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Premortem.The cancer of that clichéd kiss:
the fire on your tongue
branded a hiss into my lips
and blackened out these lungs.
And to this day I'm choking with
the backwash of your breath,
it climbs the rings of cartilage
and settles in my head.
It's spluttered into bandages
until they're stained with red,
it nullifies my senses
but it still remains unsaid.
And what you'd find the best is
that it's with me 'till I'm dead.
(Early on prognosis says
it ends around my neck.)
The way you walk this town at night! As if
You expect the stars to swoon and drop down;
The moon to relinquish his crown and praise
You for outshining the day.
I admire the way you never frown at defeat,
Because realistically, you're no more
The Queen than you are the clown. Though,
As you are, you'd make the latter proud.
I'll make the call to
Sound the sirens. Loud.
We've got another casualty,
Trampled by her crowd.
You tragic little thing,
How do you like me now?
Tired.'Love,' I whisper.
'Time's not on our side.
Each second flies.'
I'm remembering the way you smile;
How fast the daylight dies.
'How would you feel
If I left
Just for a little while,
Just while I shut my eyes.'
True ArtPeople tell me I'm no artist...
That's because they don't know what art is.
It isn't the perfect line to finish the perfect painting,
Nor the perfect angle to create the perfect photograph,
Nor the perfect ending to a perfect tale.
Art is expression.
Art is feeling.
Living, is the true form of art.
Afterwards.I needed a photo frame that day. I
needed a way to hang a picture from
its neck, upon a wall, or even less
just hammer a nail in its chest. Tired
of it lying on my desk, on the floor, soaked
with dust and all the rest.
The photo isn't our best, but,
it's me and you. And we're not smiling, it's
one of those "didn't-see-the-camera" findings,
more true to the eye - the unskilled lens
catching a flare from the light, its arms
dividing us with a line. My favourite picture
of the night.
Instead, this photo is still somewhere in my room
or closet - our situation something chronic. We're not
together but 'we're still friends'. That
Betrayal.Let me word this now:
If I ask you why, not how, I am sparing
you the pain of seeing me flare. Let
you vent, play your defense, without
any vitriol from my lips. Just a chance
for us to get past this, call it humility.
Call it taking the piss.
And if I ask you how and not why,
my eyes are not a gateway into redemp.
They are a marionette of resent, for your
pretence and your involvement. Fierce stare,
waiting for the perfect moment to see
your mouth catch fire at my will. Haha.
As if your words could get drier still.
Overtime.It's a sorry sight to see.
This geometric abstraction of a body
decades past its warranty and
a fraction of the way it was
given to me. Stripped for parts
eventually. Maybe. Most likely
just buried with the dead and
defective doppelgangers in the
cemetery, or if it's lucky,
a brief stay in the crematory.
The inevitability is killing me
really, because it can't come soon
enough. "It'll be your time," the
watchmaker said, admiring my skeleton
Rotary that I'd given to inspect.
My reply was left at the foot of my bed,
next to the batteries that never had
any effect. Underneath countless amounts
of receipts for repairs, a note
i.Here sits her bloody highness;
Bitch del Mundo -
humanised. Crying from
Her chair of bones,
Lying from her throat and
The swine, Little Miss
You to wait another few years
For another kiss, until she's
Bored with her throne's negating
Until she's tired of waiting
For this. 'til her
Minute hands stop clapping
The hours on and her feet
Stop pacing the distance
Between our lips.
No, allow you to revise:
Here sits a little girl.
No tricks, lies or power.
Not in this instance,
Not in your lifetime.
Smoke signalsIn the evenings, lighter in hand, I
pray it isn't me spine down in
this bed. Or, if you're asking,
I'd rather it wasn't my head. See:
This pillow of mine is a guillotine,
a master of shape shifting, waiting
for my muscles to relax. The duvet just
a weight on my back, trying to keep
my hands from getting to that damned
I smoke at night to pretend
the only threat in this bed is
a smothering. Even then, that involves
Someone else putting up a fight.
So I sigh, pray to something, turn out
the lights and test to make sure
my lungs are firmly inside,
just in case my mattress flips and
gives them a mome
Smithern Wesson.You're not shy enough, son,
thinkin' you ain't bleedin'
at the end of this gun -
face down in the pulpit,
picking carpet from your teeth,
getting blushes from the nuns,
as you pick a little fun with
your fingers and your thumbs.
And you're a little bit dumb:
struttin' like a carcass
sans spine, sans tongue,
muttering a hot mess
down the breasts
of a loved one.
Holier.This is short to say the least.
Just touching in to see if you
remember me. That girl, the one
you rescued so delicately and
held her through everything.
Created her more special than
she could ever be. Stopped her
falling from the edge she'd
sharpened over the scenes
of the people she'd seen,
and the people she'd hated
enough to have been.
Well, that's gone straight to your head,
because lately that edge is all I get.
Fortune.It's so goddamn hilarious, to a point
where my sides are splitting and my
guts are all over this page. To an
extent where my rib cage is dancing
with my diaphragm, making me double
over in fits of rage. Bloody funny:
that it leaves me delirious and silently
heaving; spitting my teeth into my hands
in hope of saving them for luck. I mean,
what's life anymore if you don't have a
little charm? Fuck those who say they
can read my palm and tell me when I'll
have my last day. If I feel like ending
this farce, then trust me, I'll cut away.
