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ApotheosisAnswers float, feathers
Not of angels, but finches
Settling with autumn.
Edens tree sheds leaves
Life forms, these than which nothing
Meeker can be thought.
February Haiku 09-1-
flitting in the wind
the swallows are far from home
clothes fly by the dryer window,
backgrounds in a Roadrunner cartoon
trees paint their nails;
in cling film
of a snowman
by a girl in hot pants
not everything is black and white
buying frozen mince
in a knitted red jumper
windows in a block of flats
snow wilts into the mud;
squeezing under bridges;
roads fat with traffic
snowflakes on lashes
in the branches of trees
bent old men lost in the dark
in front of a cyclist;
diners fling crumbs
unsteady rhythm on the roof;
against the sky
Milestones and Roadside DinersThere are no stars tonight;
instead, we count the passing cars,
their headlights leaving trails
on the insides of our eyelids.
We try to memorise number plates,
to see if the same one passes us twice,
or write sonnets with the waspish letters;
we used to join the dots of constellations,
our names scrawled across midnight.
Plastic bags are crumpled wildflowers on the verge;
we pluck them from the view of cats eyes
and let them rustle secrets in the matted darkness.
When did the stars go out?
Did they flicker off, one by one,
like windows in a block of flats,
or did we smother them on that one night
when we thought the sky could wait?
We signed on the dotted
Midnight WaltzTheres a poem in the rhythm of the ticking of the clock
as she beats out gentle midnight into supple sheets of black;
as she clips away the seconds, as she faithfully takes stock,
she will whisper lonely love songs that are never whispered back.
As the subtle shades of silence wash across the citys shores
and the orange of the streetlamps billows out to block the night,
she will carry on her counting without pleasure, without pause,
always filled with thoughts she knows her hands will not be free to write.
And when these moments calmly pass her by, she watches with regret,
feeling life flow on around her like a stream split by a rock;
she can never join the waters, never float downstreamand yet
theres a poem in the rhythm of the ticking of the clock.
Oh, baby, wont you be my substrate?
I wanna bind you in your transition state.
I wanna hold you at your cleavage site,
Wont you let me be your catalyst tonight?
I promise I wont ever try to change you,
Only hold you with my glutamic acid residue;
No, I wont hydrolyse you and leave you bereft,
Ill just keep you safe inside my hydrophobic cleft.
Wont you let me show you my saturation kinetics?
Im conjugated, baby, let me show you my prosthetics.
My Michaelis-Menten constant isnt difficult to spot
If you know how to draw my Lineweaver-Burk plot.
Theres no need to dimerise to have a good time,
Oh baby, wont you let me be your only enzyme?
Yeah darling, take it slow, we dont have to be exact;
Lets work out an induced fit and then we can react.
What I Meant to SayIve never asked you,
never dared to ask you.
No, let us chatter, banter,
prod at each other with nipping fingertips,
like the nit-picking chimps
that cackle and rattle the bars of their cage;
we watched them and whispered
so like us, so like us,
admired that mad, projected arrogance.
Let us grin over our tea,
annoy the waitress as we argue
over theoretical physics and reality TV,
sitting in the vague warmth of our words
mixing with the steam.
How many miles have we walked side by side,
slipping over paving slabs
or racing the green man across the road?
We worked well together,
sounded right together
(we alliterated, for Gods sake);
we didnt need to bother being more than just us.
Its hard to tell if those miles stand for something;
maybe we both just happened
to be heading in the same direction.
You never saw the point in wo
What We Do with ConkersOctober was conker month;
we always waited a little too late
perhaps out of misplaced optimism
that winter was further than we thought
so that we had to search amongst the
curls of dead leaves, seeking stragglers,
squirrel-chewed and mucky.
It was a very typical sort of ritual:
all cycles of mother and daughter,
of seasons, and of soil
(for it all comes down to soil, in the end),
and, perhaps most importantly,
done only because it was
what we had always done.
And so we would scurry,
between the chestnut trees,
hunting for the spiny men
who squatted, brittle and embittered,
like stunted sea urchins
in amongst the leaf litter,
until, there, there, cowering
between the roots:
a sharp green blunted by age.
We put our weight on it,
rolled it, heel to toe,
until it split open,
a laughing, gaping mouth.
Now the gem itself
was plucked, primed,
the contour map of swirling browns admired
before being tossed abruptly
Your SkinOld woman, do you still stand naked in the mirror
just to see if this skin is really yours?
Do your eyes skim across that stiff paper bag of a body,
the prim beige of your flesh unwilling to be folded,
until you cannot bear the cold of your borrowed clothes,
and you redress in soft black curls
and teeth that are your own?
I know you darent look closer,
you wont risk leaping the fissures in your cheeks,
the cracks at the back of your knees.
You wrap yourself in prudence and cotton
because you cant leave your skin uncovered;
you cant watch the young lovers, the cycling through Paris,
the smiling girl and her proud mother.
You cant bear to see it, written in each wrinkle--
all the things that are over for you;
all the things that you chose not to do.
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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