Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Deviant Member Brent21/Male/Isle of Man Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 200 Deviations 1,252 Comments 11,435 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Activity


      Rorschach blots
fickle tears onto diner napkins.
he can’t seem to bleach out the
tessellated piss stains on his
jeans: this one is a dog, that
one is every drip of vision
he could never catch
at second glance
                          the patio umbrellas
float like gondolas in the
beerbuzzing phosphorescence;
the taverns emptied hours
ago and nobody paddled home.
they’re too awake, half-drowned
from the undulating ink
                                 he scrubs
his legs with wet paper, scrunched in
the toilet where he and Freud met
to lock moth’s wings to butterfly
lips; behind each other’s backs
they paved the stall walls with lady
bugs and hibiscus petals and Zheng
He masks
              the stain with his shirt,
double-knotted at the waist. outside,
the sot-sodded patios have drifted
into the streets. he swims home,
careful not to bare his stains
to the ink.
ink tests
Happy Wednesday, everybody.
Loading...
When days take root in monochrome disdain,
that rusty glaze, in lieu of life or light,
returns to rot my ashen frame, and I
am spurned as if a candle on a shelf
to wither wher or not my wick wisps flame--
my cotton crown to weather down my self.

My purpose pales in moments of disuse:
were I not wove and waxed to burn and blush?
Yet still I sit, unlit, on books and muse
to anchor down these words I cannot touch.
Wanly warm on my worn winter holder,
ablaze or bare, I was birthed to smolder.
Candled
Canzone, I suppose. Was going to make it into a sonnet, but counting is difficult. 
Loading...
I've never seen your vacancies before
So show me every bed that you call yours
A latch, a lock, a light by every door
A chance to leave our bodies on the floor

Let's call our friends up; rip the walls apart,
Desolation was your finest art.
So finish what you never thought to start,
And tear me to shreds, tear me to shreds, rip me apart

But when you say that you're not okay
Don't step into the hallway to get away,
We can tell ourselves we'll never leave anymore
And leave the "DO NOT ENTER" sign hanging on the door
We're locked in suites, babe, but in the end,
despite the favors and calls we send
Never were we given a home to fend;
we're both just visitors.

And they call to us from the balcony,
"Oh you don't look so alright."
Is that bad?
Do I look less than thrilled in the
frill of these flourescent lights?
Do the glasses make me still look seventeen?
Oh, why question what's never seen?

But your face, your skin, your lips, they just don't suit me
Would I let them if I could? Oh, absolutely.
Introduce me
to the side of you that roams the corridors
when you've decided that there are fates worse than being bored

The pills ran out 3 nights ago,
and I'm too tired to fight
My head's been gone for ages 'cause
These walls are just too bright.
Draw the curtains or what's left of them
don't catch the neighbors' sight
they'll make prisoners of us again--
the visitors tonight.

We're both just visitors tonight.
We're both just visitors tonight.
We're both just visitors tonight.
We're both just visitors tonight.

(Can we still
make the kind of love we did on our honeymoon
Were you scared?
Am I asking all these questions way too soon?
Are you there?
I'm alone, but are you there?)




I held vigils on
my matress spread for the ways
you never loved me



These ain’t the streets they showed me. No,
These ain’t the signs I’m looking for
and all these storefront shoppers tell me
that I’m wasting my time
that’s true and even so I’m
looking for a sidewalk to climb

You took the time I needed to
Unravel all the reasons you
Were just another pretty face
and not another talking head
You warmed your hands up on my back
And shoved my fingers in the ice
I just want to taste the threading of your bedspread
Oh, wouldn’t it be nice?  





i always had a thing
for girls with "k" names
and every word in
the dictionary between
"tenacious" and "tentative"




Before, you found your fingertips a gate--
Their ridges wrought to cauterize your curse.
Betrayed, bestraught, your lips innately pursed
To cage and crave your mind, its stagnant state
Worn weary by the thoughts it would create.
And driven mad by masochistic thirst,
You'd swill the ink you'd spill each time you'd burst,
Believing this to be your only fate.
In softness as unspoken as your name,
I listen, for to hear the low and trill
Emerging from your lips, lurid and stained
With ink, its tint pooled in each ridge--each rill
An image, so pernicious yet so pained,
So intricate, and ordinary still.