Draw me up a new card; file it under renegade.
Artistic AbuseI color your words in shocking reds
with undertones of purple to show
the bruises they create
Each syllable like a stab in my chest
I know you meant for them to hurt me
but the physical wounds are brightly colored
In mocking tones of lively colors
They pain me
even though I catch myself staring
unable to look away from the mutilated beauty
Paint me green, blue, black
Scathing words thrown at me like rocks
Bouncing off my flesh
And all I can do is beg you to paint me
No matter how much it wounds me
because I am your canvas
And you are a master artist
The Circus.Welcome, welcome, boys and girls to
The greatest show you'll ever see.
This man is insane; please push to get in,
Ten percent off per wicked grin,
Fifteen for every deadly sin,
This man is here for the devil within.
Come watch, come watch, now don't delay
The gun at his head ain't got all day,
This is his first and only stay,
Please, everybody, right this way.
See that look upon his face?
From eyes to ears? That's pure disgrace!
His trembling lips can sense the taste
Of a soon-to-come bloody embrace.
This is the new entertainment
Brains for blood for lives for payment.
Perpetually lostWould you like to hear my perpetual mantra?
It fills my head, at times like these.
Oh remember... Remember...
How I always forget
Until days, like these.
And again, again, my perpetual mantra.
Remember, remember, days like these...
Oh to stop the spinning words,
To clear my head with the smoke,
And to dull them with the sharp lines.
Just to forget what I never could remember.
So remember now, remember.
Because it's days like these,
When everything hides its cracks,
And even I cannot forget anything.
So can you hear it yet?
This perpetual remembering.
This constant mantra.
It's always at the end of the day
That I know it's t
Business these days.I'm just a sinner with a calculator,
I make you sway with undiagnosed currents.
Little do you know,
No signs pave your way. Zombies, drones,
Clones of a premier me,
Going to a platinum dissociation,
Attached to a copper corporation.
I duplicate, wait until later and claw,
Buy out and sell out and fall out,
Forget about the bodies that get caught in my gums.
Turn a face towards my friends,
Dive into wrapping, all fingers and thumbs.
Covered with the Queen's face.
Stake holders! I thank you,
You've got my back and my wallet.
How does it feel to fund the guy
Who will probably turn a blind eye
21Hello there my darling,
My long lost son-of-a-bitch.
It's been a while - but I'm not sorry for being
It's like the table at the restaurant where you promised to
It rolls from my tongue better than your lips ever did.
Does that make me a snake?
Reciprocation is a venomous smile,
For that makes you the charmer.
Double or nothing.
You should know,
It's both impossible to woo the Devil,
And a fatal mistake.
Forgive me for making that Chinese sand garden
Out of your chest.
I wasn't lost in the moment,
More forget-me-not wit,
More mind games.
Another filed complaint.Dear Time,
Regarding you screwing me over.
I hate you.
I hate you with every cell of my blood that drips into your stream.
Because, each day I notice something:
Every one of your soldiers enters my lungs quietly
But leaves like an acid reflux.
I'm not sure what your policy for damaged goods is,
But I swear that the moment I received your 'gift' it kept leaving me dry every morning.
Sometimes I wake up and find that a lot of what I thought you'd given me was missing.
It was very peculier at first,
But then I remembered your manufacturer has a tendency to be incoherent in His work.
But recent events have stirred me to stop le
Take the step
I've been watching, and
You always start with a smile.
I can honestly declare that I find it
That's okay, you stumbled.
There's no time to take a breath;
You can do that while your arms are stretched,
And you're running and panting like this: Huh-Huh-Huh,
And your mind is racingandracingandracingandracingandracingand
What does the ground taste like?
010011010110010100101110Call me Robotic.
I'm always leakin' oil,
Repeating what I've seen in monotone,
Dressing duplicate knowledge with Queen's english.
Truth is, though, I'm all up on red buttons now.
I guess you could chain that to
Problems with the motherboard.
Don't go all 'HelpDesk' on me.
I've called that hotline before,
"You tried turning it off and on again?"
Thank you, Frank.
Just a short circuit away from damnation,
They say I have no hope. Tell eachother
That I should be sold for parts. One day,
I'll give my wires to something better.
Do you think I'll look good in newsprint?
Asphyxiation.It starts a simple hit and miss,
A girl; too decadent a kiss.
A simple gasp for blood and gold,
And scarlet legs begin to fold,
An inhale that cannot be sold.
A complex mind if worthy size,
And old and nectar ridden eyes,
A tongue that tastes a bed of lies.
My darling grasp, how you release,
My footsteps crumble and decrease,
I feel that now I am at peace.
Until my sins are birds of dust,
I do what I've been taught I must,
And wrap this noose around my lust.
And now a future once so bright,
Cursed by Stockholm in the night.
An ideal.I want to die with a bloodied chin,
As evidence of trying to beat whatever -
Whoever - did me in. To be specific,
I need it to be to the bone,
Through the skin and the blood;
All that knows how to live,
How to sin.
(Honestly, you know I would, and have been.)
I want to die with a bloodied chin
To show that at one point,
This kid fought to win.
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More