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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.
Silk RoadFor its currency
its soft shine
you find yourself
on the Silk Road.
Like a vein
that bisects you
yr. nature flowers
where sinners or
their avatars play.
Yr. sensitive hands
buy & sell drugs,
erotica, fake IDs.
You scuttle the world
wide web. They say
all roads lead to
the Silk Road &
it never ends.
MaryYou’re one of those cunning folk,
aren’t you Mary? Can you tell our fortune?
Mary, tell us our fortune. Mary –
your neighbour heard snatches of
piping last night, says you’ve dolls
in your house, and clever toys.
Mary, have you a bite on your body?
Let us see it. Have you been out buying pins
from the pedlar Tom Law? Show us your mark.
Mary, do you know Alice Gray?
Pinched and pricked with pins she was,
tongue lolling from her lips, screaming.
Or Liz Redferne? Flailed her arms
like a bird. Took a knife to herself, then
her father. A demon’s work. You’re familiar?
What’s that, Mary? There are no demons?
Then you deny the existence of God.
Mary, it’s a ducking for you my old lover.
IdolBy the Krispy Kreme donut stall
a flash of pallid puerile grins.
When you turn they scream a little.
You cross the street. The local busker
shrugs & starts picking your tune.
A zephyr plucks at your feathers.
Monday they’d stalked you round
Sunnyside snaking as one, emboldened
because you’re a shared experience.
Your Tweets set trends. You’re
six feet in a chicken suit but not
as dumb as you look; you read
Nietzsche, Schopenhauer. When
will they take you seriously? Sing
the chicken song they call & flap
their hands. A girl in a phone box
is mouthing your name. This morning
head tucked under a wing you were
crying for your Tesco life back,
to be hidden from the world’s eyes
as some spiritual masters are.
Friday Night at the Hilton Birmingham MetropoleHands linked, atop our chairs,
we're mouthing to Neil Diamond
each group an umbrella of light
& faces as the silver-tray-palmed
waiters roam. Champagne for the
happiest table! the DJ shouts.
Sweet Caroline, good times never
seemed so good. We have crossed
England, humped our suit bags
out the underpass. Then a wood,
an artificial lake. Took empty
rooms. Complimentary mini-bar,
salmon, second slice of Bakewell
tart for lunch; we’re only here
for the grub. Multi-channel TV
& the latest innovation, tilted
marble shelves for hand basins
to sluice the faucets’ spray.
Sweet Caroline, good times never
seemed so good. Next time
we enter the underpass
shall we again cast about like
Odysseus’ fame-weary shade,
for the lives of private men?
Girl in WindowThe first tubes were windowless Matt says.
Tower building. Weak sun. Snow due. We’ve
post-its, flip charts. A print on the wall
shows a girl in a lemon dress leaning out
a window. Her wrists are crossed, her eyes
shut. She’s wearing red lipstick.
We’re in groups. Last August, a technician
jumped to his death from this 8th floor room.
Below men pace, and smoke.
The post-its keep dropping off the flip charts.
Matt slaps them back on. We’re paying him
£500 a day someone said.
The girl on the poster is laughing. White
curtains flutter her bare arms. There is
a special providence in the fall of a post-it.
Matt’s been hired, someone said, because
the first tubes were windowless. A snow sky.
Matt’s laughing. We’re all laughing.
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Evil or kind?Negativity makes me smile
My poses and laughter
Suit the best villains
But I care so much about my friends
About their emotions and well being
And I always cheer them up
Am I evil?
Am I kind?
Maybe a little bit of both...
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
death of a sweet sixteeni found my house on
the market the
other day -
- it was 2011 again,
but the sun had set
on my nights of terror
nose to the barstool and
two black eyes, a dish
towel caught in my throat.
i keep trying to find
pieces of myself that
no longer exist - a dead dog,
baby blue walls, whispered
it sold for six figures,
and i can only wish
that i could sell my pain
for that much, but no
one would be willing to buy
it, as i am it's sole host,
the only one who
one of these days i will
drive by that sad eyed
grey house before we are
gone for good, and i will set
up with my camera, snapping
photos of my whitewashed hurt.
and if i linger too long,
so be it, as i've spent so
many nights ruined,
scraped away like the stars
once stuck on my
the bank may own my house,
but it will never own my heart.
A Cup of TeaCome on in and
Take a seat,
Sit with me a while
What you are and
Where you're from
Have a cup of tea,
Stay a while
To learn about you,
To know you
Your pain and
I will listen
Reveal to me
Your origin and
I will accept you
For you are me
You are my demon,
A part of myself,
I will never reject you
Care for a second cup?
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
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.
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More