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In which Jonathon Widdum hates his jobAs soon as I had entered the revolting place, I knew I had struck true. The raucous chatter I had heard from the street instantly quelled as the door swung shut behind me. The photographic stillness only lasted a moment as three of the patrons, all of whom I recognised, scraped back their chairs from about the room and stood in their own clumsy rushes to hurry to the door behind the bar.
My eyes fixed onto the tallest of the three, Lloyd Kovach. Just the man I was looking for. He had an awkward frame and this was severely detrimental to his escape. His own chair had toppled backwards as he stood and the man had instantly gotten his spiderlike legs tangled in it. He crashed down like a pylon in a dust storm with a yelp of utter surprise. (Knowing him, I can’t imagine how he remained shocked by his own clumsiness).
I sighed and strolled towards him, tired and exasperated, as he desperately kicked the chair away from himself. He looked over at me, cursed the chair and began crawling
A Heroic Attempt In LoveFinding words for you is the hardest act
But not quite, dear, a careful feat of tact
You see, sweetheart, what I’m trying to say
Is that you’re easy any time of day.
I’m not calling you a slut nor a whore!
I think you something easy to adore:
The wind to my wings if I were a bird,
Meringue to your pie, lemon to your curd.
You are water through my gills, sweetheart dear!
Bright moon; to your gravity I adhere.
Tidal breaths, you keep constant with no fear.
Yes, finding words for you it’s hard. In fact
Writing in iambs has left my mind cracked.
So I’ll come to rest with an easy line.
I love you, I trust you till the end of time.
Perfect FitThis was perfect. Marlowe had managed to silently gather all of the cushions and blankets in the room to curl up in without waking Morlax and now settled down with a satisfied grin on his face. The trickiest part was trying to teleport the other demon’s blanket and pillow from him without causing any disturbance. Fair enough, he’d caused the idiot’s head to collide rather violently with the stone floor when extracting the pillow but thankfully (and probably due to the thickness of his skull) it did not wake him.
A few peaceful minutes of relaxation had passed and Marlowe was just drifting off to sleep when he heard a mumble and a grunt and the sound of somebody sitting up. ‘Oh crap,’ Marlowe cursed to himself, ‘here he comes.’
“Marley!” He whined. “Let me in there!” His voice was even more grating than usual with the parched tone of tiredness.
Marlowe pulled his nest around him tightly, scowling against his pillow.
.The clean, deep, eternal colour encapsulates his hate
And he is hate, pure and defined.
His oil black crawls over my skin,
It's contours caressed by his passion for pain
And his intent violates every inch of my body.
In awe, stunned, I take him in
Like sweet smoke to turn my lungs to tar,
My heart to ash,
Leading my soul eight levels down to his erotic love for death.
Like a necrophiliac, he loves those he kills inside.
He loves me most of all;
Below himself of course.
Below him and welcoming his poison nectar
Clean, deep and eternal on my lips.
Glassware PinesMy fragile heart stands vigil
Searching out such soft, sublime majesty.
Alone in a forest of glass and ice;
Watching the curve of the pale earth/sky line,
Silent in its longing for your gentle glow.
Heart strings tugged in agony to your beating core.
Warm love, glistening on the delicate pines:
I adore thee.
Young LoveI was so young
when I first heard
the beats of my heart
pulse lightly upon my ribcage
My toothpick bones,
to the powerful palpitations
And I was still young
when I heard again
the throbs of my heart
pound forcefully upon my ribcage
My metal bar bones,
to the butterfly-wing beats
So you better hurry, boy
as my ribs are becoming
thick as steel
and you’ll soon need a metal cutter
to reach my heart
(And I don’t want to become damaged in the process of being loved).
how to love a girl who can't love herself.get lost under the sun, then
fight the break of dawn.
i am nothing in the dark,
so show me
walk with me,
to the secret place
where i met you
(those turquoise city dreams)
when the sun goes down,
when the moon shines,
(girl of the ocean, let's go
somewhere only we know.)
please, i beg you.
winter me gently, because the earth laughs in flowers, and
red red roses, they're so beautifully
from the back of my throat, i promisethe world is made of talking trees and cloudy water,
and the way you look at me
i'm no artist but i think i've painted your voice at the base of my neck
it's not something you can come back from
and tomorrow won't be a victory any more than it will be a loss
they don't make maps for a place like thisI'm stuck somewhere
between great rollings hills
and a sweet-calm sea,
but the air doesn't smell
of salt or dandelions.
