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Body as Body and BodyA stint of color rakes the why,
a pair of lungs bubbling
down from above the grey.
Here is the genesis of sight,
our dreams mounting the world's
demands, our dreams jousting
for that accusation of meaning.
This hint of color makes its cry,
a word with rungs and we climb.
CurrentI rummage through the majesty of the mundane,
the water babbling between my fingers,
the creek bed pacing out its portion of river,
holding me back from the cement by a few meters
on either side. I roil the rhythms of earning
and eating, looking up to enjoy the grass by its green
(the unused part of the sun's generosity, the wisdom
it wastes) or I begin among the haste of buildings,
the people who are wise to the need to forget
those other places, as we count our hungers and toil
our time, and sift our sounds behind our eyes,
and push our bodies past our bodies, trying
to patch together our own ways of believing, while
the water keeps leaving, and the creek bed,
wherever we stand, stands still, ready to hold us
against a moment with more than meaning.
CoverThe last time I said your name, it became the moon,
slipped me into waking, fed me the ignorance I need
to see the night.
The last time I said your name, it left me in the forest
to be seen by the animals, to peel the fruit,
to feel the tree, to feel it moving.
The last time I said your name, it hid me from the hunters
that stretched out my desires and laughed with stretched
faces to feed on my not having.
The last time I felt the cold, it burnt my
body with belief in your
body. It held out our names above us both.
Our Meaning and PurposeI
All of death is death. Life,
too, is like death.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.
I was confused
so I asked God: What should I do?
Move your body and have emotions. The birds were dancing.
Could you be more specific?
But now God was busy arguing with Moses.
All of life is life. Death,
too, is like life.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.
Tomorrow is the sound
of a question falling
on a bed of questions.
Today I hold out
your name, God,
in the public square.
Yesterday reason, the slayer
of song, wended its way
into our will.
All of light is linking. Dreams,
too, would see us separated.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.
All of God is God. Dark,
too, is like God.
The way we usurp it
laughing and spinning.
BoundedUnfold the face to find the crushed
flower: The body lends the body, renders time
his skin in place, the rind
that binds the nutrients. Unrolled
across the vacant why,
the sky begins to droop and fade: The skin: His face,
a circumstance of being near,
performs the grind of not here.
How and Why People DieYour body swings out
away from you. Your body
against you. Your life
lives now as a charge in the mind
of death but your death
belongs to me. It will be the hollow of my
lungs and I will learn to laugh
as the morning surges against me. And I will learn
to erect my voice in the street that no one may hear
how our bodies are not our own. They belong
to our body.
UglyI found my body out back in a dumpster,
strange scrunch of screaming tissues.
I tried to feel it. Frustrations flaked off,
fled into a wisdom of shut eyes.
I tried to whisper reason at it;
it lunged with mirthless laughter.
I groaned as it lashed me with its string
of grotesque demands. I managed
to drown it in dreams, and ate
the bloated remains, let my bodi-
less mind, free of gravity, make
its way to the stars. But the stars
were fat with smirking and I
was plunging into a dumpster as I
grope toward knowing these stars are my body.
I Do Not Resist: A RevelationUnderneath the wonder willow, music holds meaning in its hands. Underneath the wonder willow, the heart nudges its nerves into the ocular cavity, takes to bloom, and lets you believe me when I say: They're hiding dreams for us on the dark side of the sun. Silhouettes of sound like windows breathing in the world that we will become.
Of Flesh and GodsYou can arrange flesh, in a certain way, to make a living person, so why shouldn't you be able to carve wood, in a certain way, to make a living god?
I believe orange is the best color, but I could be wrong. The best color could be green, in which case I have wasted my life.
That death is an illusion is an illusion, or rather, that there are illusions is an illusion, this is the first pillar of Anticipatory Non-Sense. Because it is the mingle that allows mice and minuets to glory in the motion of meaning deferred. And you may subscribe to my decision by making an incision between the occidental and temporal lobbies, inserting your own bodily fluids, and waiting five to ten business day.
It is a club that we are clubbing. We even have a motiveless motif: Death to death to death. If you are protesting war, we will protest your protest. If you are curing cancer, we will cure the cancer of your medicine. Because destruction of destruction is a distraction from our abstraction.
Acid Girl 01All tongue
Remember, you're not dead until
you're warm and dead
Switch it on
Babies with knives infant morality
Of course there are dragons
She feels like sawdust and ecstasy
All of my money has pictures of naked women
where the presidents should be
Graffiti in a bathroom
We're briefly realized
Something makes me the moon
Shame leaves my body
This has to be purgatory
A chin needs wiped off
Everyone decides to be the same white guy
sitting around a typewriter
I want to fuck the third rail
Take it out to dinner
She gets jealous
I'm quite aware of the statistics
1 suicide every 40 seconds
1 out of 5000 north Atlantic lobsters are born bright blue
Hand on thigh
Vanilla ice cream in the park
Strawberry I scream in the dark
We scarred away the junkies
Has it been 30 years in Baton Rouge already?
