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A story about loss
Trigger Warnings: depression and suicide
I've been turning this story in my head for so long now, not knowing where to begin. A story is formulated, structures set down, a beginning and an end laid out, neat and tidy. I have been waiting for something to happen that will signify the end of a chapter, an event with a moral so I can sum up what I have learned and go away sated and happy. But the punchline, the climax, the whatever-it-is has not yet occurred, and I'm starting to realise what I'm waiting for might never arrive.
Nevertheless I need to write this as a narrative, even if it isn't a very good one, because I find drawing lines around the perimeter of my life to be very useful. It allows me to see the significant things - the extreme ups and downs that break up an otherwise straight line of everyday existence - as symbolic, a part of a grander conclusion, pieces with sense and meaning like they are contributing to character development or an overarching plot. I
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 1 0
Two years later
You don't miss him, as much as
Having a picture in your wallet
To talk about.
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 5 1
For anyone who has ever fallen in love despite knowing better.
I didn't know the rules, stranger to this
3AM cappuccino and invertebrate hours business, but,
The blinds are half open; the sky looks like twisted concrete, the clouds compound fractures,
And I am learning the eloquence of double beds
Like this:
Weighted warmth, cradled in the crook of your spine,
Feline and divine,
Sleeping ways in disarray, pillows pooled upon the floor,
With the light shyly wandering in
Cream from the curtains, like a conspirator.
I was born at fourteen from
The metal womb of this city,
And my lymph still runs black with gun oil and polish.
This place sustains me, preserving; I am its festering parasitic disease,
Its vigilant, malignant white blood cell cancer.
I see dusk as a progression of bruises, the sun a cigarette
Burn on stretched-out, tired skin. I am
Too pale for my profession
Of melting down human shadows, so that they will
Be human
When you raised a hand, reac
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 9 6
We call it the Green Dream, said the old man, and laughed. His eyes were crescents and the protruding vein on his baldness was a sign of experience.
The small circle of students shuffled forward in their seats; left their conscience hanging on the backrests. Death saturated this small room - this whole facility - but without a word prompt it had been unpalpable. A bad taste, merely. A lingering smell. Now, mental images of clinical cleanliness made the eyes of every young one grey, while the old man continued to smile and adjust his vest to hear the pockets rattle.
Death - he said, and it sounded like a challenge - will become an unavoidable part of your lives.
So you better learn to deal with it, rang his voice above the frozen quadreped corpses thenafter, as the students snapped second skins onto their hands and prepared their instruments. After getting over the initial confrontation of a black, lolling tongue, or unclosed eyes the colour of pearls, it was actually easy
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 4 1
Put on a pair of surgical gloves. Reflect. This is how you lose yourself. Ego. Inflate. You care for no one. Old school shoes, subcutaneous injections. Stop listening. Head down, walk on, and laugh. Laugh a lot more than suitable, laugh at what is inappropriate. Cackle. Complain about your liver problems. This is how you lose yourself!
I will buy myself a human anatomy book for christmas, and I will lose myself.
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 3 1
The City Skyline
Up here the world is composed of even edges. The wind is colder, sharper, and smells of overworked photocopiers, leather shoes, fluorescent lamps.
I sit with my feet dangling over the railings into a river of light pollution. Up here he sits with me with folded wings and a paternal smile.
"The city is beautiful at night, don't you think?" He points to the jagged horizon defined by a hundred thousand glowing rectangles, "You complained about the brownness of the sky, now you cannot see it. You were dissastisfied with the taste of the air, now it is crisp. Up here you can see the Yin and Yang of civilisation mixing together. Up here the poetry is pure. Don't you see?"
He offers me his hand.
"Let's go flying."
His wings are black, I notice. In the city night they almost disappear. I long to dangle my feet in rivers of stars. I turn to tell him this.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, and we go falling.
10am - Coffee is too hot. I walk around, straighte
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 5 3
Notes on Anatomy
Comparative Osteology:
The next time I have chicken, I will make a wish by snapping the joined clavicles with someone I love. I now know where to shoot livestock to cause minimal suffering, should that be required, and I will not tell a farmer to first palpate the nuchal crest of his doomed animal before aiming his gun. I ran my hands along what used to be an elephant, what used to be a giraffe, what used to be a cat nine lives ago. I put my face against a horse's skull and tried to whisper requests - to see if it could whisper back and tell me of the great lush pastures on the other side.
I was always told that cane toads make a fantastic sound when stepped on. Now, I can tell you that this is because they have no rib cage - that you can open their bellies and make their organs spill out into your hands. You can also pull its poisonous skin right off its leg, almost like undressing it of socks.
This is Death, I thought. This is Splendor. This the smell of severed dog so heavy i
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 237 53
My Belle
Put your boat shoes in my chest and
Grind my heart out, let your
Hair form ropes around my neck. Break
My spine with your pencil grip and blind me
With your shadow eyes. Shadow smiles, how you
Fill silences with hiccup laughter - the
Way your face forms contours
Only when you know you are watched, but
Never lasts, those teeth flash
Only briefly. Oh,
I love you so much, your
Violin hips and low-cut tops, with
Death anew and guilt fingering the foramina
Between your vertebrae. I brush gushing
