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A Poem Anent EvilTo balance such dissymmetry
Was fated here soliloquy
(as pigeon is by name a dove,
and philters that by altar wine )
His mingling with this verse, thereof
Makes dissonant polyphony.
Love-pinkened cheek and petal’d prose
(chemical by Bodenstein)
By bloom-robbed breast Hegemone’s
O, mercy for the compass rose !
For East of Here lies Valentine.
Shattered Stories: Lovesick On that fateful night, Fitzwilliam donned his hat of tinfoil, which threw a becoming shadow over his mild features; fixed it at a rakish angle, and stepped outside. Wheatley, the butler, opened a Chinese umbrella to shelter his master, though it was not raining. The waning sun, which stained the landscape port wine, was still quite in danger of ruining Fitzwilliam’s peaches-and-cream complexion. Fitzwilliam was led to his stallion by the butler, all parties presently looking blue as bottles cast beneath the tinted light of the parasol. Wheatley mounted the saddle with style and offered his unemployed hand to Fitzwilliam. The smartly-dressed youth squirmed his way up the horse’s great side, struggling not to get the horse’s horsiness all over his dinner jacket. Nothing spoiled a party quite like the perfume of topical flea medicine layered with laudanum, of which the latter Fitzwilliam dabbed behind his ears for special occasions.
As the noble
Ann Won't EatEmbracing your cello, you take up less space
Than the hollow-boned spruce, bow firm and melodic,
Your hair falling out
All over the strings.
Happy concertos hang on the rafters
Just as you yearned for yourself
A less-permanent proxy for you;
Watching and smiling,
The wooden beams modelling
What we pine for, and though you decline
A ticket to the theater,
Maybe it's possible you can
Find laughter here on the ground-
Because it's funny, like we say all the time
We can't even feed ourselves
How were you supposed to feed the baby?
And maybe it was rape,
But how pure were you to begin with?
You still love him, and
You can't undo that like
He undid you.
It's becoming clearer to me these days
That I won't see you again
Just as I said
Though you didn't really believe that,
It hurts when you're wrong.
So carve your arm up, I love you,
I dare you.
And callous your
Because maybe it's not so flawed
Because wrong can be measured in degrees
Like the cold of your
Winter SweetEyes aglaze; digits icing over
With death in the periphery
An avalanche of downy notes
Flutter by on paper motes
We make snow angels in the dusk
And cake ourselves with frosting coats
AnorexiaOpaque as ocean
Heavy as feather-
Tied to the tether.
Veins that chain
Rip at the wrist!
Bones that bind
Fingers in fist.
For what I can't be-
A soul that can love
What eyes cannot see!
Beast in the KingdomMy watch, a testament to Time, ticks tenaciously. The delicate click of teeth meeting tooth; the beat of a miniature heart. A resonance I recognize from elsewhere-
The mouse lay shivering in the warmth of my palm
The miniscule vessels, chambers, and veins; struggling to pump the precious fluid that slows with every life-shattering breath.
Yes, it is-undoubtedly-the insignificant vibrations of the mouse's beating heart that sound so alike to the timepiece that touches my very veins- both ticking down the time they have left; becoming unwound.
Finding"I wanted nothing more than to grab the envelope and tear it open violently. Nothing has been more excruciating, in my sixty-odd years of existence, than watching Irene unhurriedly study the translucent cerulean envelope, black ink penetrating the waxy paper in places, adorned with stamps of faces marred by the Postal Service. Upon opening the letter, we understand we'd been nothing more than naïve children. We were pawns, utterly disposable."
Helena"I used to wonder, with childlike curiosity, if her hair burned her ears and neck if it were to go unwashed too long. Only on Sunday night, when she bathed, I was convinced the fire was quenched. When she thought no-one was looking, she'd pull out her tortoiseshell hairpins and let her auburn hair flicker in the dimming summer light; we watched, fascinated, through the age-warped windowpanes as they silhouetted a widow aflame."
AblazeThe August heat suffers us equally
Hot, alive, awake
Oh, how infernal flame awakens the senses!