Worn white paint
Sheathing the walls to which you speak
Worn white paint
Cracks and chips to cover and taint.
Holes abounding—gaped, culled, bleak--
In which I wish my greys could leak;
Worn white paint.  




I’m falling,
I’m falling.
I’m tripping down transient stairs
I’m tumbling past what’s just not there




Your skin dissolved on April 6th
and left, above your boutonnière,
a nook about a finger’s width
to fit a knot on April 5th

You hollowed out on April 6th,
Your boney lattices left bare
Holed up
To hold off back on April 5th




I STAVE OFF AGAINST THE CURRENT
(WEAK AS IT IS THIS MONTH)
LIKE A FLAMINGO WITH A BROKEN ANKLE
AND EVERY EXCUSE TO NEVER
PICK ITS HEAD UP FROM THE ROCKS
IN THE STREAMBED

SUNFLOWERS, AND THE OCCASIONAL
RENAISSANCE ITALIAN
PHALLUS ARE ADORED FOR THEIR
CROOKED POSES, EACH
FLICK THEY FLAIL IN THE WIND

SO WHY AM I UGLY
WHEN I CAN’T STAND UP STRAIGHT

I AM THE KING OF THE LEANERS—
I’VE TAUGHT A HANDFUL OF WILTED SOULS
HOW TO SPIN LIKE A LEAF IN
AN EDDY, BUT NOT TO SINK AND
TO BREATHE WITHOUT JOSTLING
THE LIMBS OF THEIR TREEFINGERS

I’VE



I am the king of leaners
kill all of your leaders
your self-served, verved
Self-deemed self-defeater
I don’t believe myself either,
Turn the floor mites into tube feeders
with misfires and mental misdemeanors
please leave nothing on the way out,
there’s no way this can pay out
empty your pockets of promise
and providence—this is  





She wrestles on her polycarbon studded pussy-highs
For a foxtrot down the alley, argon flooded on its tiles
And all the augmentations bristle on their juveniles
The droids, cowboys, and slaves can’t see a damn thing in her eyes

Don’t slip into the corner of your octagons
She’s not about it, she’s a runaway who’s run too far around it

Here comes Molly Millions, boy
She’s a thrill, you know
When her blades deploy
Here comes Molly Millions, boy
She’s the laser show
She’s the

I met her in the corner




My curiosity simmers over
the chasms in your tongue,
rising with the heatwaves
that melded to your velveteen taste
like sunrays to the sands

but there’s no oasis
in your mouth, no gold-
dusted heron flying down the lengths of your
dunes toward something
more than the sweat and saliva
ravines lining the trough of your
jaw.

you brought me here,
sunbather,
to feel the sandstone
scales crusted over
Ozymandias’ pockmarks
after the plague,




I met a man like me today
who wore his wings wrapped 'round his neck
hung in the most peculiar way
to hide his dings and his defects
but spread across his arms
cheap tattoos and track mark scars
needled in by matchbox cars,
stitched back up with patchjob tar
that cracks apart with every truck to pass.
How you think we're ever gonna last?

On 44th she mobilized
to empty out her '45,
but not before she stepped aside
and set her sights between my eyes,
but then I grabbed her gaze--
haze of hazel mapped a maze
that emptied at her lipstick's glaze
and dripped down to her hips, for days.
Which one--her or the gun--to break my glass?
How you think I'm ever gonna last?



And I'm retracing every drawn-on face
Rearranging every smile you fake
I'll rename the chasms you create,
Oh Saturday, Oh, Saturday.



