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0 4 : 1 3Nelle ore in cui si perdono i colori,
viaggio allucinato nella citta di nessuno
dalle superfici lucide e liscie
il mio tatto e il mio sguardo
rischiano di essere inghiottiti.
Le luci illuminano a giorno
l'assenza, le macchie invisibili.
Re e regine,
su troni di cartone e stracci,
vegliano su mondi paralleli
che si affacciano dalle grandi vetrate.
avvolte da luce e lamiere
cedono la desolzione a zampe,
ali e ventri molli.
Versi della spazzaturaSiamo larve
nate dalla morte del legno
che si aggirano nella carcassa di cemento
nutrendosi degli umori generati dalla disperazione,
dalla paura e dalla speranza.
Arcobaleni ChimiciMentre osservo arcobaleni
che languiscono in pozze di benzina,
sgorgate da corpi areodinamici
come se fossero scie di sangue,
l' odore quasi mi stordisce,
e vorrei rianimare i colori chimici
con questa fiamma
per meglio distinguerli,
ma nonostante il calore e la luce,
ancora non riesco a comprenderli...
SospensioneIl logo sulla lattina che mi guarda
pacificamente invitandomi ad
annegare i miei pensieri scarlatti
tra le sue schiumose molecole.
Ed io non posso che abbandonarmi
alla sua offerta.
Ed io vorrei che il tempo si fermasse
in questo istante,
la brace bruciasse all' infinito
tra le mie dita,
la goccia sulla lattina
non toccasse mai il tavolo,
i colori elettrici si congelassero
in pose grottesche,
mentre l' anima mi abbandona lentamente.
AlbeggiareHo trovato la mia Alba Spirituale,
e come nei versi di Baudelaire
il dolce e l'amaro
si mescolano nel mio essere.
Nel cuore della notte,
Ira,Dolore e Malinconia
diventano Angelo magnifico
i cui baci e carezze
leniscono ogni ferita.
Lo smarrimento mi culla,
e questo sole eterno
che risplende sulla mia anima,
in un risorgere di gemme e boccioli,
libero e vivo mi fa sentire.
Voglio un mondo tutto MIO
Voglio un mondo tutto mio
Voglio un mondo tutto mio,
per salvarmi dall'oblio,
per non sentire più
gli inutili discorsi
di salvatori, governanti
ed alieni sparsi.
Voglio un mondo di colori
ed aria pura
e voglio vivere ogni giorno
Voglio ammirare la natura
nelle sue forme
con i suoi spazzi,
i suoi misteri
e le sue gemme.
Voglio un letto per riposarmi
quando è sera
e tanti fiori, come fosse sempre
Voglio una brezza
che accarezzi la mia pelle
voglio il sole
il cielo ed il mare
voglio la luna
ed anche le stelle!
WickedMorgana, in the cowering darkened city; neon is dead. Theatres all play the same movie, over and over again. No one watches; they’re all in their basements or ancient fallout shelters. Morgana’s heels clack pavement, and the echo goes on forever.
Feast on your tins of peanut butter and crackers; Morgana feasts on minds. Minds like yours, soft like veal. Everyone said this night would come, but no one believed it would be now. How could it be, when just yesterday the playgrounds were filled with sunlight and laughter?
Lightning cracks sky and illumes devastation, wretchedness, emptiness. Lions have escaped the zoos, and roam the streets hungry and fierce. The wind howls your name as you sit in the darkness wearing your foil hat. Morgana laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
And the echo goes on forever; like carnival music at a funeral, like a grave robber’s laugh, like handbills flying down an alley for a play that was never produced; like a child lost in the crowds, like t
the atlantic ocean is big enough to hide secretsin that twilight period of summer turning to fall-
in that bend in the road from september to october-
i couldn't explain it but i so desperately wanted to send a piece of myself to you
so you would have something to look forward to
i said, if there's a force to change the tides and turn the earth
and people think it's the most essential force in this world,
then i know they've never met you.
