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sometimes surgeons like to kid
Sometimes I cannot sleep.
Earthquakes burrow into sheet fibres,
knees meet the radiator, the chunks clunk
then chip away, like the roller coaster thoughts
that spin around the room.
My head smacks pillows, and I remember
all the faces I scanned today,
up/down; they sighed boredom --
and had eyeballs where mattresses should be.
Fingertips feel sore, they say sorry
for touching you. I only wanted to see
what your heart felt like on the inside
but these hands did not belong
blood-drenched in you. Right then I decided --
I will never go to the dentist ever again.
He compliments my oral hygiene
as he asks me to open wide. It makes me sick
to bear my teeth like coffee cups to the world.
My spit embarrasses me, reminds me
of all the words caught inside my palate
that I could not say.
I had a dream last night. God came to me and said
'eleven thirty and something
will happen'. He showed me you in my room
like it was October, apple blossoms were by the window
and white strips down th
when time does not healThere's a light bulb in your chest, it flickers on/off the coral reef,
it's pinkish and reminds me of babies
though i don't know why yet.
The buzzer rings and it's never you,
as always, i am carpet faced
and full of tiny yous that won't hack out
with drawing pins, i just sit inside my own shipwreck.
I thought i could control the epileptic fits
brought on by your fast heart-blinks.
i'm on the brink of something scientific, something raw
as you say i give you new illnesses
and put your medicine in the draw,
you are happy until i shuffle back
on tired hands and knees,
I stutter into garbage bags
then you just hurl things back like i expect too much,
i'm submerged in your blood screams,
in my eye streams
that travel towards places with names like --
but you are everywhere, it seems
with your hands held tight by somebody new,
by somebody who
has been there a month, but outweighs my 12
of support by
ground floor poem
You cut yourself out of cereal boxes, press against guitar strings
that rip your fingertips open - exposed, you choke
on E minors, you cough up plectrums
and words that sound like 'sorry'.
I do not know you well, but I do know you are kind
and inside something pulls on wire, there is something soft
trapped in cogs, new bedsheets or maybe
it's your heart. I bet he said he didn't mean to
make your eyelashes clump together
and your skin feel like a tambourine. Clay is --
a substance that gets harder under intense heat,
this is not an example of chemical weather, just kiln hands
and a girl with silt burnt into her cuticles because too much electric
is trapped, it slams against lazy organs and slips through tubes
Your elbows remind me of tea cups,
something boils between china l
dirty pretty poems
Cold tea-cups jumped
off the table when I opened my eyes this morning.
They must not like the sound of my eyelashes crashing into eachother
and must know how sometimes
oxygen feels too far from our sinking lungs.
When my hipbones became loose hinges,
half sliced off and a sore-thumb view, it did not occur to me
that I was ill, just a little bit below the floorboards
with the taps of people walking above, nobody ever knows
when I am there.
I believe that wine bottles mean something different
and for me it is not just a delightfully fruity
drink to sip with friends, it is a two pm lecture I cannot build up courage to go to
and pretending my head is in the clouds when really it is with my heart
under the table and wine bottles are just another way of saying
my red eyes are locked in a drawer with black underwear and sad songs
and I do not want to let them out today --
the wine is all gone now
and so am I.
Paintings are beautiful and I want to draw your eyebrows in
Entwined beneath sheets of
I kissed the air
and cursed the day
we were sober.
And, emptying the bottle,
we said those things
about our dreams
that mattered none at all
none at all
in the morning.
to breathlessly sing
(with the crickets)
my fingers crept into the void
where you'd slept.
And I wept.
There were never enough words
one could weave about the brain
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More