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What Became of Yesterday's Theatrics?Ode to morose pleasantries
Their vapors swallow my day
Burden the winds with gloomy ember
Conjurer of sorrows I dare not remember
And stew in contempt
Estranged from beating solace
I am stripped of fellowship lively and bold
When heartfelt companions were squandered and sold
Recall the nights of quivering elation
Firm and whole
Young with promise
They perished along with the caring few
Fated to die aside the morning dew
Ode to quiet scorn
Bland with mundane worry
True wonders rot in its hollow reign
For dreary silence has become their bane
What became of the lightening’s flair?
Of the pursuant thunder that had its way
What of the restless chatter of youth?
Unknowing of the morrow’s loom
Unfazed by its devilish bloom
My ResumeGood reading comprehension,
adequate typing skills,
adept at mental math and making
statistical graphs from lists of information.
Experience with computer programming,
thorough proofreading abilities complemented
by an inclination toward triple-checking.
I can develop fictional hierarchies
to understand the social politics surrounding
and talk for hours about nothing,
rattle off facts about Isherwood, Turing, Nilsen.
Boredom doesn’t affect me,
I read the labels on everything,
pull the clutter out of my closet just
to put it all back in a less ergonomic order.
Three days is the longest I’ve been silent,
I can smile at anyone
without a genuine drop of affability,
and pace my apartment for minutes or days or hours.
Caffeine and nicotine and THC
are the only drugs I’ve recently ingested,
my hands are steady,
I can pick false dichotomies out of advertisements.
My patience for useless tasks is endless,
I can stand on my head,
almost suck my own cock,
We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,
the trembling of her lips matches yours.
(Poet, breathe now.)
I should write this down,
the last piece I ever write about you.
You’ve been gone finding
constellations, ambitions, and things in between,
and this is me being brave,
dancing on the fire escape.
(I wore you like a bruise.)
Concrete and GraceConcrete and Grace
I walked along the quietest places, the stillest waters where even the doves dare not go. I made her face from the clouds, smiling gently down at me. I was trying to remember everything, take every little detail and press it like a flower petal, forever beautiful, but constantly threatening to crumble into so much dust. It was a hard thing, but I know there are harder.
I have a red pen that I keep in my jacket pocket, a small reminder that she will always be next to my heart. I thought about getting a tattoo of her words, but a recreation could never match the quiet strains of memory, and memory is all I have now.
I reach the place where the sidewalk ends, cracked concrete dropping piece by piece into the quay. I stand, toes of my sensible sneakers inches from the edge, staring into the ominous sky. The clouds that remarked on her visage only moments ago thunder up, explosively, big dark reminders of summer's wrath.
I bounce slowly from foot to foot, staring into the
drowning poets in the morningDear poetry,
I wear you like a bruise
- hold this against me.
A cup of tea
and an element of fear,
The jewels in my crown
Unfortunately we are
talking in their sleep
because I'm too afraid to fly in daylight
there's not a glass slipper left
so tell me the truth;
this is checkmate,
another book bites the dust,
and loneliness drowns
the confessions of a misguided poet.
The Final UnsheathingIn rest
I conjure the execution
Far from the grimy reaches of truth
The weight of reality
That binds my aspirations
Sends me to waft
Strung up and expelled from the earth
How I ponder the demise
Of a rolling Goliath
High and mighty, its glimmering glory
To slay the eternal light
And burden them all
With the twists and curves my daily sorrow
Through squalor these plots fester
A cancer, sprawling through the mind
It soon prevails over my meek flesh
Rotting the lonely remnants of my stranded virtue
Through this splintered wilderness
Home of the frayed
Callous and ill
I call upon, the mighty reach of vengeance
To be swift and ruthless
Devoid of mercy and distinction
The foul words
Preaching its deafening ridicule
Meanwhile, I dangle waning
Force- fed the final glints of consciousness
I am propelled to solitude
Catapulted from the earth
To commune with weightlessness
Adrift in bliss, I voyage home
Cradled within myself
Hungering for just a little more
Atop sheets of
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More