I've lived
I've seen
my brothers and those sisters of mine
fade.
day through day
I'm waiting
to be engulfed by that
eternal dust.
I say, I've lived.
I watch through my window
I see
lives.
the turning sun is unbiased
towards their skin -
future dust.
I am breathing in life, breathing
in old lives
and it won't be long before those
will be breathing in my life, breathing
in myself.
Too curly,
your personality lies sprawled
arms and all
a longing spirit, lightly beside me
once.
You may ride your bike for the Mormon's
but you will ride your bike for, wind.
You feed off sparks of interest
but your empty!
give in to the still waters
They want you
They are assurance
They are small calls of little larks
please,
where are you Clark?
Miss Nodding Head nods so slightly,
it figures she would nod beside me.
Her nodding is a gentle word,
nodding, nodding, nodding, "World."
Now and then she shakes her leg,
it begs, and begs, and begs, and begs.
"Wake me up, I want to hear."
Mother, I can't be your ears.
'I don't want anyone to see,' by felixface, literature
Literature
'I don't want anyone to see,'
She gin til leigh wrapped her arm 'round me.
My head beneath her blonde.
The length of her thin body against mine,
and I could feel her lungs.
A hard breathe,
beat.
Fragile she cried
"lots of things" she gasped, no sighed.
Please and grass
we stood there waiting
To see someone so loved, sad hurt
every twist and turn.
You are being shaped
by the only Hands.
Rely on Him,
all you can.
A crown doth hold the notion
"Long live the King!"
Trees clap their hands height, high
as the people scream.
All and all he sighed
"That alone's my dream."
Soon to realize
power held not what it seemed.
Shinning, mocking, no!
crisp bright destitude.
Of mental illness
he reached his altitude.
A plead for cleanliness
regret
rest.
The Essence of MacBeth.
I'm listening to hear where you are
Your breathe and your hands from afar
Tis orange green and all that is seen
you have been
All I want
Old songs
New words don't exist
I love you like flesh does a cist
grumbling comptempt despair
you're there
You are the desire of my heart.
A song to the first and last. by felixface, literature
Literature
A song to the first and last.
"Who am I that my words are so crass?"
"You are my child and your flesh is like grass."
"Oh Lord, what am I without you?
I am merely dust you breathed into."
sing a breath
a deep rest of life
give all and all
to the beloved Most High
Height and glory
let Him feast on your worry.
Salem! Yireh!
Behold, the bestowed, blantantly bold.
We are lions.
my father kept mulling over the word disturbed
it spricked me
spiked me?
his friendly hand being cursed
cur-sed
he had lived a tormented life
he painted tormented abstractions
skeletons, pain, stitches, and mouths
slight blight and bile
his life-story was all too sad
familiar
I wanted to crush the devil beneath my feet
that life-theif
(the artist)
rolls on by
his first glance stroll
God promised we are inscribed on the very palms of His hands
every name
even Chris Mantle
- Warm creases, deep red stroke
and puddle
fall
- Slight lines, noodle loops, salt/
salty
thought is all
- Through canvas, linoleum, plywood
clay
- With acrylic, oil, mixed and
sorted say
- Thin waist
deep eyes
and slender shaping hands
- Solemn light shinning
on a
creating man
Marbled surface calls
black ink replies
sneak into your world
before the numbers die.
Turquoise and black
tell me what you will
purple ran away with pink
yellow was killed.
Stripes slide down the walls
orange screams the loudest
peach plays with teal
navy sleeps the soundest.
Plaid drops a tear
maroon comforts him
green flirts with red
nothing left to send.
Skin as thin as guitar strings
we allow to sing
through glass blown lives
distilled
in spite your suitcase fills
another black page
in those white books we call days.
Silhouettes come in and out
of
fading into my hands
resembling oceans.
Turning inside of one another.
Let the shores map out the end of
tears folding back into my arms
reach them with my finger tips.
Plead with the circles
turning left
smoothing
into my legs
calling out to my ears
walking away.
Falling into blank horizons
lines grow from the north
to
capture us
graze my lips.
Drift in my eyes.
reach into my rings sewn back to that old chair in the corner mother used to cry on for the fridge was empty with mice behind it talking to the sockets who followed every current people share.
if only my little brush could paint us money to put in pockets we mended with thread I found next to your feet after you came in with things to dare.
Perfections best painting. by felixface, literature
Literature
Perfections best painting.
Sometimes it just feels good to do better
let the obvious take hold
and lift us up
to a new color
then dip us back
into old portraits
whining to the walls
they are tired too
sometimes the lace gets in the way
every now and then she cries
hold her please
inside the twine
we weave as lives.
on cold nights
when anticipation held fear
stroking doubt
lovely lace
through ever turn and crack
leaves without
before a new
can be felt or heard
from eyes
to tell you no
would be absurd
so hold me as I cry
Striking petals gently leaking
changing stones slowly seeping
against the top of our ceiling
through the webs that are brand new
beauty
wonder
anger
sadness
fragile yet harsh.
I love the rain.
- we split in two
on marble glass
as dice run over
our faces
I screamed
you vanished
# you ruined our game of pretend
+ I breathe
into your chest
"do you promise?"