Hatred from your cavernous gaze and
Wish I could swallow your world, wish
I could die so you would live again - so
You would stop sleep walking at
4am, your razor frame sliding between
Daylight and nightlight,
And you would stop telling me
You hate yourself you're scared of the future you're
Half awake you're afraid of love you're
Sorry for crying you're sorry for lying
And acting you're sorry you're sorry you're sorry-
My hands like spades across your back, my
Breathing short and twisted. God, shoo
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 3 2
Mr. Brendan's Dogs
On Wednesdays, we amble
Into the room constructed with femurs and
Packed to the roof with the smell of flesh.
Our fingernails are scalpels; these blades do the licking on the tongues of Mr. Brendan's dogs,
Dead as doornails, he always says,
Wiping crimson laughter off on the sleeves of another stained afternoon.
A little old woman once told us,
You are all devils - you are all going to hell!
She spoke with such fierce conviction; caps-locked HELL! now
Dangle from our earlobes, strung
By the protruding veins of all the bald supervisors we ever had.
But perhaps,
If she could see Mr. Brendan's dogs as they lie
Silent, with unclean eyes of opal and cream
Under our glad-wrapped palms and microscope eyes,
She would be more understanding.
We take out their hearts, these dogs with markings like Tasmanian tigers -
They won't need them anymore,
Nor their limbs, lungs, lymph nodes.
Mr. Brendan weaves among us, calling us virgins,
His hair combed back like stainless steel, pos
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 10 10
In your absence
Day 1:
The wheels on the bus go round and round.
Eight hours later, you stand under the shade of a tree, telling me 'we have ten minutes to call loved ones to tell them we've arrived safely. Hello Heidi. Less-than-threes.'
And I clambered up the stairs clutching the phone like a secret, while my mind caught on the wrists of Australian shrubs, hanging on the tips of every breeze along with the sweat on your brows.
Day 7:
I heard white noise in the background and imagined the hills as you described them. I saw the empty plates, the screaming corporals, the blisters on your hands. I drew spider webs on my thighs with my fingernails and confessed to counting down the days.
I can taste emotions, and you know this. Yours, right now, are like sea water and baked dirt on my tongue.
Or are those mine?
I listened intently to the stories. A knee injury, a sleep-in until seven, all the little things that could go wrong exploding into a myriad of huge problems. You told me about free-falli
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 2 5
Our mirrors aren't mirrors anymore. We look in and see four dimensions -
Concrete dust in the distance, smog dragons sharpening teeth on jagged buildings
Rivers of feet rushing over rubble, rubber shoes slapping ceramic,
And mouths, open mouths,
Mostly crimson, but
I keep plants prisoner in the bathroom.
You took away our bed; the mattress lies in disarray over the carpet
Our minds can't settle on what the railings promise, nor comfortably within these comforting walls.
Once in a while, though, they do calm down, unwillingly,
Like underneath our duna, where the ghosts we don't have names to mourn for wrap their legs and tongues around us.
Like in the shower, where instead of warm water
We bathe in sheets of ghostly hair.
You took away the windchimes I hung over the window, said -
Let's not be superstitious.
Then why
Did you leave the dreamcatchers?
On Sundays, we spend hours holding hands, just to make sure our hands are still that -
Not hooks nor knives
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 4 5
Because this is not your world
For Crimson Sun
She stepped onto a train, then onto a bus. She enjoyed being surrounded by blue; enjoyed sharing a non-event with the stoic bus driver - the only other soul in the Universe now, for all she knew.
The bus was not like the train. The train travelled along predictable lines and stopped at predictable places. The bus weaved through small streets to get to all the nooks and crannies of the suburbs. Some she liked - these she would preserve in her memory by blinking in reverse. Some caused her to fear, and these she converted to a more pleasing blur by observing them through defected vision.
Time passed. The bus driver shifted in his seat and did not turn around.
Time passed. The bus came to a halt so gently it was almost loving.
"Last stop," said the bus driver. When he did look at her she saw he had a neck like a turtle and eyes like white dwarf stars. "The end of the line."
For Cabbage
Midnight, and the office building was still lit with a million neon lights. Under normal
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 4 6
Believe: in skipping stones on stillborn sea, see the seeming waves wave back assaulting tempest silence, of silent soul unknown skipping while slipping through your pores. And know only this - that today the water would run rampant back, for revenge, and sweep you sighing to the womb,
And all.
Believe: those lanky houseplants, louse-plants loose on shadows of dead afternoons. Epitaphs I failed to write, for distraction wrought destruction on worthier pursuits. And sat watching sun slimming down amongst the blinds, and thought, say, can afternoons return in 'other form, perhaps in sun, or sand, or stone? Say, does this day have life as listless as any breathing being, can die and rise and die and rise, in cycle with the pasty plant?
I'm a little scared, you see, just a little scared.
Mind, mind will mould your life, you see, and my mind forms mines maze-like through mine. I'm a mess, yes, I'm a mess. So mesmerised, so I can sit and shock myself with mental maps of flower ve
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 3 6
You start to sympathise with street lamps. You wish to write letters to places you will visit:
mountains denying embraces, or
just the longest, straightest roads in existence, leading into heated gasoline mist
and Nowhere.
You will fold these letters into cranes, watch them fly
into crannies behind waterfalls, where there is no plastic soup.
you dilute paints to watch their colour fade - life
is washed away by bright light, like palomino horses without blankets
in Australia. Rays from the sun fall like swordfish, point down,
and you have to wonder,
Who is going to be my blanket?
:iconocean-flute:Ocean-Flute 10 8


