilled in a grey photo.
I am a mineral speck in slate mountains flanked by the salmon halo of Lady Gaia.
I left and pondered all the pictures I could capture.
Camera remained on the dresser.
Why do we share photographs?
Memory mustn't be pleasing seemingly.
Humans share photographs likely to convey messages of emotion,
or to detail without word.
Some share only to express their ability to steal the moment like a firefly in a jar
when the flash is on.
And some want for others to know where they were.
“Glory to the setting of man.”
Indeed, glory to the setting of man.
The Local Loch, August 2014 (27th)Prehistory’s iPad.
When light hit the water
a supernova dance of
scurrying dust swayed
in their amber infinite.
When the wind tapped,
the waves flapped their feathers
and spread into
a migration of curly black lines
on a child’s drawing,
choppy pattern after choppy pattern,
wave conforming to wave
into a wallpaper covering
algae, flotsam, dead bricks, dead stone,
until the irregular birds changed the flow.
Be it the duck that draped a dress
behind in a V-shaped groove,
or the pudding-plump coots
who gently honked, imprinting
flat bubbles on water.
They live in the reflection of Life.
Fringed by feathers like icy mountaintops
and dead fish bloated on pollution,
an Irn Bru bottle imitates the nature it killed.
An orange bread packet is ignored by the mallard
for the tragedy it brought to town.
It’s a flat town, a houseless town,
but still a moving community of
twig islets and breadcrumb empires.
Fringing on their utopia is us,
us standing still from dry grey pavement
The Local Loch, August 2014 (27th), BI enter the trees.
Between the dozing leaves,
hugging canopy and soothing shade
I awe at a swan bathe.
Cruiseliner, white, pure, naked
graceful, living china.
Seven others chat by the hidden soil shore.
They see me, spread out ornamentally,
politely move away
and then fly
with curved ceramic blades
ready to pierce gravity’s oppression.
I've found Peace.
StarsThe stars in the sky
Glow like fireflies
In the thin veil of the night
Pale glow to be seen
His brilliant beauty
Charm the gods
I can feel the chill on her shallow breath
And the color's draining from her youthful face
She's bleeding out, I tell you
In red, yellow, and orange
And there ain't a single thing we can do
She'll want to be buried just like her mother
Laid to rest in a simple white coffin
No roses set on her grave
It's not warming
But it's final
Even as the rest of the world
Collapses into her absence
Perhaps she knows
Perhaps she's always known
The MoonNight Sky Black as Pitch
Startling Diamond Moon
A Quilt of Stars and a Stitch
Morning Comes Too Soon
A Cheshire Smile in The Sky
Clever Grin To See
A Wispy Cloud Shields My Eye
And Takes Takes The Moon From Me.
The ViodThe darkness is surrounding me.
Looking left and right is this dark depth of nothing.
I am not sure where to go because all i see is black.
Getting confuse just walking and maybe even in place.
I hope this is a dream, because i don't want to live here anymore.
Continue to just seeing all but nothing, and getting scared inside.
Just waiting to explode and scream out my inner demons.
Saying that this isn't so.
I don't want this to be my end.
Wondering and wondering to no avail.
Going more insane by the minute.
Trying to look deep inside me.
Hoping and striving for a light or a way out.
Starting to wonder more and more if their even is a way out.
But this walking doesn't do any good.
So i sit and wait, while my madness take over.
Nothing to see out here but on the inside.
Thinking about what i must have done wrong in order to escape.
While also thinking that their must be a light that will spark and shine the way out.
This can't be the end, so i guess i just have to look forwa
The WatcherI lay here,I lay there
I want to cry
but I can't shed a tear
When did this all happen?
I run and hide,
no hugs for me, please
I'm soft, but rigged
Voices anger at me,
but not for me
I am loved,
They wish to be me
free and wild
But all I do is
I don't speak
for I can't speak
waiting for a hand
I am just a cat
RainLooking into the sky,
I watch every tear fall
ever so slightly from the heavens.
"Why are you sad?"
The sky answers with a thunderous boom.
The sun hides away,
almost as if it were afraid of the sky.
It's so cold.
I stand in the rain,
in wait for the sun to come out again.
In the meantime though,
I let the tiny drops of ice
shatter on my bare skin.
Warmth no longer exists.
DreiadesTo lash fuchsia
Is, to Future, stain a floral bed,
Whereby a billion butterflies
Embellished in a belle of white
Lay weary heads!
She's awoken with a morning
Tucked under a bang
All rise the hanging grapevines
And fruit veins
So compelling her to sing.
"A nymph of forest
Forfeiting her needles
Such am I,
Pining for a fire to keep me
Oh so warm.
If the cool is wavered
And I heed what fire warned,
I shall sleep on with the seasons
Until butterflies are adorned
With their own beds."
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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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