A cancer, a welcome plague, eating flesh and charring bone
Too proud to fight, I embrace the heat
Consent to its wavering ashen arms that wrap us in Summer's soma
Do not struggle or protest
When she fills my stinging eyes with tears of brackish ocean sweat
My Summer is a phoenix singing through the ashes of Winter
A scorching paramour, a blazing god
Wrathful and searing-sweet, feathers against my breast
Stay with me, and scar with me
Disfigure yourself; bond your flesh to mine
Melt and be melted, let go and fall
Together we'll pit Fire against Fire
And, because we are still among the Living
Watch the world we set ablaze
Artemis The roar of the engine stirred the neighborhood from its quiet night. A few curtains rose and some dogs barked as a loud motorbike came to a stop at the corner of the street under a yellow streetlamp. Thick men’s leather boots padded for small feet played their deep song on the concrete. A hoodie hid under a large biker jacket. The hood covered a petite, exotic face.
Artemis strolled down the street, more curtains rose and a few curious stares followed her as she continued her way, glancing briefly between the numbers on the scattered mailboxes, quietly counting them out loud.
"35, 36, 37… Ah, there we go, 38."
A small smile crossed her lip as she eyed the house she came to. The place was dark, unlike the rest of the houses around. It looked dead, dark and rather old. She examined the windows and both sides of the house for an entry point. Nothing to climb, and the humidity made sure no one would leave a window
Missing PersonsI live in a world of fear.
I am not the only one who is afraid; no, every person here fears the night, if not for themselves then for someone they love. Mothers fear for their children, husbands for their wives, children for their sisters and brothers. No one fears for their friends; no one has friends anymore. No one dares.
It wasn’t always this way. I remember days before the fear, before the world was so paralyzed with its own terror that it forgot how to live. I remember walking through a park after sunset just for the pleasure of it. I remember being late for an appointment without anyone beginning to plan my Memorial. I remember life before people began to disappear.
It started slowly, coming on so gradually that it’s hard to say when it became normal for people to vanish on their way to the grocery store, or while walking the dog. Suddenly it was completely ordinary to see houses fall derelict, their owners mysteriously vanished somewhere beyond our reach.
Zanpakuto: Chikara (Power, Strength)
Shikai: “Ute, Chikara!” (“Strike, Chikara!”)
Bankai: “Bankai! Konjiki Chikara!” (Golden Chikara! [Golden Power])
Shikai Form: A great, golden dragon emerges out of the blade and it can throw melted gold or gold fragments (Similar to Hitsugaia Toushiju)
Bankai Form: The Bankai form is a big, golden dragon completely off the blade that can answer to the user's call or even thoughs.
Blade: Short-Blade sword (Kodachi)
Guard: Dragon Wings gathred pointing to the back
Saya: Black with a golden ending below and above it ends up to a golden dragon that seems to be guarding the seath of the sword
Handle: Black, yellow and gold
RomanticizingShe approached him as he sat on the bed. Her knee pushed into the plush foam, sagged due to the abuse of over use. Her digits entwined as her elbows rested on his shoulders. The pressure sunk him into the doughy mattress.
“Romanticizing are we?”
His lips were parted; his eyes stared blankly at the cold wall. It was a cold blank wall, no paint ever applied to peel away, no picture ever hung to be taken off. It took a moment for his lips to connect, for him to clear his throat and mind, and reply.
“Not really… just wondering about the possibilities of where we could be…”
Her arms slid forward as her hands pressed gently into his chest, feeling each heave, each tingle that his body had to offer. However there wasn’t much to offer. He was calm, composed; his breaths left her hands to satisfy themselves with the bare minimum. But bare minimum was what they had always had.
“Isn’t that what we call romanticizing?” She chuckled as n
The Myth of the SuccubusThe Myth of the Succubus
Yuki-Onna: a subspecies of succubus, they are native to Japan and are most active during the colder seasons. They most commonly approach their victims during snowy weather and feed on their energy through acts of passion, leaving them frozen husks should they decide to claim everything they are, body and soul. They are considered in-tune with the nature around them and possess cryokinetic abilities in addition to their seduction and illusory magic native to all succubi.
Blowfish Poison Kiss: “Death that is the excess of life.” The user kisses the victim, usually on the lips, and places a spell on them in the process. A human’s life energy, or ki, is regulated through specific points on the body, and this kiss causes those points to work at their maximum efficiency. As a result, the victim’s body produces a gross excess of life energy, expanding their body like a balloon and rendering them immobi
Georgia, 1946"Damp night air and hot summer fear. Looking through the crosshairs while my face caught fire. Flex, shudder, pull, fall. Dust, moonlight, blood. The walk home though the long grass is unbearably uneventful. No serpent to bite or scorpion to sting. Just guilt, silence, dread. Hiss, hiss, the grass screams and clings to your ankles."
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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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