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A twin spark heartWe're almost home, I say to her as she sleeps.
At a hundred miles an hour on empty motorway
what was cut and blasted during day
becomes empty gray parting black.
The moon is veiled over my right shoulder.
Dials burn red, red into night
Then the glaring blue of a misplaced xenon filament, oncoming
And the flat ribbon of river becomes
a steel sheet glimpsed under moonlight
as the road slips beneath my rumbling tires.
The Wind And CranesNow the wind screams down glass canyons through
brickwork veins through
as motherfather sleep on the bench with oldcoat blanket.
The wind screams through crane lattices
scarem off the streets.
Night's too long and too cold here
she's keening, doesn't mean much baby
quarrels and affirmations aren't from seven stories up.
When I see down there a woman embracing one unseen
like she's dancing, yeah damn nice number when I only hear the wind screaming
then puffs a fag and goes off pushing a babycart
and two girls holding hands holding arms holding tight
kisses another on the head like lover sisters
walk off filled with love into the night.
Days That BleedI don't sleep.
Not since I pulled back
and found not epiphany but
Like how she bleeds
feeds the bare earth,
that wine ichor that spills
and overflows her heart's boundaries.
Through my eyes of cracked marble.
Amid the white,
little streams of red.
Letting the Water RunWarm rain
trickles down my back
electric delight at two past midnight.
If only silence could drip past the
roaring drive home on
an empty freeway
weaving past phantoms.
Back home to a quiet house
hoarse shouting only faint
and a rat running mad in the cupboards with
ten lives lost, twenty to go.
In my ears
the words of fellow lovers of the
screaming unspoken meanings, insinuations
on the madness of being human.
And now clean sheets paisley and green
yesterday's blanket on warm scrubbed skin
pillows unwashed beckon
to an empty bed.
Fool on SandI waited for you by the sea.
The children are asleep now, sand wet
on their toes, peace in dusty rags.
The moon hangs high, bloated
pale corpsegas lantern
to insomniac dreams
and mindless caress of seagrass carved
out in an instant of dynamite.
The instant comes now when
I drown you in the inky
flailing hair black against black
(Y)our flesh vainly comes up for air
But your eyes are empty, have always been
and my hands are a vise.
And now the tide rolls back
From the blue desert, the white emerges
And no trace of you.
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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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