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About Literature / Student Member David20/Male/United Kingdom Groups :iconbiblioclasts: Biblioclasts
Blunt trauma meets cloud nine.
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Swag - For my girls

Journal Entry: Sun May 13, 2012, 3:33 PM

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Mambo No. 5

Oh hot damn this tune.

One, two, three, four, five, everybody in the community come on let's jive.....

To the, lit treasure around the corner.

The boys say they want scripts and prose but I really don't wanna.

Writer's Block like I had last week.

I must stay deep 'cause talk is cheap.

I like Amber, Sarah, Steph and Priya.

And as I continue, you know the read's sweeter.

So what can I do? I really beg, yeah I implore.

To me reading is just like a sport.

These girls write, it's good, let me dump it.

Please set it in the trumpet.  

:thumb265378124: MigrationThe Cairns Birdwing butterfly pinned out looks like a Rorschach inkblot. Over Father's shoulder, I see her, the girl from the restaurant, in the collection of colours, in the warning sign eye wings.
Momentarily I slip back to being a child, and press my ear to his neck. I can hear the furious pulse of his heartbeat chiming through his skin. I lift my head. Though, the butterfly has long lost its pulse and flutter. I will the wings to move. Break free, break free.
Father with his bowed leg and upper lip moustache is careful with the box frames. Pasting the piece of card to its wooden backing, he closes the hinge and is cautious not to smudge the glass front with his fingers.
'Look at that lady, isn't she a beaut?' Father smooths a cloth over the front of the glass.
'Have ya got a name?' he asks, wiping his hands.
I can't remember how to pronounce her name, Nada, Nadia, something beautiful. She is the girl at the restaurant, the one I have been sneaking out to see. The one I want to kiss

metamorphosisHe's caught the green bug
and the shape of him stumbles,
wound up and resounding like a spring;
a tumbling flower, or a man in heat deseated
who's caught the green bug like rain on the tongue.
Now he's coiled tit to thigh, skin twitching like a gadfly
and shaping a rare round amen to the sob of it,
the sheer glorious throb of it: the dirty thumb
pressing on the seeds in spring, the storms
and showers working hour to hour
at the nonsense of being
while down in the garden
his body becomes a boyish stamen
and aiming between the eyes of the sky
he splits himself, spitting aphids and sucking
at the ground, the euclidian sway of his petals
hounding for water, begging for sound: he settles
and stops in the earth, all naked and green.
He cannot tell the round arse of a tulip
from the sun. No, he cannot run,
and the mayflies are dying
one by one by one.

Snapping Your StrawbonesThe incessant clobbering against mirror-lined ribs,
glazes over the sound of her sighs;
he becomes wedged between her glassy collar bone,
fingers tearing into dissipative skin.
Her collarbone is an exhibit to him,
his fingers tracing patterns over it;
he is tearing out her soul.
Then the pain begins.
She is baffled by why she enjoys this.
Grating murmurs strangle her ears
as he discreetly takes each column of her coiled spine.
Serpentine words dangle from his jackal lips:
"I'm only snapping your strawbones, my dearest."
"Those lips could tell a thousand lies,"
She whispers under his ruffled hair.
"You truly wouldn't treat anyone else like this."
She never wants this to end.
Eyes of origami canter across splintered lips
while their foul mouths create a train wreck of saliva.
His artificial admiration weights each syllable,
as she begs, "Just once more."

A little bit of Nicki in my life,

A little bit of Erika by my side.

A little bit of Lian's all I need,

A little bit of V is all I see.

A little bit of Solarune in the sun,

A little bit of Emily all night long.

A little bit of Sara here I am,

A little bit of you makes me your man!!!!!!!!

Damned If You Do...Hey, you.  Yeah, you.
Don't mind the glowing skin.  It's a side effect of what I do; too many radioactive neutrons and you start to look a bit green.
Y'know the Fukushima reactor?  The one that blew in March?  Yeah, I'm working on clean-up.
Don't move away! God, if I were dangerous, I wouldn't be allowed to walk around!  What, you think the government's stupid or something?  ...Maybe I should rephrase that, but fuck it.
Okay, look, I see yer scared.  But you don't got to worry.  I'm built for this kinda thing.  See--this is gonna get a little technical, but here goes.
I call myself Captain Boron, but that's because the papers demand a flashy name for anyone with powers.  I never really expected to become newspaper-worthy, and honestly, if you see any mention of me, it'll be buried on page 6, if at all.  I'm not flashy like Aurum--the woman with the Midas touch--or flammable lik