Only this heavy
cloying breeze that sticks
in my throat and fills
my lungs with the sharp tang
of musk and pine
reminds me that I'm
not far from home. And
in the distance there
is a rolling clamor;
a whistle crying long and low.
But there are no signs,
Though I've wandered days
through this strange
traipsing across smooth plains
and sharp plateaus, I've
never crossed the
same path twice...
One thought rings true in
this foreign land:
dear, don't be alarmed
I only lose my bearings so thoroughly,
only become so
What Shall He Be?Oh what shall he be - the one to steal my heart?
Many a man is there in this vast world,
But what sort should I desire?
My sisters have oft said to see him in my thoughts.
To know him there and appease my dreams.
I am slow to act, for what reality could compare to a woman's dream?
But, alas, I do believe
That even I find myself dreaming of him now and again.
And so you ask, what sort of man is he?
Well listen close, for here I shall tell of what sort he would be:
He should be tall and graceful, elegant and fair;
With sweet golden locks of his curly hair.
And have blue eyes that sparkle in the light
Of the sun, bright, as does his smile shine.
His tender words and gentle touch
Would so sooth my heart and troubled mind.
His strong arms would hold me fast in the darkest nights
And chase away my fears 'til dawn.
His sweet lips would kiss me tenderly, lovingly just so.
He would have a heart of pure gold, and be loyal and good.
And looking into his eyes, he would see my soul
And I, giving my
to hell with goodwill (que sera sera)his tale-weaving tongue
tastes of crisp linen
drenched in bergamot
locked in by lips
of brown sugar that bubble
a blueberry melody
on his siren songs
drunken on an unearthly state
i drown my earl grey eyes
refusing to abandon the atrocity
that is his bedspread
his vesuvius temper
keep me on the verge of tears
on the ledge of limitations
i know all too well
i can never repel his touch
his gaze glazes over my beehive body
and i break open
raw and wild
sucking on the saccharine serendipity
of seeing this scene
in some long lost dream
his lambent limbs
though scathingly swollen
spread far and wide
such is my
i am peeled
past my quivering
he polishes and pencils
past my profanities
his life oeuvre is
to have me obliterated
come what may
the desolation of this delusion
will one day leave me
to inferno with goodw
My memories of my dearest youYou chased me all the way through the harbour port and caught me by my auburn pigtails. You told me they burned like the sun kissing the horizon goodbye as we sat on the deck catching our breath. My eyes tracked down the silhouette of your chest where your sheer garment rippled to translucency. I liked how your spine slouched into comfort and how the your silhouette shone in ethereal hue. And when my chapped lips rubbed into yours, somehow it bloomed to our own perfect splatters of colours.
I hope you still remember how our fingers entwined beneath the old palm trees. How the wind caressed my hair and you ruffled it as we kissed.
And how our cackling laughter blended to perfect cacophony at the old porch swing. I'll always notice your smile that lights my world like the crescent moon shines the earth.
I still remember our playful memories when we mischiefs ran around the thrift shop and you provoked me with our silly pictures in silly clothes.
Or our charming memories where you promise
Mild MarksLips coated red like apple skins,
the curvature of my mouth now ready
to clasp the contours of your refined neck.
But I am not your vampire, dear.
I am not the cunning young woman
anxious to deepen the craters
of your sun-kissed shell.
No - I am far too mortal for that.
And you are far too mortal for me.
My only wish is to let you escape
through the subtle caress of my character:
holding you, receiving you
like dusk receiving the stars.
My carmine borders gently staining
Awaiting the DawnThe silence that shrouds him every night is cold
Day's very own winter is as serene as the season itself.
Something so very vital, absent
Like the warmth of a full summer sun
Yearned for in barren months.
And here he lies mute and far from the sun kissed dawn,
Far from his symphony,
So far from a promised summer.
Lids fall over a searching gaze,
A lie so vital unwinds
But still the silence
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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