"I am no monster"
- a black tree forms
it destroys me
as you stand
and stare
+ you touch me
it all leaves
poured back inside of me
warmth
I smile
# and think how beautiful you would look dead
pleats fold into
the grass beneath
your hold
into distant
green thumbs
turned cold
as they appear
the keys
into sound
each shape
telling ears
what's been found
+ wandering alongside towels
we lined the path
with after our shower
where
we left prints on the
walls
while you
whispered and continued on our
way something inside of me
# faded
- for reasons unknown it
failed and she said "I am afraid of the dark"
finding excuse enough he spent the night
finally
favor
found itself in their strange
family
# comforting
+ casually he wanted more
continually she replied no
coexisting with inclinations of a new
controlling order amongst the two
coldly
calming his accusations
conspiring quietly beneath what
# fell
- forever seems their
future
-
When I was in Colombia,
it was March, and we went
to a place called Galera Zamba,
to stay there for a week.
We were a group
of six people: a young man,
a young girl who had been
hated by her mother, a young married couple
and a man in his
mid-thirties, who had an impish glint in his eye and
liked to play the guitar.
The people of Galera Zamba earned their living
by working in the salines,
and the place was nothing but
sand and salt, earthen houses, dogs
and white light.
We slept in a church, in an area that was
separated by lace curtains
from the congregation room, and had
no furniture.
The other area
Madeline with little nerves, madeline littlehands
the hovering hands of madeline
the happy skeleton,
madeline the chrystal lake, the striped shirt
madeline and painted sneakers. madeline avenue, lamplight
madeline the low moon
even the wind blows, even sparrows, even the sea gasps
madeline's billion little eyes
madeline's marigold, rose and tequila
red pepper and rum, madeline's rice tea
madeline's daisy wine. madeline the wizard.
flowerfood for madeline
fake mustache and sour patches
madeline skyward, made of water
madeline in the sky, ghost hunting
with rocket power and magic book
noseless madeline, big eyed
madeline with
Your eyes walk in file towards an open door that's spilled with light over the carpet and hidden with the vines and leaves, because memory does that, adds color and excusable human absurdity. Inside is the heavy iron box:
your nowhere blanket,
your book filled with blood,
your pulsing blue hearts,
your sundress,
the magic medallions, speech bubbles,
coins, the ribbons,
the collection of bright yellow clouds.
None are real anymore, of course.
They scratched off and became the soil under the tree, when you were hiding your face through the branch seeing people with smiles too heavy for their spines, and their pink skulls shook with the
you do live here because i'm stronger than all their feet tapping slapping tearing up the earth - when i walk it's felt not heard (but hard heart) and sunk through so everyone knows and my arms reach out in dreams, my life penetrates, my voice calls like feathers slinging quick remarks to the fellow who tips his hat at the end of the table "i see you have her": his matter of fact tone. and i say "isn't she beautiful?"
It was a likely, hole-in-the-wall sort of meeting place. Flickering lights and meatloaf specials. It was a low profile drug-dealing sort of place.
I was tapping my lacquered fingernails on the table, waiting for coffee, my stomach churning a bit at the thought that we still existed on this same worldly plane. I think I had honestly expected to see you waltz in, all smiles and some high powered business suit, having found your place once and for all while I was still drifting. It seemed that things should balance themselves that way.
At 9:07 you staggered inside on stiletto heals, barely recognizable. You knocked the breath right out of
We were paired by fate,
it seemed,
to walk the dusk streets
heel-toe in step together.
We had seen the sky go out
and concrete valleys rise,
and had torn out our hearts
to leave at the side of the road.
You fed me truths,
I told lies like poetry,
and we found our way around
time and like cages.
For as long as I can remember.
Forever.
Yesterday you stopped dead—
the sun bleeding light behind you,
copper leaves pirouetting your ankles—
and exhaled in sepulchral tones
"I don't want to be anymore."
But if you disappear
who will keep me
from falling off the edge of the world?
give me a brush and a canvas
i'll paint you a story
of a girl with a heart so big that the love overflowed
out of her eyes
down her cheekbone and on to the dirty floor which she was made from.
pull my chord
watch me spin around
in concentric circles
dictionary's dont die slowly
each page wilts
and each word drifts into the sky
they land somewhere in the west
but not buried
only discovered again
and as i spin dont forget about
the earth as it spins as well
powered by each pair of feet
running in parallel directions
she connects us with skeletal prose
each bone destined to touch base
after we die and repose in the dust
on top of our words
nothing but sleep
lines the boardwalk
an open mouth
(of randomeyes)
catches your breath in the lapse
you might could say
it always comes back
in the shape of a cul de sac
§ nothing rises and nothing falls
in the chambers of the heart
in the chambers of sleep
you drank the glass half full
noting that:
"sleep dessimates all feeling"
eyes open on a Tuesday
and close on the Sabbath Monday.
You are tosses
indian summer
rain
nice hands
and brown.
You are a meter
sentimental
thought
a praising
sound.
You are knit
home-sick
a caring
observation
and I'm so glad that you exist.
Favourite genre of music: Exuberant. Favourite photographer: Robb Maclean. Favourite style of art: Intricate. Wallpaper of choice: Flavored, striped, and tailored. Skin of choice: Fairly pale. Personal Quote: "I am not a crook."