[x]

stereoscopicsdeath
is but a microcosm,
a cheap cinematic
illusion of
depth.

it is not a
dichotomy, not a
solid black outline
like those in
cartoons.

not everyone
steps like a
skipping stone
directly into its arms.

some murmur
about its edge for years;
some never escape
its grasp.

Londonthe city glows
bright copper, a scandal in
oil colours,
a luminous quivering waste
of fog and smoke.

I feel on my skin
the harsh glare of street lights,
a thick caking of
make-up, the lingering
sting
of a parting kiss.

these streets are a string
of catastrophes,
a bright orgiastic tumbling,
the future glinting red
in a wine glass.

skeletonlight sears
through the chinks of her arched,
regal back.

she is eyeless and smiling,
her ribs a gaunt prison,
her shoulders an altar
eaten by moss.

there is a kind of silent
dignity in her thighs,
the crown of her head—
in the way that she lies there

and will not be turned to dust.

suckleyou pry me open
like a blood orange:
a scrape of sugar on my tongue,
a taste like sunrise.

you take in
the salt and slick and
split
of my thighs,
the pulped tomato
of my heart,

the fabric and
steel bones
of an artificial ribcage

as you unknot
them all.

I draw my first
deep breath
and it smells of citrus
and coitus and
you

nothing like the sunit occurs to me
that I do not love you
as much as I should.

your voice is not
musical to me,
is not by far
my favourite sound:
I prefer the skeletal
tones of a harpsichord,
the rustling of the pages
of old books,
the wild clanging
of a projector
winding up its film.

nor do your eyes
hold for me
visions of the stars,
in all their fierce, deranged
intesity: I love the sight
of a massive, gaseous
binary system
more than that of your
primitive lenses.

the touch of your hands
sends me in no quixotic raptures
that the lazy fronds of a lily
or the crushed softness of velvet
could not—
skin is skin, and quite frankly,
I've felt better.

I ha

SalemI.

the bright scarlet egg of dawn
nests in my head.

when it is time, it will crack my
skull like a shell
and be born.

II.

I have a witch's fingers and a
witch's eyes, rough pewter lenses
through which I see the world.

I have sabotaged their crops,
I have plagued their children,
I have eaten their livestock in the night
(so they say)
and I hear the whispers in the streets.

they will be willing to kill
for their conviction, though
I am not willing to die for it.

III.

I am no longer human.
I've been branded
with an ugly mark
of fear and desperation,

one terse syllable that cuts
like a switch.

IV.

a thin reddish line

lapsedyou've eaten my clairvoyance
and I've nowhere else to turn;

vermin stray like fingers
down my gullet.

"I do not love you"
are five words fit to kill:
I close my teeth over my tongue.

motionI love you like a
semicolon;
a half-pause in a torrent of
thought

during which life
stutters into being.

I want to take you
in the breathless spaces between
ellipses

where passion builds and shudders
into a trailing afterthought…

playing with foodyour mouth is acidic
and reeks of petrol and
rust:

love is nothing but an
acrid abscess
when you're through with it.

you, creature,
languid and depraved,
see no wrong in yourself;

you kill the flower
to suck the honey and
consider it an honest meal.

I do not loveI do not love
like an oil well,
with its black
and greasy mutterings:
I am a pit,
I have but a small stone
for a mouth.

it sighs and rattles
against my tongue.
I swallow it like
resentment.
this is my talisman,
my small
clustered hatred.

I cannot love you
while it chokes
in my throat.

reductionI'll tell the truth:

I am a thief of the
worst persuasion.

if you want honesty,
I don't think that we will
last.

give it one or two
or three years—
years tense with opposing forces
and unusual magic—

and our reaction will be
complete. we will both
go back to our own kinds.

haven't they always defined love
in terms of chemistry?
(opposites attract,
but like dissolves like.)

and here is the confession:
here is why I am odious:
I know this and
I will not withdraw.

here is the electron bridge—here the
anode, cathode, the ill-fated
reactants.

I set this up like dominos;
I wield it lik

my heartmy heart (and the vicious folds
of its teeth,
those pale watery things)
has devoured me
like a pearl.

unconvincingly bare
in my eggshells,
my linen,
I scrape by like a drudge—
I've just the hunch in the shoulders,
just the lowering of the eye.

I press my tongue
to the top of my mouth.
does this seem forward
of me?

I am sorry:
the poor thing is used to
having more to touch.

little white dressesI came across a river
foaming at the mouth
with eyes wide and brackish
abnormally drawn out

it's here you were christened
in your dreamish waterbed
storming and whirling
brought to a monstrous head

and it's here you were denied
the cure that you sought
a palliative, I could be
but an antidote, I'm not

so I gazed upon your image
liquid and sublime
breathless and restless
caught inside your mind

and your little white dresses
your little white dresses
your little white dresses
your bouquets and halos
your little white dresses
your little white dresses
your little white dresses
your snowstorms and snow globes

between garish garlands
your vis

she never had eyes as brightshe never had eyes as bright as
cold
or song as clear as
dark
but ever into her starry skies
I withered,
drawn into abysmal depths
by the promise
of a ravaged warmth,
somewhere near the centre.

now,
at the zenith of her autumnal beauty,
I find myself lost;
her brilliant voice
in prosepoetry elegance
shall whisper "I love"
into corroded dark
and tear all of the roadblocks
forcibly
from my mind.