when someone you loved becomes a memory
i'm interested in things falling,
and being forgotten.
i like to see
glass bleed,
it makes me realise
i'm not the only thing
running red.
when i look,
i see passing eyes
roam the lines of my arms,
italian winding roads,
and quickly rush away
into their houses.
nobody likes to watch
slowly crumble-
if it isn't a crash,
a tragic accident,
an innocent death
at a hundred miles per hour,
but a drawn out,
intentional decay,
a condemned building
with cracking windows-
you will always see
the whites of their eyes
as they turn away
so as to never meet
the deadness
in yours.
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 192 53
Cutters Are Hot
Is there future in a photograph
with arms etched like the alien glut
of space-time and her fraying edges:
all manner of pipedreams swimming a gutted
heart, lying prone across a billion stings?
Can we travel back to muscle memories
plumbing fresh from her gash,
still-dreamt and infant? this context . . .
it has forged new strangeness in your eyes,
raised up from sea bottoms' undiscovered miles,
whoring for denial the way dawn will flinch
behind your motility; ah, cruel miracle!
Are you my lost Ophelian diarist, stolen
by the throat, lips' post-impression in a smile
and blistered to your ache in manic strokes?
I'm the same sad mannequin as you are,
the same death-spotter. See, I diet on my own
irrelevance. And god, it makes me burn for yours:
Your sickly operands,
your swollen tongue
for pink and murder,
your filthy head of bookstores
ripe with cults and magic ministers,
foreign blessings and beatitudes  
that will never seem familiar.
I went through my expansion. I opened up
:iconspoems:spoems 14 30
a burial
imagine being the first person to discover death.
your lover has passed in her sleep.
you kiss her, you touch her thigh,
you whisper her name and stroke her hair,
you listen to her empty heart
and wonder at her silence
you wore red to her funeral because
that was her favorite color and
the pastor wouldn't let you play
landslide on the speaker system
in the chapel.
the gospel choir watched you like
a bruise.
the trees sighed.
and when the service was over
everyone asked how you were
but no one really wanted to know.
thursday the air tasted like stale apples.
grief holds you in
like a corset
red twine tying you
when you feel like
falling apart.
the wind is stagnant
and all you know
is the heaviness in the breeze
that never comes.
and you can see it now-
she ferments in the ground the way
juice once fermented beneath your
kitchen window in the sun, you are
drunk on her body and
you never meant to be,
and the heat becomes the
only thing that is thorough
and the only thing that mat
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 453 92
The Science-Damned Truth
"Who needs fireworks?" she asked, nudging me gently in the ribs. I smiled and took a seat on the cemetery grass, watching the flames from the crematorium windows billow and dance.
"I'm sure there's some kind of deconstructable poetic irony in this," I said, "But damned if I can figure out where."
"No," she countered, "I think this is pretty straightforward. Dead people go in, ashes come out. We're just skipping the dead people step."
"Fair enough. Oh, hey, blood moon tonight."
I nodded to the ominous red crescent hanging overhead.
"That'll explain it," she said, and the man with the mustache in the V-neck t-shirt who had been staring at her decided at that point to interject.
"What does it explain, exactly?" he demanded, perhaps a little too roughly as a means of integration into a conversation he was not taking any part in.
"Historically," she said, her voice ascending to the Well-as-a-Matter-of-Fact-You-Motherfucker pitch, "Virtually every folklore system or mythological pantheon ass
:iconivannikolayevich:ivannikolayevich 3 2
If I Were A Woman
Can I be enigmatic, relevant
as a tiny ball of fission in the dark art of nothing?
Can I pull up all the lures and rule this aching planet
by proxy, without fumbling in ugly desperation
like an old decrepit dictator
hiding from the throng?  
Can I be a woman?
Mother or whore or star nursery run-away,
I'll peel away the subscripts;  
Name me in your poetry
and I'll put a fiery end
to the tiresome frontier
of a hundred men.
Stone me in old testament fists, it won't matter;
I'll laugh and lantern myself in pink stockings and garter,
shocking with blush wounds,
frosting my doe eyes
in feather
Stretch mine out to their wildest dimensions,
flattening ovals in weepy oceans,
and I'll lay deep in the bottom of your gravity well.
Crush me together and I'll learn how to beg you
to winter my brushfire and smother my lips
to their plumbs
in a black-light
for today God is Man,
and I'm made just for
Loom me with lusci
:iconspoems:spoems 41 95
The ghostly sightings of bats, elusive
in the passages of wormholes,
and the portal of trees
lit by the lunar rings