Mama always prayed for rain
on June evenings; I tried to
catch her words before they
drifted through the parched skies;
I tried

But when the



Mama always prayed for rain on June evenings, on the days when the sky glowed with the color of dead grass and burning pines. No knee-grounded, 5-minute committals to saving the water table (which was consistently low at the beginning of every summer), but a simple utterance or two as she passed through the kitchen to catch a glance out the screendoor.
“Lord, bring the rain,” accompanied by a quick flick of whichever hand didn’t tether the laundry basket to her breast. His usual response, a pregnant stream of light through the kitchen windows no brighter than the stream before. “Huh” she’d tut, between annoyance and enjoyment of the Lord’s sense of humor--the same sick logic that would occasionally haul the son from behind a cloud after one of her requests. One those instances she’d tut twice, the sort of “uh-HAH” you’d expect from somebody who’s gotten the joke everyone else is still trying to catch onto.

“I bet those clouds are really easy to roll when there ain’t any rain in them,” she’d blaspheme. She liked to keep her sacrileges down to sass, save for the occasion of dropped dish or disappointing report card.




Ramiel, I’m in a state of decay.
What is it like to feel okay?
Glass thrown across all the cars in the streets;
Nothing is ugly when nobody sleeps.




Are we here again?
‘cause sometimes I can’t tell
You’re shivering and I want no more
Than to tell you it’s fine
You tripped again
But keep on telling yourself you fell
We ain’t ourselves again
But sometimes that’s alright, alright?

This ain’t a race to who
can place their own discomforts the best
when we can’t face ourselves,
what’s it even matter?
I’ve gone through all your on
But what the hell’s that helping solve
Let’s let these levees fall
And make us both feel better





motherfucker wrote the most
hard-headed hamfisted
heavy-handed handle-tongued
thorn-on-the-heel-of-hermes
horny hungry half holy
head like an unwhole hole
songs

till he got married

then he traded all the
succor substitutions for
sober restitutions to a fate
he never leased
nor deserved, as he (or it)
told himself time and time again
modicums/reparations (scraps)
I haven't finished a single thing since like May. Here are a lot of half-baked, very unfinished (with one exception) scraps mostly from over the summer (arranged chronologically). Some of these are pieces from further back that just happened to be equally as unpolished or undone. I'd like to continue working on a few of these, while some others I'd like to pretend don't even exist.
I know I've been quiet recently; hopefully you're not as confused by the silence as I am. 

Took this out of scraps because I'm an asshole who wants to take up space in your inbox. 
Loading...
My knee hurts. 

deviantID

Bluezbreakr's Profile Picture
Bluezbreakr
Brent
Isle of Man
Shoot me a message. Fuck a bio; let's converse.
Interests

AdCast - Ads from the Community

×

Friends

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconirrevocablefate:
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2014   Writer
HAPPY BIRTHDAY. <3
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconcelestialmemories:
CelestialMemories Featured By Owner Aug 30, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
LuminescentRayne's dad is in anonymous

He told LuminescentRayne that himself. 
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconhindehindu:
Hindehindu Featured By Owner Edited Aug 7, 2014
MWAH!:D (Big Grin) 
Reply
(2 Replies)
:iconirrevocablefate:
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2014   Writer
:hug:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconscourge1212:
scourge1212 Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2014
hello
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconintricately-ordinary:
intricately-ordinary Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
a steak pun is a rare medium well done
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconintricately-ordinary:
intricately-ordinary Featured By Owner May 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
There was a man who entered a local paper's pun contest. He sent in ten different puns hoping at least one of the puns would win but, unfortunately, no pun in ten did.
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconintricately-ordinary:
intricately-ordinary Featured By Owner May 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I WONDERED
WHY
THE BASEBALL WAS GETTING
   B I  G    G    E    R


then it hit me.
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
intricately-ordinary Featured By Owner May 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
did you hear about the guy who's whole left side got cut off

HE'S ALL RIGHT
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
intricately-ordinary Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
was einstein's theory good
relatively
Reply
(1 Reply)
Add a Comment: