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On the cusp...
Exhibit dual nature yet remain a Taurus kid,
I refrain from choruses, thunder-lizards and Thesauruses
Poor as piss, my brain is in the tourist biz
Forever falling...and wondering if the floor exsist...
My wit leading in with a shit eating grin
Over bathroom breaks and urine samples
As i lure in ample ex-girlfriends and examples
Of a whole lot of harems of harlots and tramples...
I dont debate the pros and cons that constitue prositutes
Costing you losts of loot, lost on the Boston route
I join mages who blend sages and mix wizards that transcend pages...
Press on rose pedals to toe metal and nervously prune'em
And always coin phrases like "E Plurbus Unum"
In dependant woman
In dependant women i find the brink of lost hope
A tilted ice skating rink
With a layer of soft soap.
A broken vase. Poker face. No joker, ace.
The hand shes dealt is knuckles
and a battery of bible belt buckles
She wears the make up so he wont lose face.
Fat slouch, soiled briefs, mouthful of tooth paste.
He's a relic from a past era.
She will never run faster than her mascara.
Scared...waiting for the second R to come
Scarred...no healing, beckon martyrdom.
Far from numb...but palsy ingrained
A flesh of mesh...and everything taken in vein.
Maiden turned maid
Laden with Jade
A once bright son, faded to shade.
Lost first, past second, now life is third nature.
Memory's mummery and mammary's milk
Now nothing but a trifle herd of stray blurs...
Eyes of overdue cataracts
Still life lies in matters of fact.
Her excuses are frail.
Each night she reads her bruises like Braille.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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