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ShamanJuniper twigs pop in an iron stove.
She spills shots of vodka into teacups
between his lips pokes a lit Camel.
Spirits speak if you pay. You pay?
A flatscreen simmers; he chain-smokes.
Where he shifts his robe, blue cords.
His saddle is a horse-skin drum.
Midday, the Horse Hour, he packs it
in his Citroën, sparks the engine.
Spring. Hilly grasslands a blank sheet.
She churns wine with sheep’s blood,
drapes flags from staves. Flags for the sky,
the clouds, the earth. The sky is white.
Every mountain has a spirit. Meat for the fire.
Distant, the boxy city, strip-mines, plants.
He’s drum-slapping, crying, stamping reindeerskin
boots. On the wind, fistfuls of confetti.
Blue manSprawled on the rim
of a Florence fountain
a blue man, naked,
his feet just shy of the ground
enquiring head tilted
old woodland revels
perhaps in mind,
the girls quaffing dark wine
the antic prancing,
it sprinkled the hills.
We had quit our city jobs,
were shepherds in Arcadia
perfecting our lonely songs
under broad beech canopies,
sat careless in the shade
with time on our hands.
Or, as we lay fleece-
swaddled under Orion,
he’d mutter to us
of future merriment,
his coarse tongue
making the leaves blush.
A blue man in a square
of citrus stone,
now he is lodged here,
just shy of the ground
his splayed hooves
caught in a dance step
the fountain jets
Paper planeHe must have found a way to make
clean energy - metal-framed chairs, desks
shrieking, light strips fusing, windows
ripped out as the prefab classroom
came unfixed from the ground.
Even the sky is misunderstood,
its anaemic drizzle giving way
to blue seams, gulls, a Boeing 747;
its passengers crane to watch the hut
fly. Was it the windmills,
thin blades spinning, that propelled it?
A paper plane he’s folded, and
blank A4 sheets adrift on the wind,
now the room is a honey jar
of sunshine, a glint
on the horizon.
The CageDark cranes hike the city skyward.
Someone shouts. A spray of swallows
queries smatterings of blue air.
In shadow the future sprawls behind
him, atop a wall, palms in his lap.
This isn’t what he asked for but
they’re building it bar by iron bar,
a kind of cage to keep him, your son.
Already he is less happy than an hour
ago, & you, you were never able
to explain why they had flung whole
forests into the pit they called
their hearts. They still hungered.
Evening’s cloudy embers cool;
he spurns your raw cheer & you’ve
started to assert again that this is
what he asked for, this is paradise.
The TrickHe’d shown up smiling,
claimed he’d quit the Prozac,
squatting in the box room upstairs,
wired to his iPod
while the semi juddered:
Beyoncé, a group capering
in the chilly garden.
This was a year after mum died.
Unable to confound that natural law
Jake had given up on magic,
his card decks, tricks, crystal ball
zipped into hold-alls, dumped.
I step outside, join the others.
Drink, dance; it does no harm.
When, glancing, high on
the extension roof, he’s strolling
into deep air. Floating.
A fakir. Those few seconds
gifting me belief.
The Year of Living DangerouslyDon’t ever come back! she yelled
clutching a damp baby that had quit
screaming to eyeball me. Who was she
expecting when she dashed downstairs,
swung the door open on a London
Wildlife Trust cold caller? I click
the gate shut, stroll on to the next
house. And suddenly you fill my mind,
your voice, your nameless face.
Back in ’88 you asked me the time
despite the wall clock I pointed out.
I thought you too obvious for me then.
The sky is an explosion of lava,
the pause button pressed, raw and
deeply serious, an artist’s dolor.
I want to be somewhere else, playing pool,
a stack of pound coins on the table,
or smoking behind the petrol station.
Some things, only years later, you regret.
No-nameOaks loaded with snow
a purple-robed geisha passes,
wagasa gripped, hokkaido
scuttling at her heels.