A Kaleidoscope of HeartsDear you,
If this letter's aspect resembled its content, it would be a kaleidoscope. All the letters reflecting light in a different way and clinkclinkclinking in a waterfall of verses to form any of the shapes a human heart can have, cracking apart only to pull themselves together fractions of a second afterwards into a more complex, rich, pulsing version.
And if I could stop and pick each of them like cards from a deck, I would ask you of all the hearts you have created for yourself and the memories that, sewn in the insides of each of them, still affect me today.
I have so many doubts, dear you. I wish I were still at an age when drawing hearts to substitute  my own worked in keeping it safe from harm, safe from pain. Even if so many of them were broken, stolen, or lost and never found their way back; even if you gave a few away and were given a few that you didn't really care about, even if some flicker by so fast that I can't remember what they looked like after
Four-Letter PoemsWe try to recombine each other,
to overwrite the coding of us constantly-
yet I've never been good at Scrabble
And I can't make poems out of four letters,
(not alone).
Hackers, we've corrupted this sourcecode
Attaching and removing strings
So long and repeteadly it feels like forever;
And now and then it is
Like we're decorating a Christmas tree
But we lost all sense of beauty.
we have tried. I feel my insides
A festival of scars and tentatives of surgery;
enzymes, our guests, look for those special seats that
Have a name and a shape fitting them only.
And they will cut up their fabric and
tear apart their old, tired cushions.
And pull out the fluffy beauty from inside them,
"We're just modernizing them a bit!".
And I will look at you, my so-called love
Through eyes crying aminoacid chains;
but I've never been good at Scrabble, so
you unmade and rebuilt all my four-letter poems.
The beauty and the wonder of
Nitrogenous base sequences,
You nitpicked the best restriction e

StayHe doesn't know her very well. He really doesn't.
But he wants her. He wants her like –
-like, for example, he stayed online until one in the morning, until he saw the little green bubble next to her name, telling him she's there, and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
She makes him laugh.
He makes her blush, and loves when she does it, how she hides her face in her hair, and dimples crease her cheeks.
She says things he doesn't even have to ask her to say, because she just knows. She knows he's as insecure as everyone else is, but the thing is, she doesn't mind.
He knows her heart is glass, and he doesn't want to hurt her, he really doesn't, but when there's an ocean and miles and miles and miles, it's inevitable.
He knows there's more than one way to break someone's heart. And she knows this, too, but at least he won't have to be around to see it happen.
But he wants her like sleep. He hasn't slept like this in so long.
She makes him sleep and sleep and stay.
StockingsAdam saw Lisa on the outbound E line every weekday morning at 8:42. At first, Adam never spoke to the woman with the black high heeled boots and red lipstick. He thought she was just another glamazon headed uptown to work in some high paying job that required little actual labor. The day he saw the run in her stockings was the day everything changed.
The woman sat down across from Adam, demurely crossing her legs and flashing him a cursory close-lipped smile. Adam nodded in greeting and returned to his paper. Two-and-half stops and one sports section later, he glanced up, noticing the hem of the woman's coat had ridden further up her knee, exposing a thin run in her stockings. She saw him looking and uncrossed her legs, pulling her hem back down.
"They're old," she explained, "I can't seem to scrape together enough money to buy new ones."
Adam nodded. Perhaps he'd misjudged her. He felt a bit friendlier towards this woman with the boots and the lipstick and the run in her stockings.

31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed
my balcony is shaped
like wings
and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb
and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men
build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons
where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown
where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
cannot crane
Halcyone and CeyxOh, lovely
to soar the tempest-ridden sea
and bring it to peace –
oh, beautiful – beautiful.
Ruthless winds and waves,
will you clasp the fair king to your heart,
swaddle him in sweet nepenthe green,
and torment the patient queen
with the vanity of waiting?
Red poppies in your hair, my love,
and silver dust on your limbs…
Morpheus will tell you of the sea
and the besieged king, Ceyx,
who awaits Halcyone – breathlessly –
And she watched his black curls
twine 'round as the sea unfurls,
- and beckons – and swiftly –
saltwater coils around her ankles
but she has eluded the sea and the gods have mercy.
Oh, lovely
halcyons at solstice calming the frost, rage-sea,
oh, beautiful, beautiful…

HubrisThe world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm
AntesWe are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.

We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-strong, not spell-strong.
The Pack closed in. The youngest drew first blood, hissing. Wait, the running-Hunter hissed in simple-speak, but the Pack would not wait after a wounding, and they sprang upon him; yet his flesh was familiar. The youngest shrieked as the blood on her claw turned black. It was not running-Hunter blood, but spell-bloo

Self-Esteemcan't help but trace my fingers on the edge
stick my pinky in the razors
seeping candy and tears and smiles
I can see them watching me
through the shattered spiderweb
they watch me giggle and watch me rain
surrounded by the shark's mouth
anyone who gets too close gets a slash at best
and at worst their arteries turn into gashes
and the sky turns red at morning
they can't hurt me from out there
not without losing blood
but I love the taste of injury
only I can hurt myself
Cybergenesis Project: A SonnetAlone, up high above the spinning world;
A being was born from many years of pain:
It was a single, brand new life, unfurled
From one woman whose heart was cruelly slain.
To fill the hole inside, she handmade life.
But then a thousand more were made per day.
So from her lifelong work came only strife.
The one she made herself was sent away.
The thousands left alone to rot in space
Felt hatred grow inside their twisting wires.
So they returned, reclaimed their rightful place.
A trillion humans burned in androids' pyres.
    But though, for cruelty, humanity paid,
    A lone woman was then, in steel, remade.

Drop it like it's hot.

I'd do all to

Fall in love with a girl like you.

Cause you can't run and you can't hide.

You and me gonna touch the sky.

You're all special.
Apologies to my girls I left out.

  • Listening to: Lou Bega
  • Reading: All of this fine writing

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Add a Comment:
raspil Feb 15, 2014   Writer
wtf have you been up to
(1 Reply) (1 Reply)
Earlier discussion aside, I enjoy your writing style. :)
akkajess Jun 19, 2013  Student Writer
Happy birthday! :cake: :party:
Happy birthday! :party:
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