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Vita Incerta, Mors CertissimaEu îţi car sicriul,
Prin noapte şi zi
Spre graniţa dintre a fi ...
Şi a muri.
De mult îţi car sicriul
Prin ploaie şi vânt,
Urmărit de al corbului cânt,
Pe un drum, mortul şi viul ...
Eu îţi car sicriul
Mormânt de martir
Mă învăluieşte târziul,
Ajuns lângă groapa ta
Te cobor în pământul proaspăt ...
A trecut de mult vara.
Dar spune-mi acum,
Ce fac cu libertatea?
Ţi-am cărat sicriul.
Suflete moarteDes âmes dépraveés,
des âmes perdues,
în nori făr' de scăpare.
plânse și neîntoarse
în păduri nordice,
pustii și deșertice.
O, suflet pierdut
ce te chem în noapte.
Des âmes dépraveés,
des âmes perdues.
Son of NeptuneI've lost my heart
in the burning sand,
among the dunes.
A bright sun shines right upon it,
brighter than your gaze ever was
when you laid your eyes
I am the bastard son of Neptune,
the child of the waves.
I come crawling,
full of algae,
rejected by the sea,
by the land,
I've lost my heart
among dunes so empty,
emptier than your soul,
emptier than your gaze.
Moartea vrabioareiMâinile construiesc
visuri, vise, dorinţe, iluzii.
Colivia de mucegai,
cu pereţii săi negri,
sugrumă şi ultima dorinţă de viaţă
din sufletul vrăbioarei.
Penaju-i tot mizer şi ciufulit,
ochii săi de onix abia ce mai mişcă,
Mâinile ce ar putea să dărâme
stau nemişcate, plictisite.
Visul tacutNecunoscutului ii ard
în timp ce simte, atinge,
Punând mâna pe pieptul visului
atinge văzduhul şi negura vremii.
Moartea tace, timpul trece.
Pendulul încă mai vorbeşte.
Tăcere ce o poţi tăia cu gândul,
precum întunericul coşmarului.
The Last CallBound by shackles
so old, that they,
they have etched their way
under the skin,
no longer to be seen,
always to be beneath my skin.
I see your face in the mirror,
I see mine, I see the other,
I see no one.
The cold, sweet,
tender kiss of the bullet awaits.
It keeps circling my path,
it smiles at me.
The guard shouts:
“Step away heathen,
come right up to the merry-go-round.”
The vile scum I am, I see it now,
in the mirror.
The puddle of water that has become my mirror,
in this hole of a cage.
“The scum, the devilish scum
must cry and cringe.
It must work itself into salvation.”
But there is none, no salvation
to hope for, to wait,
Tis only minutes till they off us,
tis only minutes till the darkness.
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
To you who writes until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
the cultivation of neophiliai.
give in to it:
the insatiable restlessness
that haunts, heavy
in a familiar corner
of your eyeline.
drive toward the night.
halt only when you
can no longer
trace paths of neon
from streetlight to fingertip;
never quite reach the
eventually, stop trying.
look over the paper city
resting fragile below;
tear it to shreds
with vicious intent
forget that you have
loved and hoped and
for a moment
there is only you,
the night, and the need
desire like you've
never wanted anything,
search for the novel,
for the fantastical
and the faintest hint
of something new
in the sky-glow.
stand so high atop
wonder how they do not
under the weight
of all this empty
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
Vis de iarnaCâteva coroane, sfântă domniță?
Câteva coroane, brav rege?
Să pot și eu să cumpăr ceva de mâncare
pentru mine, pentru familia mea.
Să îmi schimb zdrențele de pe mine,
să îmi iau o cârpă să m-acopăr.
Dați-mi două minute din viața dumneavoastră
să vă spun povestea mea.
Scumpă domniță îmbracată în mătăsuri fine
vă puteți despărți de ceva galbeni?
Un miros de scorțișoară umple bătrâna stradă
acoperită de o pătură de ninsoare
Clădirile ponegrite se apleacă încet înspre mine
parcă să mă sufoce, parcă să mă încălzească.
O, tu Lună amară, pleacă să vină Soarele.
O, tu iarnă, dispari să se întoarcă ghioceii pe pământ.
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More