'who me? little old me?'
yes you, little old you,
you have enough resonance in the beats of your heart
to make armies march,
you have enough light in your smile
to make a blind man see,
you have enough magnitude in everything you do
to cause earthquakes to destroy the world,
or maybe just me:
i would die in your hands if you would only let me.
the beginning of october is stunning when the colours
are like fire engines and fireflies and fireworks.
bright flashes of everything that is beautiful and nothing that is hurt.
but after an immense burst of light;
The Story of a Boy. [An Original Poem-thing]
The Story of a Boy.
This is the story of a boy.
Who had lost his mother.
He had a father.
Who did not a care.
The poor little boy.
He never had friends.
All alone in a town.
Which was almost a barren land.
At the age of seven.
Something new happened.
A family moved in.
Into the barren town.
They had a little girl.
With her lovely dark curls.
And new friends they became.
The lonely boy and the bonny gal.
But the boy, he wasn’t.
What he seemed to be.
In his head there were demons.
Demons, waiting to be unleashed.
When the day arrived.
And the boy lost his mind.
He tortured the young girl
to her death.
Oh, it was such an evil crime.
The girl she returned
in her reincarnated form.
She was only four,
while the boy was eleven.
Shocked at her resemblance
with the girl he once met.
He tricked her yet again,
and again, she was killed.
Again she returned,
as her soul never rests.
her mind doesn’t remember
but her spirit deman
An Infectious DiseaseSome will say hope is a killer; an infectious disease that plants shitty pipe dreams in the mind, but hope is a good thing, sometimes the only thing that keeps us going. And it comes not from the pipes that won't play or the dreamer's gaze, but from the inside. All you have to do, is find it.
Mr. FrostThe cellar, is far more suitable than the attic, but if they prefer the attic, let them have it. It makes no difference to me. Even when they come rattling down the staircase after dark, running dried chalky fingertips, along split cracked walls, or standing motionless behind closed doors with only blackness in their eyes. As if salvation lay on the other side. How amusing they are in the beginning, but their echoes become fewer and fewer as the days grow long. Until they no longer speak the name, Mr. Frost and I know, it's time to kill again.
Ragtime StreetsCrowded city streets
breezes turn to wind
winds to storms
and all that I can see
are strangely foreing faces
falling upon my lips
in misty shadowed eclipse
like drops of acid rain
and all that I can hear
are echoes of their voices
vibrating within me
like eyes of the hurricane
Crowded city streets
unkind ruthless walls of concrete
drapes of gray and halls of steel
no shapes, no trees, no air, no feel
only those strange foreign faces
ghosts of smiles from faraway places
I´ll never see
vibrating within me
Crowded city streets
and light is just a rare wishful dream
and night is just a trick
of neon quiver and toxic plasma gleam
only strange unfamiliar faces
of ghosts from distant forbidden places
blurred in the void
in emptiness of crowd
Crowded city streets
there is no reason for me
to stay to walk
to pray to talk
no place for me
in this crowds of colour and gaze
in this void of awed and amaz
The music we hear today...In my opinion, The true meaning of music will die shortly,
Since people only care of being big and famous and get money for their own,
And they never share their success unless they'll gain some glory,
But they'res some people who makes music to make people feel better,
or who explains what the world looks like in their eyes,
And the best part, they'll never be traitors,
Like the ones who betray the way of true music,
Those people were called emos, Satan's children, or just plain weird,
because most people's taste of music is getting more sick,
But, I'm one of their fans and that's what keeps me stronger,
And in the future, I want to destroy someone else's sense of "justice"
With the power of true music, and to regain our peaceful order,
Because, I don't want our future generations in pain or just plain shallow,
If I do that, I'll save the true music in no time~!
Attainting EqualityKill the horse
Leave the man there
Steal his shirt
Leave nothing to wear
Kill his pride
Leave his guilt
Steal his voice
Leave him to wilt
Kill his future
Leave hist past
Thrust your knowledge into him
Ignorance can never last
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces. Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait. France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore. It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
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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