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Son of a Cannon BallI’m just the son of a cannon ball, hard and heavy,
blacker than any snow white dove. Cold to the touch,
my blunt metallic skin siphons heat away through your fingertips,
leaving your hands cold and clammy, but that’s not important
because you probably only touch me with gloves on anyway.
And I know I’m dull to look at, but if you take me out under the sun
and look hard enough, you’ll see a glimmer of sunshine in my eyes.
I was born in a furnace, in the middle of heat and flame, hammers
and all the hard and heavy things in life, pounding my brothers
on the anvils and pouring out my sisters into molds,
each of them their own tool, implements of sturdy metalwork.
I went out the front door with warlike aspirations
but I never thought about the cost of that, the price
that so many men must pay just for a few brief seconds
of a cannon ball in flight.
I’m just the son of a cannon ball, and my father
and I never talked much. He was just as hard and dull as I am,
Summer WindA weary tire swings from a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through it with ease.
The gust meanders around the log pile,
in these summer months,
and turns to wrap around a tree
that perhaps you and me
And following the August air,
through the yard and all the youngsters there,
we find enough soul
in all these summer days
to buff away the mundane glaze
and climb out of the City's hole
to bathe in the fresh sunshine.
A weary man stands by a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through him with ease.
The cool croon of a slow sax
the radio speaker on my desk,
the platinum blonde said as she entered in
"Please allow me to apologize
couldn't make it to the funeral."
begins to tear up, shimmers like broken glass.
"It's alright, did you see the file?"
"I want to solve this even if
Her voluptuous locks bounced with a casual determination.
After a pause, I looked her square
shards of an iris, carefully speaking
my words like a wild gambler.
"Mrs. Simmons, I have to tell you
that killed your husband, shot him in the head,
The saxophone harmonizes with her eyes.
Communion of Two TonguesTwo tongues speak and slither words,
magnificent in quickened speech.
The journey of their thoughts is heard,
the meeting of the minds of each.
The tongues that dream of stars and skies
beyond our gloomy human view.
But tongues cannot see like the eyes,
that give form and shape to me and you.
The tongues give form and shape to thoughts
which eyes alone can never see.
Their loud, blind sight sees farther out
than men are ever allowed to be.
Thus, two tongues shall here begin,
unraveling their ambling thoughts,
and as they kiss, expose their dreams
beholden in their juicy mouths.
(Loving a) ToothbrushAlas, the gaping maw is opened wide,
to let my dearest love, Toothbrush, inside.
She cleans me up and makes me pearly white,
restoring all my beauty in her sight.
The bristles scrub and scrape with all their rigor,
and thus rejuvenate my ivory vigor.
Now I may shine with alabaster glint,
and sing to her with breath of cloying mint.
Oh, how much I do love my dear Toothbrush;
when you are brushing, sir, please do not rush.
Dream HorseDreams in open fields aren't really dreams,
they are in fact the horses of our mind.
And we are thus the lonely desperadoes,
chasing these mavericks, falling behind.
We ride across our mental desolation,
and desert winds propel our silver steeds,
the iambs in the clip-clop of the hooves;
this poetry sounds better than it reads.
As we, the dreamers, lost in stallion smoke
at last give in, and bid fancies farewell,
we must awake, we must record the journey.
Our heads are full of dreams ready to tell.
Rainy Day TrafficIt's a wet, oily, cold, pastel-gray-blue day. The sky looks like the ceiling of a pub, with low-hanging cigar smoke choking out the sunlight. The puddles on the ground appear like old, dirty, murky, muddy whiskey, and are about as appetizing. With a tired labor, cars and trucks trudge down the slippery city streets, racing through water to slide and splash the imaginary passers-by on the side of the road.
As I sit in class, the lecture obscured by the noise of the earth revolving, I am present for that from which I am removed. The soft bustle of vehicles, the gentle choke and cough of gasoline engines thundering down the road. I am moving with them.
But as the weary drivers watch the green light yellow, and the yellow light redden, their sluggish feet depress the brake pedal, and their mammoth motion halts at the stoplight. And it is now, while these cars are stopped and the others go, that the drivers observe motion without experiencing motion. They witness the bittersweet sensation o
Life is a VaporIt has been said by some, "Life is a vapor,"
and true enough, their lives have blown away,
been carried off by wind, gust, gale and weather.
