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Those Traffic Light Eyes Are MineI walk through the dark
in absence of traffic
up to some temporary traffic lights,
and they wave at me -
red, to amber, to green,
only I'm not a car, I can't say that I checked
in the mirror this morning but
I'm pretty sure
I didn't turn Terminator overnight.
So I take this as a sign
that even machines can feel
lonely, and I walk by
not looking out the corner of my eye,
not smiling, not even offering
the mention of a good day,
in the knowledge that others
feel exactly like me.
Gambling On My Woman, The Fruit MachineI seem to spend these days
to make you cry.
Your eyes are lemons,
or limes, or oranges, or
many other kinds of fruit
dependent on your eye shadow choice
for that day.
And I keep pulling your arm
down, up, and down,
punching in nickels
and dimes like an insult,
just waiting to hit -
where your eyes are so juicy
that I want to lick
your flavorful face
so that you'll calm down and
we can start the process
all over again.
The Human ConditionI saw an old man
sat on the side of the street
his grubby hand outstretched with a cup
and a sign: Dreams don't come cheap,
I reached down
ready to offer him some money
but he turned his cup away
said, "I think you'll need that more than me buddy".
At that age
at the naive innocence of the number thirteen
I gave no thought to the beggar,
of his words, of what they may mean,
but now that I'm older,
perhaps wiser, and see the difficulties of living in this world,
I am thankful for the money the beggar saved me
as it could go towards a sandwich, a coffee, or even sex with a filthy girl;
So I went to find him, to thank him,
and low and behold he was still in the same spot, sitting there
with his dirt brown jacket, fingerless gloves,
and his greasy, knotted, long unwashed hair,
and I asked him after all of this time,
after all of this begging, whether he had ever found his dreams,
"Yeah kid," he said,
"every night, when I go to sleep."
I walked away kicking the curb
A Heart Attack and a Hot NurseEvery once in a while
I get this
piercing my bubble wrap chest
as if someone
were ripping open my body
to get to
the good stuff inside.
I want to fall to my knees,
lift my arms to the space satellites
and sign to God, praying,
no-one should suffer this
please...just numb my pain.
And then the pain fades away
like an unmemorable song
in a bar where you didn't meet your wife,
and I don't know
if the cause is love, or
I guess I will never know.
Playing Strangle The Internal OrganI arrive
after the addicts have haggled
over the strength
of their drug medication,
while the real mental cases
in dreges, their care cash for the week
weighing down their trouser pockets.
And I sit next to an old lady
I can tell she's trying to figure out
what is wrong with me, and me,
I've already got her figured out; She's old.
The doctor calls me
into her private torture room
and tells me that I look like
I'm disappearing, I laugh
but she is probably right.
I wonder if one day
I'll become so thin
that my head will shrink
and my eyes will rest on my shrunken brain
so I can see all the ideas
that a person has been unable to tap into -
I step onto the scales,
the needle writhes through
the sugar white, landing
on the vanilla pod numbers,
the weight of a dozen eggs,
oh God, I'd kill for a cake right now.
"I could tell by looking at you
that your weight had dropped" she says
and I smile at her,
just who knew that I had a fucking psychic
for a doctor,
In The Presence of Death"A child should always bury their parents"
my mum says to me
over a half-finished plate of dinner
so cold that the wisps of heat have started to whisper
callous things in their sleep.
"The way that you're going,
you'll be dead before me"
she says and I nod in agreement
not noticing the tears bobbing like ducks
on the pond of her eyes.
I don't notice her sadness
not because I am tired
(although I am),
not because I am violently starved
(although I am),
not because I am ignorant
(although we all are),
I don't notice her sadness
because my head is displaced
in a land of wonderment,
just who, who in their morbid mind
writes a rule book on dying
and who should be burying the dead?
The room falls silent in mourning
this week's little lecture is officially at its end,
she collects the dishes
the knives scraping the plates throat
as she pushes the leftovers away,
and I smile to myself
imagining the bin to be a coffin
and as the lid hits shut
I mutter under my breath:
"Rest in pea
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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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