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ciannie Nov 2015
fear me not, though I am armed.
I have opened my entry to that next country,
and my heels sit upon its border.
gentler, guiltier than last time, I reach for thee
and as I drown and I dry, I hope for her to see.
for my drama and theatre studies lesson today we had to reimagine the Shakespeare of Othello's dying speech into our own words, and then perform it- this was my reimagining.
ciannie Nov 2015
His golden nails are tapping.
He awaits the future, greyly.
Bored of patience, forbidden from napping.
He ages more than anyone, daily.

She pirouettes each day, gorgeous.
Third in the nine-person dance line.
Her talents are enormous.
She's a little ill, but doing fine.

The nurse takes care of her wards.
She rules what her mistress creates.
Everyone and thing adheres to her laws.
She loves not, but never hates.

He looks at the nurse on the lovely sphere.
Taps his watch, keeps her in time.
The nurse's wards have learnt to hear.
Their technology is a mime.

The nurse and he have a special bond.
Ever since the dancer decided to bloom.
Of one another they are fond.
But sleep each in a separate room.
time and nature.
ciannie Nov 2015
moondust: i take some, pour it
down my throat.

the sensations fill my stomach.
i release a powder of knowing
with every breath

stardust: i hold some, drizzle it
into my hair

it dries my scalp to concrete
sets my hair golden, fizzing, spitting
burnt from tip to root

sundust: i taste some, keep it
nestled on my tongue

biting into my cheeks, exploding
blinding me inside out, nuclear and archaic
stuck in my teeth

earthdust: i rub some, all over
my body won't react

clay shell, molluscs, squirming skin
plants sprout from my fingernails, eyelashes
my neck covered

spacedust: i kiss some, light lips
my cheeks clench

it dusts my eyelids, pretty, multi-coloured
turns my belly-button into a black hole
i take in everything.
spacey, mm.
ciannie Nov 2015
she awoke one morning to find wings upon her back
spread out across the length of her room
she had trouble getting out of the door
and every room she left and house she exited
she knocked things askew
destroyed more and more

she met a boy down-town of a similar strange sort
he was covered, every single last inch of him
in crawling, hugging spiders
his face was obscured and his tongue black
as he spoke, more came from his throat
fatter, hairier, wider

they fled together to a beach where a big bonfire sat
and around, for hundreds, in the fog, were others
others like them; outsides varied, insides same
there were some with wings too, the girl saw
but all stopped what they were doing as a sound was heard
and eyes turned toward the colossal flame

the people sat and gathered at the fire's base, close-knit
she linked arms with an old man with tears pouring from each wrinkle
and a little girl made of air
this crowd watched, enraptured for hours like moths
until the bonfire spluttered, stuttered, went to sleep
and wrote in the charcoal left: 'despair'

the boy with the spiders took her aside; his hands tickled
he bade the girl to wade out with him, into the swash
which giggled beseechingly at her toes, flecked with frost
the crowd of the beach overheard, and together they all joined
to slink into the fog and ocean depths united
to become, like the people of the night before them:
eternally lost.
based off a contemporary story idea.
ciannie Nov 2015
I breathed, and with my breath
gave birth, again and again and again.
My lungs housed planets
which flew from my lips
to rest in a space not too far from the nest
of infinity-wide hips.
I perfumed myself with the stardust
that lay about my shelves,
while my eyes wandered to the children
who kept their quiet and took their time
to build their lives away from mine.

Nine children: four boys, four girls-
One lonely in-between, the closest to my breast,
chilled by the distance from its father's heart.
My third child, of the cleanest hue
leapt bounds ahead the others, covered
white, green and blue.
If the others are jealous, they never say so
for their silence is their virtue,
their mystery their status.
But, despite her siblings' monarchy glamour,
it was my third baby, who became a mother.

I paint my nails with the polish given
as gifts from my un-answering offspring.
They throw me pieces of their atmosphere
to wear around my neck,
and I accept all these gifts with gratitude,
glad they exercise respect.
My third child sends me probes, satellites,
and sends rocket ships to her uncle.
Her children thrive and mine her body,
and she sits daintily, between her sister and her brother,
allowing them to farm her so; her duty as a mother.

As I age, the wrinkles of my skin deepen, and
occasionally, something far away collapses.
I find I age better than their father; better than
all the fathers that came ahead.
I have always outlasted them.
I will never lie upon a deathbed.
It is my duty as their mother to watch
as my babies eventually perish.
Aged well, aged strong, dramatic endings.
But such is life, and such am I, and I am always law-
and after death comes life again, multitudes and more.
ciannie Nov 2015
her dress is made of molten ore
silk against her springy skin
her eyes are pressured pebbles of summer core
nine hundred lives from wearing thin
the scarf she wound around her hips
softer than a lamb
the teeth behind upturned boat lips
smile graceful and pre-planned
she extends her long, slender wrist
coaxes us all into one mineral
a tender jewel, a pretty twist
worn until her funeral
ciannie Nov 2015
he is lying, sound asleep
his breath expelled with the careful calculation
of a heart wide awake
wide open-
wondering, what would it be like
to take that heart between my fingers
hold it close
pry the sides apart and kiss
all there was to see?

running through the vessels are images
the sweetest, the most honest
he has never been so bare
dancing amongst his bloodstream
is me, are his dreams
his secrets-
shut the heart like a diary, put it back in place
pressing it lovingly
lying once more, by his side, studying his curtained eyes
that unconscious smile at my heaviness

the mattress is a little lumpy, God knows
but there are blankets aplenty
it was me who guided him here
weary, tired but still gleeful
into my arms
my ******* act as pillows, and as his head rises with my chest
overwhelmed becomes me, tears ***** my eyes
fall into mine and his sunshine and bonfire hair
tickles his freckles
pours into his skin
fuels his pulse
sets aflame his muscle
a messenger to his spirit
and he wakes

he asks me what is wrong, drowsily, hand where
perhaps he had felt his heart removed and replaced,
chin at my collarbones.
my eyes ripple and convulsing, choking on affection,
my arms fly about him, my whispers entreat his ears,
my gifts for him
the effects he has on me are tidal waves impossible to plot
though known is it to me that he has a calendar of them
within his chest
so, "nothing" comes my answer, care consuming volume
"okay" says he back, then settles down to once more
fall asleep upon my *******
no real style here..
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