The river is frozen
and the bridge where we met.
Thatched huts on the bank
all brume and light,
snow sky threshed,
beating at faces, names.
We slip off our names.
Parallel livesEach morning a sparrow at his window,
a plucky rude scrap hustling crumbs.
In his copper high-buttoned tub he soaks.
God has always been hard on the poor.
Departing the Hôtel de Providence,
Plutarch on her mind, she stops to buy knives.
Angels take many forms her father said.
She has powdered her hair, changed her corset.
The rich are a scab. One must claw an itch.
He spools his vinegar-drenched bandana.
Each morning a sparrow at his window.
He is the just anger of the people.
She’s an agent in a stranger’s bathroom
reciting names. The window is ajar.
He is sponging his red skin. He is listening.
He believes in the cutting off of heads.
Angels take many forms her father said.
He has studied the effect of light on bubbles.
She is talking, hand on corset. She too
believes in death. Help me, my dear friend.
In SanityI find myself in a world of white,
This place it feels so pure.
The Sun's rays are warm and bright
I've never felt so sure.
I explore the land and all its sights,
I enjoy the world's grand tour.
I wander around until the night
Shows what it has in store.
In the darkness, a speck of light
Reveals a hidden door.
I turn the handle and peer inside,
A sight I can't endure.
I turn to run, to escape my plight,
I dare not to explore.
But something inside catches my eye,
I can't resist the lure.
I awake to find myself tied tight,
A voice tries to assure,
"This one may finally fix you right,
Maybe this is the cure."
Ακόμα μόνος του΄
περιπλανιέται εδώ και εκεί,
μα πάντα επιστρέφει,
αλλού δε βρίσκει καταφύγιο.
τόσο αδύναμος που κανείς δεν τον πιστεύει.
Ακολουθεί τα περιστ&
BloodRunning away, again and again through the years
Moving from white square to black and back
Packing and unpacking things without meaning
Carrying them from here to there religiously
The doctor says there’s nothing wrong, but still
I’m up at three, drinking coffee, coughing up blood
Watching the same old ghosts watching me
I don’t have to pack them when I move, they follow
A cannibal who’s eaten everyone around him
I’ve turned on myself now, three toes already gone
Watching the lights of the modem blink yellow
No connection; another cough, another coffee alone
CarcinogensMy hands smell
like antiseptic solution
and cancer, because
the peroxide won’t
cleanse your cigarette
ashes from my nails,
and the cremation
jar is still smoking.
kafka has been dead foreveri.
I am going to cut the veins out of my neck:
pull the stars from the legiments
drown the cities in bruises
I am going to burn in hell:
tear down the pyramids, the faces, the continents
the weight of the universe
(if I live to be 20
I will know the landscape of my mind
as well as the bottom of the ocean
& people I've never met)
Asperger SyndromeAsperger Syndrome is awesome.
Asperger Syndrome is cool.
Asperger Syndrome rocks.
People with Asperger Syndrome are sweet but not that outgoing.
People with Asperger Syndrome have their interests.
People with Asperger Syndrome have their pet peeves too.
People with Asperger Syndrome are quirky.
People with Asperger Syndrome sometimes have other problems too.
People with Asperger Syndrome have feelings.
People with Asperger Syndrome are people too.
Pop Rocksbeads of roman sweat and dust
lace the wind like meth into pop rocks—
feel the fizzlepop of history flamenco
across your justahuman tongue
and wonder why your professor never
lectured on the strawberry tang
of crusaders' sloshed blood.
Spell to summon a phoenixThe common trickster will declare
the phoenix is a bird of flame. Not so.
How can mere flame survive death?
The phoenix I tell you is imagination's
gift: you cannot conjure what you cannot
dream. To the crossroads take rubies
finely ground. Where earth's secret
vapours rise, toss a pinch of this dust.
If your spirit lacks the necessary fire,
some other bird may heed your call.
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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