in a constant curling of echoes
and the rare exchange-
seagulls drifting inland like megaspores
from the hyperbaric void
that cosmic storms leave behind,
gravitate where I kite and sing
as you seek shelter-
territorial in the telephone lines,
nuclear isomers foraging
between parked cars, while drawn
to this molecular lyric by chance
in the outback
where time stands still from the
pull of our Precambrian dance.
Mid-air, our thrall becomes a menace
to the silence of a sibling planet.
These ironic feathers fluting
from our cage of arboretums;
they have no quantum, no beginning;
notes found swirling in atomic maps
of interstellar anatomies
like ineffectual miracles.
Our winged egression into the skies
herald the chorus of our crossing
through a multiverse of vastitudes
to settle into a grume of loess,
a sandstone listening to our conversation-
scattered soliloquies of light
:iconspoems:spoems 15 17
                                                     hundred nights
                                                (the triple lunes that
:iconspoems:spoems 239 131
i am wasted , love
it isn't that i'm not enough
it's that i'm too much
rolling hills, salient where
silence should be,
valleys deep like gorges
and rocky like crags.
if i whittle my waist
to a point,
a narrow tip sharp
and lusting for blood,
would i be worthy?
would my heart expound
and writhe in revelations,
would we become the married summer
with starry thieves masking our
this is when i hurl myself into
desperate blue strobes
and feel the bass line drilling the
too-hidden, secret and avian
bones with the bird behind their
cage. this is when i feel hot
hands pressing over cold hips,
when i feel warm for the first time
in what's felt like the eternity
spent holding my breath,
this is when i feel like i could
be something,
and you just
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 114 0
lunatic soul by werol lunatic soul :iconwerol:werol 2,039 137
Black-Headed Gull
Where do you fly to, black-headed gull,
When you're done eating chips on the pier?
Do you casually perch on some great steamer's hull
In a place that's far distant from here?
Do you dive past the waves in the stormiest gales,
Just catching your toes in the foam?
Do you glimpse dolphin fins and flying fish scales
When you travel away from your home?
Where do you fly to, out of my reach—
Some place of which I couldn't dream?
Or do you just flutter down onto the beach
Where you've spied some poor blighter's ice cream?
:iconchugglepuff:chugglepuff 4 9
reasons for dying - two
to look me in the eye is to understand that there is nothing to fear, nothing to remember, nothing to forget.  i will carry you beyond emotion, beyond help; these notions are only important to the living.  i am waiting for you.  i am a friend, a lover, a child.  i am everything you have lost.  i am your history, your hunger, your hopes and dreams.  i am the flightless bird you nursed when you were five.  i am the undeserved blow against your wife’s cheek.  i am your playground swing, your stepwise curb, your barreling car.  i am your blood, your brain, your blinking reluctance.  i am everything except what i inspire; fear.  
and i am as alive as you are.
:iconprairiedaisy:prairiedaisy 35 38
Class Notes... by tyleramato Class Notes... :icontyleramato:tyleramato 186 53
disprove the scientific method
i am the hybrid of
a heart and a god;
       ex    terminate
me; experiment me
       explain theories
of revolutionrevelation          {my alleles, they're not good enough}
       criticise & analyse;
       form a hypothesis;
       explain this feeling
       explain why i'm so
       Genetically fucked,
        Chemically fucked,
      Phonetically fucked.
Morphology -- a fucking
pseudoscience for all of
the lonely heartbreakers
with a knack for Biology
and a beakerofmyBlood            
:iconchloroformboy:ChloroformBoy 88 137
pink pill
he gave me a pill,
pink, said that it would let me
live in my dreams, eternal narnia,
nirvana, heaven, heaven,
and i would be transformed into
the person i am inside my dreams;
smooth, suave, debonair, witty,
magical. stars would dance off my
body when i'd walk by, theme
music would be my accompaniment.
envious looks from the fellows,
dreamy eyes from all my mistresses.
shackling off this awkward shell i call
a man, with all my failings and
troubling aspirations, wretched
ugliness and loathing self-consciousness
for an entirely new perspective on
life, fulfillment being a constant
attainment, achievement;
it was all i could ever ask for.
quick gobble-down, into new
existence i waited, sat down
and waited for the effect to take
effect, affecting my judgment i
didn't think so - wrote a letter,
mailed it off to my parents, old lovers,
friends to not come searching for me,
not to put my picture on milk cartons,
refrain from conjuring terrible
supposes of my demise; i was headed
to an infin
:iconscribblednotes:ScribbledNotes 6 2



