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That's what they call him, like it's a bad word.
A mutation... a genetic fluctuation, something to be set aside and studied, and disposed of later on when they are tired of prodding him.
They have convinced most people that he's not really one of us.
But I know otherwise.
So he has red hair. He's still human, though he doesn't look like one.
They tell people he's an animal, a regression, and they keep him caged. Any person caught in his hallway is arrested immediately, for he is allowed no outside contact.
But I talk to him.
The air shaft leading to his cell has no other branches. I found its origin down in the maintenance tunnels, carefully set apart from the other main shafts and tagged with the room-code. Evidently, it had been designed for this very purpose - isolation, with an easy way to tranquilize or even euthanize the occupant.
When we talk into this shaft, it is as if we were face to face. Many hours of my day are spent with my face pressed to the opening, listenin
Photographgod of strange music
under the red lights
as I stand in the front row
at the top of my lungs
he slowly sheds his clothes
as the night wears on
and the room grows hotter
everyone's sweating now
he poses, just for me
after the show
the crowd rushes out
I stay to talk to him
a sweaty hug
his name down my leg
Lost Angels -1-June 15th
It's nighttime in the City of Angels, but where are the angels? In two years, I have yet to see one. No, no angels here, only demons. Actually, only a single demon, but one is bad enough. He has taken everything from me, left me to die alone on the street.
Girls of this city of lost angels, hear me well. Guard your lives so you dont end up a victim. He wears his hair long, somewhere between shoulder-length and the middle of his back. His eyes are a startling shade of blue, and they are his tool in ensnaring unsuspecting young women. His skin is pale and he wears only black, and he tends to avoid the sun. He uses a variety of aliases, most commonly Damien Stone, but I have heard him call himself Jacob, Galen, and Donavan, all with the same surname. There is a wound on his face, three deep scratches from just below the left eye down almost to the jaw, but if you are close enough to see that, you are already too close.
Those scratches were my doing, the night he tri
Dead EndThis isn't the freeway, it's a dead-end street
that I'm barreling down at a hundred miles an hour
in this podunk town
in the middle of nowhere
and I don't know what to do
This isn't the freeway, it's a road-closed sign
blocking my way, it makes me so angry
when the road ahead
is only leading backwards
and I don't know what to do
This isn't the freeway, it's a lonely road
that's taking me steadily away from home
and I miss my friends
and I miss my family
and I don't know what to do
Now I've finally found the freeway, but the bridge is out
and I can see you standing on the other side
I want to keep going
but I know I have to stop
and I really don't know what to do.
The DarknessClouds of fog rolling over me
The mist of loneliness, anger, greed
With all the darkness of hatred revealed
Covering, smothering me
Obscuring all but a point of light
It draws me in
The essence of love
Pure brightness of dawn
Surrounded by darkness, yet wrapped in light
It grows, and I with it
My Eden revealed
The world as it was
Its burden lifted, its beauty unveiled
For the first time in eons, the sun will rise
Looking down on perfection
From clear blue skies
Surveying mountain, field, and stream
I remember the darkness
Vague as a dream
Behind the blocks seems like forever
As you concentrated
Focused on your race
With nervous excitement
They call your name
Goggles on, step up
At the buzzers sound, you fly
Out over the pool, angling in
Cool water surrounds you
Excited by its sensation on your skin
As you race down the lane
The thought of winning fills your mind
You push yourself more
You pull ahead at the turn
Hold your lead
Telling yourself you must stay ahead
Every last reserve poured into your stroke
Trying not to breathe
You finish, spent
Look up at the board
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
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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