Their work was not heavy enough to stay.
Some men are small, and thus live their small lives
secluded in some small forsaken town,
and all in all, live in this world deprived
of any chance to garner some renown.
They work their 9-to-5, then they come home
and have their evening meal with family,
and, sipping through the amber beer-mug foam,
resign to kick up feet and watch TV.
They live, they die, their children do as well,
trudging on toward that same grey fate.
The Preacher won't admit they've gone to Hell,
but no one says they passed the Pearly Gate.
These men are not the men that we adore,
the glorious of whom our History boasts.
They leave us hungry, wanting something more
than the ordinary meal befitting most.
The Human Soul demands, by God's Design,
the satisfaction of a life lived well,
a legacy that's worth leaving behind,
a story that is
In SanityI find myself in a world of white,
This place it feels so pure.
The Sun's rays are warm and bright
I've never felt so sure.
I explore the land and all its sights,
I enjoy the world's grand tour.
I wander around until the night
Shows what it has in store.
In the darkness, a speck of light
Reveals a hidden door.
I turn the handle and peer inside,
A sight I can't endure.
I turn to run, to escape my plight,
I dare not to explore.
But something inside catches my eye,
I can't resist the lure.
I awake to find myself tied tight,
A voice tries to assure,
"This one may finally fix you right,
Maybe this is the cure."
Beyond LoveYou say 'beautiful' like a mistake -
like it slipped out unwarranted
from those dark parts of your mind
that you don't want me to go to,
you say it like that.
You caress like it's worship -
like if you pressed too hard
or took too much, you'd pay the price
and I love those urgent times when
you're willing to pay it.
You teach me love like I'll die without it -
like if you don't defrost me
and my frozen image of myself,
then I might stop breathing
and extinguish beneath my own icy damnation.
You kiss me like you have to -
like we're sharing an oxygen tank
in a toxic, broken-down universe
and you are trying not to breathe
to save me.
You kiss me like that.
You love me, like that -
how am I supposed to resist
a man who loves me beyond his own sense
and senses - beyond love ?
BloodRunning away, again and again through the years
Moving from white square to black and back
Packing and unpacking things without meaning
Carrying them from here to there religiously
The doctor says there’s nothing wrong, but still
I’m up at three, drinking coffee, coughing up blood
Watching the same old ghosts watching me
I don’t have to pack them when I move, they follow
A cannibal who’s eaten everyone around him
I’ve turned on myself now, three toes already gone
Watching the lights of the modem blink yellow
No connection; another cough, another coffee alone
kafka has been dead foreveri.
I am going to cut the veins out of my neck:
pull the stars from the legiments
drown the cities in bruises
I am going to burn in hell:
tear down the pyramids, the faces, the continents
the weight of the universe
(if I live to be 20
I will know the landscape of my mind
as well as the bottom of the ocean
& people I've never met)
CarcinogensMy hands smell
like antiseptic solution
and cancer, because
the peroxide won’t
cleanse your cigarette
ashes from my nails,
and the cremation
jar is still smoking.
Pop Rocksbeads of roman sweat and dust
lace the wind like meth into pop rocks—
feel the fizzlepop of history flamenco
across your justahuman tongue
and wonder why your professor never
lectured on the strawberry tang
of crusaders' sloshed blood.
sunset soon forgottenin a single moment all her greatness collapsed,
her soulfulness small and full of absence.
i am wild
with infinite shades of yes -
and a careless smile
so kiss me quick
under the sun
(just until the pain leaves)
DunesOut on the dunes, you could be walking on the moon
Maybe you are, maybe we are; see that planet in the sky?
How much more can be said about body heat, about
Sucking the marrow from bones in a vain attempt to quench?
Disheveled by dust-storms in an ocean of sand, we walk
Blank-window eyes searching for what, some sort of life?
Our feet are heavy, the ground wants to eat them; no moon, this
Now the sky is the color of sand, and there are no stars to wish on
Sweat and dead weight, we wait for the coolness of night
Fatigued, delusional, we see a rusty car approach; we get in
BloodBlood is the essence of the heart,
and Music is the wound.
Blood is the essence of our life,
stored in our heart,
pierced by the song.
And it is pain that frees our blood
to bleed and drip and run,
to live outside the confinement of our hearts,
and to stain the garments of our world.
Music is the pain that frees our lives to bleed.
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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