|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
deliverance does not come,as does the bell-boy from his duties,
the rough-boned burly man from his cell.
with the calendar days deemed ignorant,
the time-clocks cloak themselves. from what?
natural disasters are nothing, nothing I say,
compared to cold metal making nests
within a womb. and men, are wild -
run rampant through the night,
start fights, take heaven to tired veins and
in blind glory, ignite.
Night's despair Sometimes I watch night skies. I think of it as a habit of necessity at night in the woods. I liken it to watching infomercials at 3 am because nothing else is on, yet sleep is a fickle nuisance that rejected my swollen lids. I think it is something like that; interesting and seemingly infinite, yet in five minutes, it will be the same and another five after that, a singular irregularity of space garbage might appear, and than it will be the same once again.
My eyes always watch for these so called satellites and other sparkly junk they launched into orbit, only to let it decay and rot in constant deterioration around the night sky that can be seen as a flickering light in a rapid game of connect the dots, darting from star one to star five in an arc that then bypasses star twenty and connects straight to star thirty-four, like a kindergardener with a crayon that has yet to count past ten, a
PerfectI'm glad I'm not perfect.
I'm glad to know
That I'm not like you.
I'm happy to hear
That I have flaws
And that I have weaknesses.
I don't mind having them,
While you clearly seem to.
You say that you're strong,
Invincible even compared to God.
So if I were to shoot at you in cold blood,
You would live?
If I were to mock you
And completely deride you,
You wouldn't cry?
I highly doubt you possess
Such glorious strength.
You say that you're gorgeous,
So stunning that even the stars are envious.
If that is true,
Then the stars obviously don't know
What true beauty is.
You say that I'm jealous,
That I wish I were you.
How do you know what I wish for?
Can you read me mind?
If you can,
You're a terrible reader.
Why would I want to be perfect
When I like being flawed?
Being perfect is like being ordinary.
If you're perfect,
You can never learn from anything.
You can never achieve something
Worth your while.
And I enjoy every moment of it.
I can learn from them,
EveningsEvenings after the end of the world
Sunset cracks the sky and slips through
In streaks of red and ultra-violet, pollution-fantastic
A perfect complement to the sounds of bats
Some smartass at the college gave them baby faces,
And now no one wants to lay down arsenic-
My landlady saw one body and burst into tears and
I'm going to have to lock my kitten in.
I found a tattoo on my heel last night
I think it happened sometime in the morning.
I nodded off on the train, against the plasti-glass.
When I woke up I was leaning against a monster.
He smiled at me and shook my shoulder
With his squishy white tentacle.
His collar was high- it didn't suit him.
The tattoo shows a curling, smiling creature
Ears trailing like a comet tail, eyes sparkling
Teeth pricking my bone like thorns, and then
I feel its tiny tongue lick my ankle from the inside.
I'm fairly sure it's moving when I sleep.
It's good to have a friend.
At least I think it's good to have a friend.
My windows got bent up while I was sle
freedom callingI missed something here
as I'm growing up so fast
time's no longer standing still
I knew it couldn't last
I blinked and it was gone
my time has slipped away
sitting here I wonder
what happened to yesterday
As the golden sunsets fade
and the snow of winter falls
in my life something is changing
it really is that my freedom calls
Dream JobIf I dressed for the job I wanted, I'd be wearing a spacesuit
When I grow up, I want to reach enlightenment
on the summit of Olympus Mons,
meditating on the words of Arthur C. Clarke
"there are no mountains on Mars."
This is what imagination risks.
Exploring we discover not that our knowledge is flawed,
but that we do not dream hard enough.
Even in the beginning, God expected us to name the world.
And we could only utter stumblings in that Ur-tongue,
inventing the invention of ideas.
Even before we tasted the tree,
even before we knew that we could ever be wrong,
we clung to the referential alchemy of language.
This world we think we've tamed
has mastered us, instead, because we mistake
our words for things.
Mystics and medicine men have been
trying to free us from our trespasses
So, I will listen to the sands of Mars,
build a tabernacle with red stones, and sing
a song of loss. Call out to that old dream that makes us young,
Keep in Touch!
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