The Writer's Bloc

0501012:

i can’t get your lips
out of my head,
darling
your blue tinted kiss
my blue tinted
carnation
your whispered breath
it’s tied to bones
your words my mind
static on
the telephone 

(via electricfunerals-deactivated201)

10

12:48

loindailleurs:

D.

your cornea con-
tact carves our red mist, yet there’s
silence in a name (?)

4

Blueberry Tears

wintriestmoods:

o O
      O o

Her tears are sweet and blue -
frosty, misty, navy blue
Tonight, her knees are scraped maroon
And so, blueberry water streams down in diamond drops
from two magma lakes - her lava-lamp-like eyes

Her lips have tasted ashes
They have tasted the sugarless cherry pies -
the boys with blood-red jelly hearts
and leather-bound lies,
dark, dark, tough lies - boys bound to die

In the morning, her tears are dried
by see-through fingers - the ghosts in her hands
Stains glisten on her cheeks; magenta violet
Blueberry tears were smashed with such violence
& the memories flicker in her heart the best they can

A bat with amethyst wings flies out of her chest tonight
and the sorrow seeps out - a sigh of relief
Yet she cries some more,
but now the tears are sane - crystal clear
A new-found serene

It’s amazing what a good cry can do

                                                    o O
                                                         O o

11

contretemps.

skelechitophobia:

They let the pounding
get to them, like monsters
they cried to escape their minds.
Breaths inhaled through gaping nostrils,
dripped to find the source of the stench.
It was 1887 and a brilliant mind
had led the mongrels to the scent
of deeply oxidising death.

They threw out the supply,
tipped the bottles out to sink, the soil
begging them to stop this daily ritual.
Bloodshot up and cracked fingernails down,
she searched until she felt the shadows bend
from the crisp liquids dropped spattered
on the dirt-encrusted linoleum, still
she readied her desperate hands to peel skin.

A dead woman softly observed them
coo at her mistake, they loved
the sighs, the cries, and the little blind eyes.
Wrinkles were embedding themselves
as he formed in her poisonous womb,
and the folds spread disdain through
the veins of his still-breathing mother
for her accidental bastard.

Mist clung to form icicles ‘til
they told him to not judge a book
by its cover. Sodden ground left
an invisible imprint in their minds, speaking
in deciduous tongues - dropping off
before reaching the sentences’ ends.
It was 2003 and this was a tearless funeral
for them to lower into the earth.

42

tiredfoxes:

dismemberment.

sipping coffee clouds in the corner i watched as your body
slowly dismembered itself under the bar lights
and how the stench brought on the barflies

your head was the first to go, rolling awkward little semi-circles
across the beer puddles and chipped nail polish flakes on the floor
and then your fingers, spider-legging away into cobweb crevices
your arms, tearing themselves from your shoulders,
dragging trails of stringy red bits behind them, lit up electric neon
and picking up the gravely muck as they went
i watched your legs struggle and snap off, watched them pirouette
though the back door and into the dumpster alley
your torso was most fascinating,
solid and strong and splitting down the middle
your organs spilling out around it
in fancy bouquets of pink and violet, ivory and the sort of blue
that your lips were now, where your head was still lolling, going grey

i ordered a second cup, marveled at the skilled toes
of the dancers on the floor
effortlessly spinning and kicking in the mess
and at last call, i bent and removed your heart from its center spot in the floral arrangement of you,
i tucked it into the pocket of my overcoat, and slipped out the door

25

the amen in lament

citoxiuq:

Four in the morning.  We’re far apart.

I’m a curbside king on an asphalt throne, drinking from my sceptre, with a streetlight crown.  I think of our arms while we’re lying in bed, straight as cadavers, polite as the dead, when once we were entrails entangled and capillaries connected, and our nerve endings were only the beginning.

When I swallowed the liquor you seemed more drunk, and when you exhaled into my mouth I held my breath.  We kissed as the words in a closed book, far from prying eyes that would belittle as they tried to understand this thing that we shared.  They might have called it love, but I called it nothing - for that’s all we allowed to come between us, and for that, there was no name.  There were only sounds.  There were sighs and gasps and grunts and laughs, and each was a synonym for that undefinable thing.  To understand it was to diminish its charm, as a secret is worthwhile only when withheld.

Our friends called us a couple, but a couple of what?  I never wanted to know, because to know is to own, and belonging to one could be longing for one after long.  But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and you had to take after your mother.  Their whispers became drops of water, leaking through the cracks in your ears, filling your head until your words drained the thoughts of what could be.  And so we found the serpent had a twin - one for your finger, the other for mine - and they devoured their own tails as they tightened into shackles.  Now the memory of the fruit remains bittersweet.

For in the mourning we’re close together again.

26

otheredge:

   Above the sun’s burning passion and the opal moon’s kiss, beyond these broken constellations and feuding planets, two beings posed. Atop a thriving mountain, on thrones of thrumming jade and blessed gold, they conversed. Sorrow in their eyes and mourning on their sculpted lips.

  A brother of the sun and a sister of the moon. He danced and he sang, music so seductive that even the Shades in hell couldn’t help but fall victim to hot tears of ecstasy.

  She a huntress, ferocious and haunting, with a porcelain beauty that inspired the crescent in the earthly sky. She trilled with the purest energy that originated from the chaste of body and mind.

  “Do you not weep for such a lost race? Broken, are they. Hopeless, are they. Forgotten and miserable. They walk as if they suffer in the Fields of Asphodel.”

   “They have ears, but do not listen. They have eyes, but cannot see. They have mouths to speak and bodies to move the mountains, yet they do not.”

  “Suppose we should urge our king to send us to this bleak world? Perhaps we would be obliged as to enlighten this decaying race?” Optimism brewing forth from his feathered head and rippling chest.

  “Do not be naive, brother. What would he say? With a mighty shriek and display of lightning, the all seeing eye would turn our whims to naught.” The voice of reason, stirring majestically in her iridescent gown and silver circlet of stars.

   They fell victim to melancholy silence, bowing their sovereign heads to gaze at the mortal world below.

Janice’s note: Wow.

(Source: deadtales)

17

sunsetsinexile:

What loves happen without me,
what sorrows denied?

Ah, the sea, naked and glowing;
the sun, empty as light.

Oh those miles of skin, unfelt;
voices rising and falling, unprompted by me.

O sun! O sea!
What loves do you withold from me?
_______
for E.M.

9

Two Broken Shells

awakenedphilosopher:

I was left so alone, so bereft of love, when I watched your swaying hips slowly fade into the sunset that I quickly fell in love with your absence. I fell head over heels for the phantasmal form of loneliness, with her shrouded features hidden among the shadows. Her eyes were the only thing I could see, looking out at me from the deep recesses of the night. They held pain in a tear resting on the end of a soft eyelash, building up the strength and courage to begin its life’s journey down her hidden cheek. There was a bitterness there, too, trapped within the steeliness of her gaze which she had wrapped herself in to protect her heart from this cruel world. I knew what it was to feel these things and so my heart went out to her, my loneliness, and we fell in love with the emptiness inside our hearts, two broken shells hiding in the darkness; two broken shells just trying to become whole. 

Janice’s note: This is so vivid and I love it.

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