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Not FleshNot Flesh
He wants to paint the virgin with skin blue
as a stillborn child, as blue as his wife's eyes.
Around their cot in the earth, their seven babes
wait in line for the opening of the sky.
Christ will come back, the priest intones. But this time,
he will not enter through a woman's flesh.
How would he paint a Christ not flesh
the painter wonders? Will he be stone, the bitten skin
of a plum, a fly's wings, threadbare flaxen cloth,
or a white canvas, so white there’s no air to breathe?
"Blue skin," the painter thinks,
Mary's face pooling beneath his brush.
An angel caresses his back until feathers fret
and knot beneath his skin, wanting out.
Ravens and wedding bellsRavens and wedding bells
Don’t look back, ravens preen.
They caw and fluff onyx black feathers.
But then their hearts are onyx marbles,
stones to be played with, cupped then dropped.
They like to peck the whites of the eyes,
even for them the pupils have seen too much.
He told her to not look back, whimsical and barbaric,
still too much an older god. But she looked
to see the old goat tethered to a tamarisk pole,
a pet really, bleating, hoofs pattering in horror.
Then her flesh hardened, a salt sculpture.
Then during a New York 1915 ball, her descendants carved an ice sculpture
that swooned and made moon eyes over plates
of smoked salmon, asparagus and crabs claws still clicking.
Civilization and we will never fail, no bomb craters
and holes filled with skeleton dead bodies, some of them still breathing.
But they should have heard the goat’s terrified hooves beating the dusty ground.
I run even though I don’t know why I am running
except I hear insistent hooves and wi
Margaret Pole 1541Margaret Pole 1541
She refused to lay her head on the executer’s block quietly.
Instead she ran screaming, clawing, knowing it would happen anyway.
It took 11 swings of the executor’s ax to behead her.
Her sin was to support Catherine first wife of Henry the 8th.
A silly thing to us, he simply wanted to marry another woman.
When I first died I was four, an operating table.
With the swiftness of a falling ax, they opened my rib cage,
felt my heart even though it lacked passion.
17 children went on the table that week, 11 died.
I lived in a jungle of IV tubes,
I lived in an oxygen tank, the luminous belly of a jelly fish, no working brain.
My mother noticed piles of rotting food trays outside my room.
Pears swollen until they might give birth.
Meat blossoming with green as though swarms of moths were slumbering on them.
The nurses didn’t bother to suit up to enter my private plastic bellows of a belly.
The air rippled around me with each breath as though the universe fe
Glittering SnakesGlittering Snakes
If found unchaste, a Vestal Virgin would be buried buried alive,
dirt becoming her speech.
But instead of an unending fire to tend, I have pills.
They are shaped to be the same, eternal dull moons of grainy sand.
If I wanted, I could fill my mouth with death.
Each pill slithering down my throat, some dull poisonous snake.
In circuses, they juggle snakes, glittering hoops,
a patter of words so darting it no longer means anything.
Eve sits transfixed, plain cotton dress faded apple green,
in the wooden stands. She was given a special invitation.
She waits for the finale, the applause, the snakes no longer hoops,
but hushed still lines, ribbons to woven into hair.
She waits for the spiel to end.
With cat sharp teeth, geeks bite off the heads of chickens,
a flurry of feathers, blood and shrill shouts from the crowds.
This is their language, their mouths pools of blood.
I count my pills. On the TV screen, glossy ever so smiling ads
tell us to take their pills even if a sid
My brother said he slept with me (unholy congress),
a bramble brier of limbs, cocks and mouths.
They never said, oh so poor sleeping beauty’s wall
was pocked with uncoupled blasphemous poppies.
But I was a strumpet, the number of how many I slept with
could be be found if you tore through a cereal box.
His first wife sang Hail Marys when hearing of my lovers,
labyrinthine mazes of prayers. When my husband danced with me.
the Pavan, Lord Zouch’s Maske. We all wore delicious masks,
fingers touching then other things touched, fevered, liquid.
But that was a long, long time, things are clove breaths,
they are endlessly muttered prayers, they are my brother standing.
The blade is waiting for both of us (but he is innocent).
I am not but I was not taught to be innocent.
So I remember a mouth singing unholy psalms into my mouth.
Marie AntoinetteMarie Antoinette
They gave me shoes, velvet heels that spun like windmills,
dribbles of satin, laces gossamer as imagined spider threads.
They designed me shoes to be orchids, bees drowsed around my feet. I give them names.
But they took my language, words shaped in my own tongue,
familiar as milk and bed.
The language they gave me, I never exactly knew what the words meant.
I pouted, smiled, fluttered my eyelashes until they were hummingbirds.
They murmured of people starving, bakeries hollow of flour,
echoes of the rights of the man. But they said not to worry. Silly things.
So we dressed as shepherdess, lambs washed until they were pillows.
Our crooks hooked the sun. They gave me extravagant pastries,
almond, cherry palaces in my mouth. I could not shape the names.
Then they showed me the cards that were circulating of me, the crowds howled when they saw them.
My face was a false moon on some other body.
This body was on all fours, someone thrusting inside into it.
I heard other wor
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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