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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.
Six Second Poem"We're all the same," she said. "Friend, tell me," she asked, "how are we different?"
For six seconds I paused, then I said:
Some of us ..
love more than we hate,
laugh more than we cry,
work harder than we play, but
live before we die.
Some of us don't.
And that, my friend, is how we are all different.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
I willI will love you
all the way to the place where ladybirds go to die,
to the lushest corners of the earth
that hold the secrets no man was meant to see
and we will find them, and know them together.
I will love you
all the way to the place where bubbles are made
at the bottom of a glass of cider
that blisters the glass with condensation
as we trade hats and laugh at the way the air smiles.
I will love you
all the way inside a branch where buds dream of Becoming,
where those one-day-flowers stir wooden hearts
into an uprising, into a blossoming life
and we will plant our ambitions there, in the blooming place.
I will love you
all the way to the square brackets that hold our boxes
because you are my best friends, and you will be
as we fold papery hands around paper-cut wrists and cry
and mourn eighty-odd years flown by too fast. Even then.
Even then, I will love you still.
love didn't matter, but home was with youi.
there's still shadows left of you
even with the
little that remains. i wish
sometimes the light
would stop it's singing long enough
for them to grow,
my heart spends enough
time aching when
just the photographs
show their faces.
you took me
to a wedding once - it was a cold
night, and the
of stars in the sky made
it seem like God's
breath was reaching out
to earth. i don't remember
the names of the two who
indefinitely, anymore, not
when the wind's taken
in it's hold; but i remember crying because
love's just so damn
hard to find, and you
found me instead behind
the rosebushes that
were too stained to be called
me that sometimes
love doesn't matter, and
i (did)n't want to
you asked me once if anything
mattered, a lighter
gracing one hand and a
cigarette lining your
lips. i wasn't
sure back then
and i don't know
if i am now
(but i think i want to say yes).
my body never felt
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tendered
by old age and wiping away childrens' crying
so they were leathered and carefully painted
with a veneer of the dust made by old books,
but when he read to me the pages didn't shake
and his throat didn't contract about the words
like they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.
Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.
Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-dead
and carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;
until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.
Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.
I see the fear of burdenship as the only thing
that makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.
I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my hero
as my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
Diamond TearIn silence
I observe them
Laughing and having fun
While I'm in my corner
I feel out of place
I don't belong here
So I leave
And no one notices
Now I'm out on the street
A dark and silent one
Enjoying the breeze
Lost in my thoughts
Suddenly I hear a sob
And I look around
I see a girl
Sitting on a bench
A single diamond tear
Running down her face
I don't know her
No one else is around
I could just leave
But I can't
So I sit by her side and ask
Without looking her in the eyes
For a moment
And then she takes my hand
And we look
Into each other's eyes
And she whispers
SafeI clasped my hand tight shut around my mothers.
I was a possessive oyster wrapped around pearly fingers
bitten white by the freshly whisked air.
We braced ourselves against the frozen metal frames
that, although unmovable by infantile hands,
were not a substantial enough barrier against a tempest.
The sea lashed out its limbs in a fury
and the sky’s face paled grey with worry
at what that grasping anger might achieve.
It rose to greet us, stood on mighty churning haunches
and collapsed heavily around our shoulders
with the dramatic violence of a dancer
crashing down upon a splintered Tibia.
It drenched us, filling mouths and ears with water.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine, comforting,
and as the sea drew back again,
preparing to strike out at us over and over
until its very exhaustion point – and over once more –
As it readied itself to slash our raincoats,
with the force of an evening spiralling into true darkness,
over and over –
for a moment the smell o
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
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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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