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Chapter 1: From Monte Carlo to MontezumaMontezuma was always destined to become a warrior. It was obvious from the way he moved, the way he even laughed. When he got old, it was once song by the young that:
On the shore lay Montezuma
With his coca leaves and pearls
In his halls he often wondered
With the secrets of the world
The secrets of the world enshrouded him indeed for he was an evil child. You didn’t have to kill to be evil, and so he didn’t, but later he did. It may seem like an odd choice that I have sat down to even describe this man in a mask, but I am almost certain that it will be read.
I have met Montezuma only once. I was at the roots of one of our great pyramids and he came up to me, put his hand on the top of my head. I couldn’t see him, but in that instant, vision be damned, I could sense who stood beside me.
“You stand at my foundation. What makes you crawl up these grand temples?” he asked.
“The steps,” I answered.
He immediately removed his hand from my he
Prologue - The Railroad that TwistedIt was a hot spring day when the messenger finally reported back about Oliver Twist.
“He’d be building a railroad,” they all said.
“We’ll get to Manchester easier now,” they all said.
We all sat in the shadow of the train stations roof. We’d sat there all afternoon, waiting for the shadows to settle, but here he was, the messenger, messing with our schedule.
“Well then,” one of us remarked. “How far he be?”
“He’s far indeed,” the messenger said, catching his breath between syllables. “I caught a glimpse of him just a few arrow shots from Manchester.”
“Just a few? Boy, are you sure about that? That runt left us here not too long ago, asking about wanting more food and what else kinds of childhood games. He should be a few arrow shots of London, not Manchester.”
“I swear I did, sir. I swear.”
“Bullocks,” another quickly responded. I remember looking at
The Grateful DeadThe Grateful Dead
Among all the flowers, I noticed a rose. It was very uncommon for a flower garden to only sport one rose. I figured that all the others had died long time ago, but the truth, as I'm told by the gardener, is that no other rose ever existed. It grew in the middle of the garden, throwing thorns and other greens of its ever growing body. Even further out were tulips, lilies, different weeds, trees and everything else that you'd expect from a garden this size. It was all finely enclosed by a white fence, and not one leaf crept outside these boundaries. The gardener told me that he'd tried to touch the rose as a child, but he'd never managed to reach it. I asked him if he'd ever touched it since. He laughed at me.
He was an old gardener. He told me that his grandfather once had a bench in the garden where he'd sit and smoke his pipe. It was a nice thought, but the bench was gone now. The grandfather insisted on leaving the garden to itself. He even allowed weeds to g
Banquet of the HeroesOdysseus, the sailor, is stuck again
He saw not too far from himself
"Pray his water to wine," the desperate whine
As his blood it to salt turns to be
He repaired the mast but then soon fell off!
He screamed for help in the sea
But Poseidon just laughed and then sang to him:
"In the blue you were born to be."
Oddysseus swam, but his muscles broke,
broke like the legs of a flea
He speared out his head for just one more time
And screamed: "Penelope, please come to me!"
King Arthur, the ruler, wages war again!
He slaughters the weed, cuts it down
"Place in the gallow, not just every fellow,
for some deserve the shade of my crown!"
He saw not the lance heading for his head!
He saw not the way of the kill!
His head, it rolled down his Excalibur
Propelled to the top of Gods hill
They're separated now, king from the crown
Another one takes on the gold
King Arthur 'the tyrant' lives only on,
'cause history by the victor is told.
At last, Superman, the ridicule
Lives in the books, lives in all
BroughtBy God, he was created
The Devil, destroyed
He still loved his harp, though
that Venus deployed
He played it and guessed on
the future of life
While caped cross crusaders
Pulled out their red knife
His death, it came quickly
in the valley of fools
Reaped by the grim one
with sharp rusty tools
He yelled and he whispered
They heard not a thing
Too busy with hiding
By great bells that ring
And the bells, tolled so loudly
His ashes were spread
They scribed and they signed all
To ensure he was dead
They prayed and they crossed
their fingers in spite
To kill a man wholly,
his soul they must smite
His soul now, sweeps with ashes
It swirls in the dust
The earth is his tombstone,
on which he will rust
Forever and ever
checking both his sides
to cross that one street that
makes lovers collide
Though they meet, in the heavens
he still lingers here
In our age of the Devil
he'll likely appear.
To haunt us and teach us
that harps we've forgot
Remind us of heathens
And the saints that we've shot
Days of Fins and ScalesPlay me a song, oh you wicked one
about the epitaphs of fools.
Speak through me the distance I
need to go to cut the tools
needed for the breaking lose
of this heavy ball and chain.
For I need not another time
To lose when others gain
To play a song that no one knows
is the specialty of man.
Describing why the oceans roam,
and why the mermaids ran
from the book of truth to the one of myth,
taking with them their song.
I do not need to read it in books
to know where they belong
Moving mountains and skipping stones
happens when God, he plays.
Rearranging all the clouds
to banish the shade of grays
He leaves although a little room,
for others to fill in the blanks.
And so the trident hearted ghost
steps forth from nature's ranks
"What would I create?" he thinks aloud
"How can I enchant these seas?"
A memory then came to him
"I know it!" he said and breezed
out to the cliffs of majesty,
where lions earn their crown.
"I know that here I'll once again
make creatures that cannot drown!"
