Candy Corn Pin-Up Girl by EskimoKissMe, literature
Literature
Candy Corn Pin-Up Girl
She floated on a sea of candy corn,
a bare white chocolate sculpture in repose.
A single sweet (as stale as tattooed monarchs
caught in honey skin) hung on candy-apple
lips, while waves of sugared sunshine burst
from neck to navel, raining confit fireworks.
Sometimes I want to be a girl like that,
(spread naked on the page with a façade
of art and whimsy pressing hard against
vanilla hips and rainbow-painted eyes )
to dive into the camber of her tickled
breastsher cherry heart-inked areolas,
feel every inch of my ripe figure squeezed
by childish fanciesstark and lusty candy.
John and Evelina Burton by EskimoKissMe, literature
Literature
John and Evelina Burton
John and Evelina Burton
There were canyons in his sun-dried face
where peanut mud stuck to his cheeks
and wore away to wrinkles.
Amid a hand-tilled field of clay and faults
that flowed like wasted rivers,
John stood beside his wife.
Her face was wilted where the earth
had driedher eyelids sagged
like mossy curtains.
But her stiff, peat fingers grasped
his stony knuckles, his
tusky, ivory fingertips,
and Evelina pursed her lichened lips
at the savage sun that carved them into
earthen statues, trapped in Georgian mud.
In the morning:
I stood beneath a vinyl mushroom plume,
three feet, four inches tall
a giant under metal gills, shadowed
in a leafy, windswept patch of
weeds and stepped-on artichokes.
By lunchtime,
I perched four feet above the ground
on green and blue and crimson Playskool walls.
My little toes curled softly on the edge
and jumped.
As fingers clasped one hard, acrylic claw,
the wings of a flamingo opened up
(with little lacy frills)
and carried me across the freckled sky
clinging like a dandelion
dangling from a helium-balloon.
And when we crashed into a heap
of onion grass and ants and clover,
it was nearly
The Good Life of the Auschwitz Guards
In 1944 Karl danced,
caught in a sun shower
with guards in SS uniforms
pretty girls with handfuls of blueberries
falling from their gun-worn fingertips
into piles on the ground.
Trapped inside the Bedeanstalten,
children choked on poison gas
that rained from cold, steel showerheads
little girls with tattooed numbers
scratched across their burdened arms.
An accordion wheezed
behind the bath house walls
Karls dance of insincerity.
It echoed in the prisoners ears
a cry of useless sacrifice.
On Christmas day Karl
lit white candles hanging
on the branches
Rain drops falling on cold steel.
The aftertaste of moth balls and wool.
Chamomile.
The first sip of a pint of London Pride.
Turmeric and curry gravy.
Exhaust from old-fashioned taxis.
Barberry.
A lined, lone woman, scowling
at smooth, nude silhouettes
plastered on the Underground.
Dreams of a Post-War City by EskimoKissMe, literature
Literature
Dreams of a Post-War City
Imposing monochrome old city homes
in London-style rows with curtained glass,
lean looming, spilling toward La Rue des Hommes.
The Street of Men lies bare and still as gas
that weeps through ancient cracks of stone and brick.
A stream unfurls translucent, scentless whorls
between the iron grates of sewers thick
with grime. The cobblestones all glint with pearls
fair frozen tears of liquid gas and dew.
Lamenting for the barren, empty street,
the walls drop war gas tears upon La Rue.
And here there is a soft and calming beat:
Although the citys empty, its alive.
The buildings keep on breathing alkalin
I dance with ghosts of you
under false lit branches.
I sway under hazy, starless skies
and kiss the empty shadow
of where you stood last week.
I dance into a shallow, concrete pool.
Water pouring
from the stage-shaped fountain
makes no sound.
Water pouring over me
from feet above my head...
I cannot feel a thing.
Except the soaking, icy burning
of your absence.
It's an odd sort of balancing ballerina act.
Both limbs on the swaying wire
trying to mold to it
and rock with it.
Keeping my hand steady and stiff,
Poising my black ink pen,
Working tirelessly at toeing that line;
Careful not to fall
one way
or the other.
Holding the metaphoric parasol.
Putting on a blank façade.
It's not impossible to balance
a complex form on a string.
It's not impossible to steady
a plethora of uncertainties at the very tip
of a pink and frilly umbrella.
And hide anxious eyes in its comforting shade.
But it's hard to keep from falling
into the crowd of ink-smeared faces,
Balancing so much
on such
A picture sits on my bedside table
beside my tacky electric torch.
The flickering of the fabric flames
cast dancing shadows on your blank expression.
The picture used to be crisp and sharp,
its corners meticulously clean,
and it used to be glossy and smooth.
The dance of the orange light used to make your eyes smile.
For months it has sat there and gathered dust.
I spilled dark chocolate coffee on it once.
The face in the picture is warped and stained now.
It's mildly depressing to see
that the fiery polyester blend
makes your face appear beastly.
It vaguely resembles someone I thought I knew once,
but now, in the red-orange gl
In the light of the pending dusk
dancing on the old tree stump,
he gave off the energy of a mischevious Roman God.
His playful words echoed through the woods.
But I did not hear them.
