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Borrowed WordsI have often read the sparking souls of rare, bold men.
They have fed me pointed words
running red with blood
and thunder, staining
everything I've said, everything
I have. Often read the sparking souls of dead old men,
their flaming, spitting thoughts.
When your tightened lungs are stirred
fill your throat with coughing birds,
put your thought into an overwrought mouth as
I have, often. Read the sparking souls of dead old men,
the trolls in their cluttered dens
surrounded by the scrimshaw bones
of ravished brides, of wasted wives.
Soapbox words scrawled across the same bodies
I have often bled the hearkening souls of. Dead old men
have led the red, hungry eyes
of Rottweiler boys
for years as they tramped through
foyers,foam dressing their blackened lips.
We have often fed the snarling souls of dead, cold men,
gone to bed with hot coal men
with lead in their veins.
Their words are a well
the world knows too well.
Too often have I read the sparking souls of red-coal me
Devil's TowerHigh atop that bleak stone beast,
Two hands stand, never noting
Hour or minute. Looming, squatting
Dimly over primly painted lawns
And streaking red cars, those dead-eye
Windows lie and wonder how
The night was torn asunder by
The suburbs and the dying of
The old, old Hudson silence.
All along it seeks a man,
Some handsome soul to stand and see
That there’s no face at that dark window,
No trace of feet upon the stair
And no bells to tell the minutes, hours,
No hands to pass these leaden days.
Someday you’ll walk beneath its face,
Dead in autumns gasping breath,
And at some place stop and, silent, stare,
Or sit within its languid shade
And wonder what it takes
To make a lonely tower die.
The Things They LoveThere is nothing in this world more beautiful
than someone talking about the things they love:
The way their eyes fill up
and sink inward, mile upon mile,
year upon year, word upon word
until that secret soul lies naked,
trembling in nervous joy;
The way their gaze's gravity pulls you
spinning and wheeling into their most sacred tale
(The shaded curve of a lover's wrists stretched across white sheets.
The dying fall of a laugh from the farthest corner of the bar.
The glow of scattered stars hanging above a windswept hillside.
A swollen red sun falling shrieking from the sky.
The last sip of wine on an October night.
and grips you tight, afraid that you will
slip away and gone;
The way their hands twitch and dance,
furtive fingers plucking on loose strands of thought
and fumbling through your breast
in search of some harmony, some dissonance,
The way their voice sweeps, pitches, reels
The Writer's SoulThis is my body, given up for you.
As your fingers brush the corners of this page,
Keep your fingers light.
This is my soul splayed before you
In all of its patchwork glory,
The sum of the voice of the West Wind
and the cloying sickness of fleeting flesh.
Be gentle with this, my soul.
Let it slide through your fingers like sand,
Let it sink into the ball of your thumb
And the black of your eye.
And there, let it be.
Let it dream.
The Devil Sings the BluesI like to think the devil sings the blues down in his hole.
His is a sorry soul; he hides behind the shadow of a day,
Darkened by the weight of some forgotten sin.
I like to think he misses his father.
He only ever wanted to be seen, to be heard.
What son has never broken his father’s heart?
I like to think the devil is quiet and slight of frame.
If he slipped into your room you just might miss him.
Perhaps he looks a bit like your brother.
He cries sometimes.
I like to think he sits in hell painting pictures in the sand,
And that heavy damned heat turns his dreams to glass.
They are brittle, but they are bright, they are clean
Just like yours.
Just like mine.
The Face of ThingsHe spoke from the seat behind me.
I never saw his face.
"I don't really know what I believe.
I mean, there's Buddhism and Islam
and Daoism and whatever, but how
do you decide? You know, how do you choose?"
I turned to gaze out the window just as
a dead yellow leaf fled from the nearest bough,
swooped across the sky in lazy mournful loops
and disappeared into the impenetrable blue of the sky.
"How do you know what to believe?"
The sad blue veil of the sky,
shrouding the world.
A curtain, strung over our heads
to keep us from going mad
as we search the spaces between stars
for a friendly face, or the weight of a mother's arm.