She pretends the sun is fast forward rising
Just a glow in the dark condom in the trash can
These nights will be the end of me
Take her t
Sir's TheologyBlack, grey, and blue in the rainbow
And pink and gold in the rain,
Bloodied and bruised at the wedding
Cleanliness oft dyes the stains.
Rose-fashioned cheeks on the corpses;
A child who reeks of cadaver.
A memory upsets the future
And backwards we tumble thereafter.
A scientist hollers, "My God!" as
A preacher cites psalms of Einstein:
"Science without religion is lame,
Religion without science is blind."
Truth is assumed by believers
In ignorance masked as blind faith
"An angel!" he clings to the lie
When, truly, his reaper's a wraith.
These murkiest sources reveal
What mirrors so often condemn,
That hindsight beckons man forward
To never be sightless again.
Prison Break RomanceOpen the drain,
Lye magnet scum.
I, the yellow dye,
Truths? Never quite.
Your heart's compression.
I see bleached memories.
Juniper trees on
A vast-fading sunset.
Somewhere in the distance
Someone is whispering.
What have I done?
Was this your apology?
I have no choice but to accept.
Natura InvictaForest aubergine
I am nothing like you.
Sick, spittle images
I ruin this splendor.
Oh! There she stumps.
It is a turmoil.
Bow-legged and Mardi Gras,
Halfway through comical proportions:
Reenact the same production,
While I the plugged-up gullet
Am making amends.
Dorian GrayIt has taken tenure in my body,
This absolution of conceit.
Wafting parlor music seeps in,
And it prickles along my skin
And echoes out the banister.
O hear you me,
My only I:
I am compulsion raw and severance deep.
I am wild and vain,
I am auspicious and fetid
And I have entranced myself to the brim.
You can take these scowls,
Your virtues and your decadence,
And reap them of me dye by dye
As die I never shall.
The poet's umbilical fortuity,
The artist's wish to be courtier
It is intolerably transitory,
As I have seen all around me laid to dust.
You've left me cavernous and spoiled,
And I my own despaired.
Unlike the many shades of age,
I will not evanesce.
I will simply, by knife's blunt cunning,
Be taken swift and left demised.
Seasons of RealityWhen I was young
we based wishes
on catching leaves torn
from their branches,
It seemed that
strong winds and
were more reliable
than the souls of falling stars.
Stardust never graced our town.
We were the ordinary children
whose pants were too short
and whose noses always ran.
Like the April buds we had seen
before October was a glimmer
in our minds,
we would outgrow our lives
on the tree that bore us,
and when we turned,
we longed to throw ourselves
from the branches of the neighborhood
and drift further than our dreams
could carry us.
Some will be caught
in the child-like palms of fate,
but most will fall underfoot--
at the mercy of those
who trample over them.
We Were All Going to be WonderfulKathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pear
black-haired, she wore it long, tied back.
She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--
silver and red, smoky and asleep;
should have smelled like cardamom or cloves
but she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.
She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchen
peeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hipped
her dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.
We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofa
with his Reds game and his beer;
men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.
The suburbs were a garden
through the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,
and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.
But he worked every day, by god he did,
drove a truck fat with bakery goods
flaccid and without souls
(whole wheat was a color not a life.)
Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interfere
with their summer afternoons.
"Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."
She only grunted,
a poem about driving in pennsylvaniaI'm driving west and at the state line all I can see
are canvases of steaming light waiting to be painted
in the brushstroke forest that lies like a crescendo
across the reservoir where the grass washes over our ankles
and my eyes will never open so wide again.
June 12th had all the markings of a fine poem:
thick music scattering lights to the night city
reflecting in the same warm cadence of breezes
and your head resting on my bony shoulder.
You asked me with such sweetness if you could read my poems,
but please don't leave me with my love, with the cats
spilling out of your arms into the contaminated water
of taking in the divine ecstasy of just existing.
I want you to be so happy that when I swear to protect
your solitude, you will promise to escape for me,
to tear off the anxious rivulets that keep us netted
in the seasons as they appear in the Hudson Valley:
three sadistic ellipses promising comfort with the turn
of the next gentle equinox and rattled atmosphere
and my eyes are di
on trialI collect every manifestation
of your regard
almost obsessively, hoarding
the evidence, making my love
a crime scene.
There's where the first blood was spilled:
an inside joke was born and you would give me
that secret smile.
I pocketed your hesitancy to end our meetings
as if those inner pangs were palmed notes,
thinking "Does he?"
I stretched yellow tape around
every flicker of your eyes,
every fond movement of your brow—
I guarded my memories against contamination
and hoped against hope
that I could prove this to you.
They make our story difficult
with their contradictory theories.
I pace our scenes, replay conversations,
lay out our timeline.
The longer we let what we know lay
unattended in the weeds
the more obscure this will become;
stand up and speak.
Him and Not the Winter Night that Surrounds HimHerd our confusion into the slow brink
of our becoming: Word, construct us
so as to writhe in the old wink
of our returning: I have a body
and it breaks, slowly and from the inside.
The tithe time takes is eternity.
Hear our confession: From the snow
our skin hides the body's blood and heat.
Keep in Touch!
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