His thin, defined teenaged figure
stood silhouetted on its wooden pedestal,
his limbs mingling with the great limbs of the towering trees,
his bare chest and outstretched arms
flexing cheesily as he smiled his wide, unchanging smile.
Whether stained with Cherry Garcia Ice Cream,
remnants of lost kisses,
or bursts of laughter,
his lips always part,
his cheeks always scrunch
in that comfortingly predictable way.
...comforting and predictable
like
Surrounded by a sickly haze of white
by chalky pillowcases, walls of bone,
the pale-faced nurses whispering their goodnights,
a pallid cell of grief. I am alone
to face myself, my pain, my blood, the room
without a calming thought. A quiet cry.
It echoes, helpless, in the empty tomb.
And here, in self-inflicted shame, I sigh.
But with your hands upon my ghostly bed,
your brilliant eyes made blind to broken parts,
with your soft kiss bestowed upon my head,
my mind forgets the pain. So swells my heart.
Within a single thought of you and me
does lie the cure to all my misery.
A crowd of the tiniest bare feet
sailed across the ocean of ice cold tile
desperately seeking the undiscovered treasure
hidden by a legendary pirate.
Ravenous little eyes watched closely
for the slightest sign of a booby trap.
On the water before the crew floated a discarded pair of galoshes.
Remnants of one who came before?
A nervous muffled giggle.
They trekked on,
searched the depths of the dark mahogany coastline caves
filled with noisy metal traps waiting to be tripped,
climbed the great wooden cliffsides,
counted their crawling steps.
The leader grabbed at the great ceramic chest
amid mutinous cries from the troop
who wa
Crouching in the surf,
I close my eyes
and lick my lips.
Salt lingering on my tongue,
clinging to my eye lashes
A warm breeze blows
like the clichéd whispers of a
near forgotten lover.
The entrancing ebbing tide
entices me
as the icy, soft sands
dance curiously over my feet.
My stomach churns unexpectedly.
My heart pounds, uninvited.
I dig my toes deep.
And gasp.
The chilled dark waters
leap to spray my body with goosebumps.
It tingles and trembles as I giggle
and open my eyes
to a glowing fair moon
bathing my body
and the flirting waves
in tainted ivory.
Tell me again,
Lover,
Why I come here
night after night.
Let myself run in dazed
childish circles.
Why do I let you play this game?
You know as well as I.
I've become addicted to the deceptive warmth
of a body knotted with a corpse.
Emotionless.
Perfect.
So here I am again, my love.
Lead me in your little game of hide and seek.
Hide your feelings.
Hide your treachery.
Seek to raze.
I throw all of me at the stone before your feet,
that familiar icy altar.
My heart is cold... and yours.
I await the torment of your indifference,
your thankless lust.
Seize my body.
Defile me.
Inhale my innocence
until all I know
is the sting of shards of a shattered spirit
clinging to my throat.
...but want me.
Want me as I let you break me,
beg you to leave nothing of me.
I am a masochist in your arms.
I walk in darkness tonight.
A dampened alleyway...
some twisted labyrinth,
Cold.
Evocative.
Inescapable, it seems.
My shoulder bumps the moss-eaten wall.
My worn sneaker
catches on the cobblestone.
I stumble.
My bare knees smack.
My shaking hands
clutch at hazy air.
A misty zephyr
tosses my knotted hair from my face
and blows your kisses
to my tear-stained cheeks,
laces your soft touch
around my fragile fingers.
And, looking onward,
a candle lights in an old lamppost
burning golden in the distance
outside your curtained window,
guiding me where I belong.
A cool breeze nips at my ears.
I inhale the dizzying musk
of falling, decaying leaves.
The smell of bittersweet afternoons
when you and I were lost
somewhere within each other
suffocating,
indulging in asphyxiation.
We perched on stone garden walls,
swinging our feet like children,
gazing into the cool, autumnal sun,
ogling the fire of colors ablaze in the trees.
How incredibly fitting.
The stone grew colder as we sat in the light-speckled shade.
The smouldering leaves faded and fell to ashes.
And I clung to them
as the wind tore you away.
Now, as the new seasons leaves fall
I crush them in my fingertips,
feel your bre
Man, I've been really out of the whole writing scene lately. I'm now a music major with a concentration in voice (opera), which rocks, but it has been leaving me empty on poetry and such. But I think I've exhausted my overlong vacation from deviant art; I'm making a point to sit down and make myself write. Even if it's crap. So here's to a new fall. :o) And hopefully not crappy writing.
I have discovered since yesterday, that while I am an overly dramatic, poet/storyteller/opera singer/actress of sorts... Chaotic drama of the genre that makes for breaking hearts and driving people into bottles of vladimir vodka and horrible bouts of angsty poetry... is something I do not muster or generally understand. My dramas are so much less ... well... dramatic. Disgusting and unneccessary are also good words. I spent my evening yesterday... and much of my day today... comforting the victims of selfish, abhorable drama. And that's about as close as I'd like to come to this disease... I watched a boy cry. A boy who had only ever cr
you are super super cool! you have GORGEOUS tastes in music aka david bowie the best man to ever walk this earth, and your gallery is rather lovely. i especially liked tangerine scream. and i found marijuana and waffles rather amusing. ^_^