Ring in the New Life
My name is Crim!

Here is one-third of my life: trying to talk to nonhuman things.

Here is one-third of my life: words words words dipped in purple.

Here is one-third of my life: wielding mediocrity like an airbrush.

Thank you for stopping by!

Current Residence: Land of Oz
Daily Deviation! I am amazed beyond words.

Thank you, thank you, thank you so much to SparrowSong for the feature, and thank you to everyone who commented and favourited Notes on Anatomy.

I must tell you - I have been having such a bad few weeks, floundering in this start of clinical years, my hands feeling more like shovels than calibrated instruments. And I was trying to locate sheeps' jugulars this afternoon, for the longest time, for the longest time and felt like crying because I had to punch the needle in so repeatedly-

Back in my room, my Belle's text says 'congrats on the DD'.

And for all the frustration that did not cause me to cry, now I am, because of this.

Words can't describe how grateful I am.

I don't post here much anymore, and I certainly don't keep up with all the people I should... But this might change things. If you would like to read more about the life of a (somewhat struggling) vet student, I'd be so happy to share mine.

Thank you all again! I'm completely bewildered!
  • Listening to: Drama


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YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2012   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
spoems Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2012   Writer
Ocean-Flute Featured By Owner Apr 6, 2012
That last :heart: was me on the wrong account. Have another. :)
spoems Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2012   Writer
i will take two. ;)
CrimsonSun Featured By Owner Apr 6, 2012
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2011   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
spoems Featured By Owner Mar 1, 2011   Writer
thanks again for the favoring. :)
spoems Featured By Owner Jan 29, 2011   Writer
thanks for the favs, and i appreciate the interest. :) reading some of the pieces in your gallery has inspired reciprocity.
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2010   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
SparrowSong Featured By Owner Feb 25, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. :) Keep writing!
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