The RagabondHe lives beyond that veil, playing the violin
Painting one rainbow after another
And he wonders a lot, if God exists or not
For he himself grew up without a father
Around his neck is hanged, a sign without a name
Since he is only known as the vagabond
And he wanders a lot, if he should stay or not
For glory seems to drip of the horizon
He begins to pack his bags, fill his pockets, clean his rags
Emptying out the home, he had never had
Tuning out his violin, make it point from out to in
So he'll never forget, where his heart is
And then he ran on off, bringing with him all he owned
So that he, like Noah, could outgrow sin
Then the olive carried doves, made him think of all he loves
But his thoughts came out surprisingly empty
He then found emptiness on the outside, as well as inside
Beating drums that would inspire him
Playing like clockwork in the background, circling around
the poet within that called for him
He started writing, enveloping and then soaking
his own heart, for
Route 61I was waiting for my bus again. It was late as usual. From the bus stop I could barely see the turn in the road where the green monstosity showed itself. It was too distant to be heard, but it soon came close enough.
I spotted an ond gentlemen, who hurried down the street. He was breathing very heavily, and his bones must've been rattling under his sacky suit. In one hand he held a wooden cane that he swung like it was a pendulum, and in the other was a blue umbrella. I looked up at the equally blue sky no clouds to see at all. The old man's effort seemed to be worth it, however, since he made it down to me before the bus did. He made a wide smile at me, while he breathed like a retired locomotive.
"Good you made it," I said to him to cheer him up a bit. Both my hands were in my pocket, as I rocked my body back and forth to the rhythm of the old man's cane. He looked confusedly at me.
"What did I make, exactly?" he mumbled.
I pointed at the nearing bus.
"Well, the bus of course.
Hey YouHey you.
With the perfect smile,
Even if it hasn't been seen
In a little (or long) while.
I hope you're feeling okay.
And I think you're
Doing really great today;
You are one less day away
From your perfect tomorrow.
Peter Pan EnvyWe molded pirate ships
from heavy storm clouds,
flags puffed up
and scooped out
like handfuls of sand
while the car windows
steamed in the cold.
You told me stories
of a boy in green
and his war with
the hooked man,
said they took
those like us
to the first star on the right
and straight on to morning.
You made me believe
and when life got hard--
mom hopped up on pills,
nights filled with demons--
I breathed wishes
to be stolen away.
No pirate ever darkened my stoop
with his wayward compass
or water-stained maps;
no fairy ever left glitter
smeared on my skin
like good dreams.
I look to the sky
when the wind blows
and hold my breath
with his name on my tongue
all the same.
SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.
Note to SelfDate a librarian; they'll read you until your spine falls apart, and still love every page. They'll underline your highlights, your endless seas of profound poetry, as if they've mistaken your manatee appearance for a mermaid. They'll hang off the cliff of your chapter 15 and dive into the next page as if you're about to reveal what they've been looking for. And when they don't find it, they'll tear out your words letter by letter with a hush, asking you oh so sweetly to stay quiet. Finally, they'll bind your broken spine with tape and set you on the shelf for misplaced books until they forget you were ever there, but they won't be done with you. They'll never be done with you; even when it seems your pages, your rib cage and heart, is filled with nothing but dust.
thirstYou tell me to breathe in
the scent of my tea:
Apple Cinnamon Spice,
it is crisp and infusing
the aroma into my lips.
Honey coasts along my spoon,
apple biting into its
golden flavor. Cinnamon bursts
forth for a brief moment and I am
Stormy nightPouring rain
Just another night
In this sad existence
The rain feels refreshing
The darkness is comforting
And they bring a smile
To my melancholic face
I am one with the night
One with the storm
Standing under the streetlight
Waiting for life to happen
More to Come, More to LoveMore to come
More to love
More potbellies bulging seductively
More love handles to lovingly handle
More expanding muffintops to nibble
More inches on the measuring tape
More pounds on the scale
More softening fat bottoms to sit upon
More comfortable living
More people becoming fluffier everyday
More size acceptance
More tubby tolerance
More self-loving wonders
More deliciously sinful food to enjoy
More freedom from guilt and shame
More liberation of libidos
More opening of minds
More unshackling of hearts
More release from constraints
More living large
More emancipation of bodies
More sleeping in
More breakfast in bed
More letting oneself go
More unbuttoning of pants
More flab enveloping abs
More thickening of thighs
More softening of faces
More doubling of chins
More dimpling of cheeks
More fine fat rolls
More cinnamon rolls
More buttery dinner rolls
More swiss chocolate rolls
More ice cream
More biscuits and gravy
More bread and
After our FloodThrough your thoughts and lines, both entangled in wines
Ships dock in your fire that the main co-captain finds
And the slow of the restless live up to tie your binds
Oh how - will I ever resist - just to kiss you?
The street level views that encircle our parade
In this town of old, now by the both of us made
Our masks they are dropped, we've lived the last charade
And now - we'll be bound - to carry us through
Living edges for the last crusade
And the blood bled for hours at the hungry trade
I skipped just that one stone, it a mountain made!
We have finally tunneled through
At the end of it - in my hands - the blue
Out of candlewax and wool, you've strung the main front side
Of our loft bearing fortress in which our hearts reside
Reflected in the moon, we finally steer back the tide
And live - to be nearly - breathing for you
The slow packing sail that unfolds before our sigh
And the wings of the 'gale soaring to the sky
The giants that drank rivers, before your feet they lie
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More