Shel SilversteinI might have been friends with Henry Moore
I visited near his studio and garden once
We might have had tea
I could have helped Ziolkowski with his Crazy Horse
All I needed to do was show up in the Black Hills
All I needed to do was put my hand out
Just be human, be honest
We three, Moore, Ziolkowski and I would have been buds
Talking about women and monumental sculpture
The Dalai Lama might want to be a pal of mine
The Buddha would smile on us
We could sit out in front of Five Brothers
And drink Cuban coffee and laugh
His Holiness loves to laugh
But Shel, this presumption…
This one-sided dialogue…
It has been in my head since you died
We didn’t meet, but I am sure we would be friends
You and I would talk about politics and pirates
We would joke about conch royalty and cuss
You would be shoeless and grinning
I would be happy you were my friend
RevolutionChains and chains of hopeless bind the system together
No one feeling like they can change the world
No one feeling like our very existence is just vanity
No one feeling like there is anything to live for
Millions and millions of confusion in the air tonight
Fills the blue skies and enters into our hearts
Confusion and vanity is what the world runs by
Be this, do that, give this, believe that; all I can do now is raise my fist in the sky
As I raise my fist high in the sky, I shout a battle cry of life
There is only one voice that still stands out through the generations
I shout a battle cry with my fist in the sky; words that brings the world to life
Words that brings light back into the hearts of people from young to old
Revolution; time to end the misery
Revolution; time to show the world the true meaning of life
Revolution; time to show the world that true love exists beyond our understanding
Revolution; time to cry out into the heavens for love to come down
Revolution; time to rise
The Dance.You and I dance as life and death,
unbroken and ever going,
circling and never ending.
As the music dies,
and the song stops,
where our dance is paused.
My sight goes gray,
the light in my eyes dims,
and I fall down forever back.
Your face is the last thing,
I saw and remembered so I take great comfort,
that you're forever there before me as I fall down.
So the music revives,
and the song restarts,
where our dance is unpaused.
The music is all around us and surround us,
like the lives we make and take,
and the dance is going faster to bring life and disaster.
Passage to the Catacombs of TimeWhen day becomes empty
In the dusk,
When time without pictures begins,
Lonesome voices combine –
Animals are nothing more than hunters
Or being hunted –
Flowers are only fragrance –
When everything becomes nameless like in the beginning –
You will go down to the catacombs of time
That will open to those
Whose end is near –
There where the heart seeds grow –
Deep into dark contemplation
You will sink –
Already passing death
That is only a windy passage –
And freezing from the exit
You will open your eyes
In which already a new star
Has left its reflection.
The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
baby stepsit was probably
celsius met fahrenheit
in a sloppy french kiss on frozen ground.
after all the walking,
the skin of my hands started to crack and bleed;
silence, i decided,
was the solution and the cure. i dipped
my hands into its glowing broth:
warmth suffused my body struggling
to sit still.
on marched the sun,
Samson's Mother: Where are you, God?Where are you, God?
The world seems void of you.
The time you lived in our midst
is gone like a dream;
you seem so far away.
Holy places feel empty;
your silence echoes there,
and the ominous question:
do you even care?
Each does as he pleases
and chaos is king,
your people oppressed -
forsaken by you?
Other gods take your place,
gods of gold,
gods of pride -
we are locked in sin's cluthes.
Oh God, where are you?
Where are you, God,
in my little life?
In this world full of problems,
do you have time for mine?
Do you see my dreams of motherhood,
are you there to hear my prayers,
in the silent night -
do you even care?
Where are you, God?
We seek and we wait.
Where are you, God?
Are we hoping in vain?
Few hear your voice -
are we deaf?
are you dumb?
Show us we're not forsaken.
Oh God, where are you?
Praise be to you, God,
for here you are!
You step out of the shadows -
you draw aside the veil -
you break your silence -
you show that you care:
for your people
You Are a Part of MeI see myself in you
I see me in everybody
I've watched you all grow
But little did you know,
I think of everyone
Message to Gaia.Time have passed above my head
I remember when from my diary I read,
I used to look into your eye."
My dear, is the only thing
That still keeps me alive.
Can you recall
Which we call our own,
Where you and I
Used to hide
To become one with All?
I still cry them back
When I stargaze and look above,
When I hug your precious love,
When you give me companions
To forget the sadness of a lonely heart.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More