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Poem DumpDear, I'll be your nightingale,
Sing songs to you for free.
Just send away that blue jay,
And say that you love me.
Fog on the windowsill.
You draw on me with a thumb-pad,
Making what you want.
I'm fading, fading, fading; now
Just a lover's haunt.
The boy deserves the galaxies,
The planets, the sun, and stars.
The fates give him black holes.
Let's wear stripes upon big sweaters,
And soak our hair in bleach.
Nautical is the way to go,
Life is such a beach!
If I wanted life to be hard,
I'd be a diamond.
Here's the man I like the best,
Lets me sleep on his soft chest.
I'd surely find the way to say
The thoughts still in my mind
If my batteries were running
On infinity time.
I could write beautiful music,
Even explore outer space,
But I'd rather be at home in my own
What is it you see in me
That makes you act the way you do?
I'm still not sure, but I know this:
My dear, I love you too.
She recalls being precious
A perfect painted thing.
The queens and king
A RiddleI made the boxes with naught but air,
And an odd little plane that's as thin as the air.
Delicate stars, I make them too.
As fast as I can; for they're long overdue.
And I make the birds that cannot fly.
And yet, I know they'll yearn for sky.
How did I make them?
(oh, if only you knew!)
I tell you something:
Paper's the clue.
NeroI need to go somewhere and be the hero
And then I'll burn out just like Nero
'Cause I won't love or sleep or bleed.
My fiddle and I are all I'll need.
And if my old dame tries to smother
I'll do as he did to his mother
And though I'm not from Antium
I'll soon find myself growing numb
'Cause I don't love or sleep or bleed.
My fiddle and I are all I need.
And when I rule, they all will sing
'Cause everybody wants a king
Who doesn't love or sleep or bleed
And their self and a fiddle is all that they need
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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