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The Deepest Partin the deepest part of my head
i try every door
jammed with expensive chewing gum
and congealed turkey fat left over from thanksgiving
it makes me sick
i turn to run
run run run
get out of this place
but when i get to door where i came in
its jammed too
the door grins at me
with splinters for teeth
and peepholes for eyes
they look at me obscenely
not missing an inch of me
even seeing inside me
to the deepest part of my head
to the deadlines
i keep locked in there
in the deepest part of my head
Molly McBrideI'm going to tell you a story,
the story of Molly McBride,
a girl, six and ten
a girl with a pen
Who made a corpse cry when she died.
Miss Molly McBride, she loved to create,
crafting beautiful words with her pen,
but along came a spider
who sat down beside her
And infected the girl, six and ten.
That small wicked spider made her oh, so sick,
they thought that she may die,
so she sat on a tomb
to wait out her doom
When a spry dancing corpse caught her eye.
The corpse danced a jig, and whistled one too,
'twas a sight young Mol had ne'er seen,
with his fingers all blacked
and his back all cracked
Sang the corpse, 'The name's Jacky James Green.'
'O Jacky, dear Jacky, what a wonderful name,
would you mind if I danced with you?'
So he took her by the hand
though she struggled to stand
And they danced the whole night through.
The night began to come to a close,
but the gruesome pair continued to dance,
though their shoes had worn
and their feet were torn
the seed sown that night was romance.
Red Don't Have No Mercy in This LandEvery once in a while, a lonely girl would go down to the muddy river. She would sit down on a felled tree. And she would cry. She would cry and bite her fist to keep her sobs muffled and dig her fingernails into her palm until blood was pulsing down her arm. Her sobs would gradually die down, she would regain composure, and she would go home.
I'm that girl. The name's Kay. Where were we? I was headed home.
'Hel-oo,' Vince greets me as I shut the door behind me.
'Hey, Vince.' I navigated around the various piles of junk to get to the fireside to sit next to him. He had wrapped a stiff plaid blanket around his old shoulders but he still looked uncomfortably cold, even though the day had been a scorcher to say the least. I wished I could help him by making him a cup of tea, but tea was expensive. And illegal.
I heard something from upstairs and asked Vince what it was.
'Oh, that girl from 'cross town stopped by and asked after you. Told her to wait for you to get back.'
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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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