an open letter to depressionsuicide princess,
I think you're half in love with me:
the way that you
follow me about, grab at my ankles
and tighten the veins
around my ribs

would almost endear me to you.
and in a certain masochistic way,
I nearly welcome your knock on my door,
the steady clink of your

instruments of torture—because
who would I be without this
choking disease
to carry around?

but frankly, dear,
you impose rather too much
upon my peace of mind.

it's all well and good
to write the occasional
woe-is-me
poem, to hold you by the hand

on a Saturday afternoon
when I have nothing better to do
than indulge your little caprices—

bu

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More from *toxic-nebulae

ivyI've become enamoured
of the corkscrew,
this rusty sore
that holds my hips.

my pelvis, with its
yellow caverns,
hides in its own knots
and will not let anyone through—

no, no, not even you.

its branches are too thick.

there is nothing left to do.

radicalit was nearing three
when I dreamt of you,
your spine stricken into chords
and your heart folded neatly
into a script that said "I do."

thus, you presented yourself—
deranged and fiercely simple—
a love like clotted cream.

love like a disease,
if you really want to know;
but I'll swallow anyway,
if only to feel the warm strong motion
of my tongue.

to loveI have seen your worshippers,
your devout disciples:
their hands are pale and oily
with touching;
when they kiss,
their mouths clatter like corpses'.

but when I barricaded myself
against such folly,
such little dishonourable deaths,
I must have botched the job.

everywhere—
between the rough stones of my ramparts—
you are seeping in and seeping in.

autonomydeath and I,
as sporadic lovers,
flit about each other's
ankles
like ribbons
or a pervasive disease.

paying superficial court,
I swallow pills I shouldn't
and neglect the ones
I should—
but I always take too few
or too many, respectively.

death can but nod
at my shallow attempts
with his hands folded idly
in his lap.

effeuiller la marguerite11:14
and the bells clang
like envy, that
treacherous knoll.

your words, sweet and
oily,
saturate the air
(like so much senseless
vomit)

while mine stick
and rattle uselessly
in my trachea.

like the classic poet,
that jealous,
melodramatic soul,
I string out so many malformed words
to insult what I cannot have.

they stutter in singsong harmony
that playground daisy game:

I love you, I love you not

diastoleI made a pool
of my left ventricle,
that cavern of fleshy excess:
it lay stagnant enough
for mosquitoes' young
until Sunday last.

now, love's spindly fingers
crack my heart
with their wanderings.

like spring in the north,
it freezes and thaws
in the crevices
of my chest.

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Submitted: December 27, 2012
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alien

by *toxic-nebulae, Dec 27, 2012, 12:54:06 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

the flagrant impossibility,
the undeniable otherness of you
(ineluctable and raw
as a cracked egg,
a sunrise)
glints in every turn of your eyes.

you are a universe
unto yourself,
a system of Heavenly bodies
heavy with influence:
planets whir at your fingertips,
massive and
subatomic.

I wonder how you see me:
as a dispassionate judge of the cosmos,
my actions a blur in a sea of
equal and opposite?

or—do I excite you?
do you ponder the
composition of my atmosphere,
the molten heat at my core?

do you ever,
for a single, measured moment,
forget your station
and allow yourself to be pulled
into my gravity,
playing electron to my
nucleus:

barely there, nearly
unmeasurable,
jumping energy levels,
juggling photons?

if this is true,
I also know
that when you remember yourself,
pulling the threads of myriad orbits
tighter about you,
there is an electric sort of magic in your gaze
whenever it meets mine.

alienby *toxic-nebulae

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

it's 4 A.M. and I can't sleep and thus: poem.
watch me read this here: [link]

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*imaginative-lioness Mar 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I have featured this piece in my journal: [link]

*toxic-nebulae Mar 14, 2013 Student Writer

<3 thank you.

~Lovespoon Mar 4, 2013 Professional Writer

Great poem. And spectacular reading of it on youtube.com.

Now that you've mastered the erotica-science, science, erotica poems you should work on an epic!

~misc-lover Mar 2, 2013

your poetry is soo... inspiring. that when i read you i instantly want to write something, but then i realize that i got no talent. haha

*toxic-nebulae Mar 2, 2013 Student Writer

thank you!

*glossolalias Jan 1, 2013

beautiful worded and subtlety erotic. well done.

*toxic-nebulae Jan 2, 2013 Student Writer

thank you.

~Mr-Timeshadow Dec 28, 2012

Jeez, that's not fair! Usually, not sleeping at 4 am means someone else is snoring, or I have a runny nose, or nature's calling, but the one thing I aint is poetical...

*toxic-nebulae Dec 30, 2012 Student Writer

words run riot in my mind when I can't sleep

~Mr-Timeshadow Dec 30, 2012

Sometimes I experience that, and sometimes pictures. I am a little unhinged, and as a kid I suffered intrusive images of things that scared me. It's tough to explain what they were or why they scared me, but they did.
Now, I often hear snatched of dialogue from a movie, and sometimes need months to track down which ones they come from (one took me six months to peg as a line from Chariots of Fire).
Sometimes, during waking hours, I hear fragments of music; a passage or so. And it's usually from a movie as well.
So: the good news is I sleep pretty well these days. The bad news: they run riot in my head when I'm awake...

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alienby *toxic-nebulae

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