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The Perfect Word
The Perfect Word.
The perfect word. The next word. One that fits. One that fits as if it were willed to the page. Cemented. Impervious to eraser tips and backspace backspace backspace keystrokes. Does it exsist? It must. Where is it then? Wedged deep down between the couch cushions. The metaphorical couch cushions of course. No the metaphysical couch cushions. No. The perfect word. Something that rummages through the memory's attic stack of yellowed newspapers with out tearing a page. Mummery. Strumpet. Glim. No no and no. A sentence written is a sentenced flawed. To think we might have strung a string of perfect words is to think we can recite pi, backwards. But surely we can go one for ten, one for a hundred, one per page per chapter per novel. Per lifetime. If we comb over a thesaurus with a magnifying glass. Excuse me? If we comb over a thesaurus with a fine toothed comb. The perfect word. If we are trampled into a bloody fossil-to-be by a murderous heard
Binge and Purge
Gab el. Bachman. Deep. France. Bergman. Evans. Rise. Sage. Franz. Polanski. Cinematic. Bass. Black. Morgana. Wealth. Eve. Mibikids. Rife. Mornling. Cyrano. Deeper. Scribe. Hudson. Buksport. Ship. Mow. Berkshire. Fellini. Fincher. Astronomer. Riley. Chompsky. Court. Love. Route. Bloniasz. Jove. Distance. Fabric. Producto. Emby. Dean. Freed. Professor. Space. Apotheosis. List. Geodesica. Norcross. Ingersol. Chabert. Chaucer. Noon. Zero. Little. Words. Deepest. Self.
Its not as if Maya Angelou was strung up naked from a Mississippi delta born cotton tree. Well, actually it was. You see back when black buskins beat back the bramble of my god given right to speech impediment laden afterthouhts, I would stroll a slow mosey in a grove of old bo trees. Now my socks stretch only so far as my crinkled fingers can pull these chinese odes to western capitalism. Remember the rice patties, and the rice patty hats. "Men in black pajamas," he would say. And then proceed to crack-a-
Primordial Soup of the Day
"Primordial Soup of the Day"
Im chalant although inquiring mimes want to show
The life and times of Pontifaux.
I strike a balance,
Or was it balance on strike.
Seen enough mourning, just tell me what dawn's like.
Equal parts critic-idealist
Mimic and realist
Round off my age just to know what a wheel is.
The shyest of shysters
"Do you want your pie sliced sir?"
A guy but no geyser
The wry of the wiser
Shaped in dents, my sapience
And my Wisdom tooth,
I binge...and purge...
Binge and purge and binge and purge.
Cringe and merge the fringe and verge.
Atoms with Eve's drop, datum's deseased crop
Madam will you please stop...
Im half way through a palindrome
With half a talon shown
Gripping gripes of the most massive of talent tomes.
Got tickets in the brain's balcony
Through a small wicket in sane alchemy.
The lights dim
The night's whim
My first concertain.
As always...in all plays,
The beginning is curtains.
I love her
She are the most beautiful thing ive seen.
On clear winter nights I can see the moon's jealousy reflected in your eyes.
My celestial body,
The heavens have saved space for our love.
I can not live with out her love.
We must be together
I write my being in verse to the cadence of your heartbeat.
My mortal melody,
Come, let us dance along the sheet music with love letters upon our soles.
I am so happy.
She is my dream come true.
I love her more than anything.
You are the exclamation point to end my life sentence.
My sweet simile,
When the spring rains come, surely the Gods are whispering your name.
Thank you so much.
You are a great friend.
I will never forget this.
My panache shall not bear the soil of vanity.
I love through letters, the harmonious word is my kiss.
My heart at nose length
Is the only way to keep from seeing my reflection in her eyes.
Farewell my love.
Three flights down is her car.
Sedan. Four door. Twenty-one thousand miles.
She was an artist once.
The smartest dunce.
Finger paintings mostly. Never sold a finger print.
Now she works five days for fity weeks. Filing. Typing.
Her sentence is run-on.
Never noticing the tessellating artistry of her cubicle horizon.
Her T's are crossed, eyes are glazed over.
Her tears are seeded
Where the sonnets will grow.
But they hold tight to old sights.
Pupils too contricted from the monitor glow.
Three flights up is the roof.
Sky. Four clouds. Twenty one mile view.
In every direction.
A Tail of Two Prongs
"A Tail of Two Prongs"
We've talked once or twice.
Me and her labia.
Or should i say her labia and i.
"Play me a tune on your fork maestro!"
She knows, yes she knows.
Two prongs too long to tune wrong.
Perfect pitch hero harmonizing her swoon song.
She writes poetry and prose.
Well, she tries to.
Take her paragraph, tear in half
And a few lines slide through.
Her oceans aren't deep
But At least the sky is bright blue.
She is a Professional bitch.
And still cant pay the rent.
Perhaps she is in the wrong line of work.
She's thoroughly dug.
Men with spades, jacks over aces.
"This may hurt," sifting the pay dirt
Grinning through cracks in their faces.
I mind a gem that will go lovely with my earings.
Hanging off the profiled lobes.
Sometimes then vibrate in unison.
And thats when i know to listen in.
My Hands Are Full
My Hands are Full
It was love at first fight.
I met and married her in a four post tikki bar.
Under a 2.99 per minute plastic flamingo sunset.
I've thrice divorced that girl from Ipanema.
You'd think i would have learned my lesson by now.
Perhaps i should write it on my hand.
If i can find the space.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More