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Dean Eastmond Mar 2015
Benevolent, blurred and undefined:
cocooned within eloquent dispositions
linen nightmares
threaded fingertips

escape to dizzier stars
tightened, suspended,

a constellation of misplaced stars
burrowing for warmer skin,
Dean Eastmond Jan 2015
Have mercy on this body,
it is learning to bend and shape,
but creaks and occasionally splits,
releases sighs from spinal aches,
the vertebrae laying lifeless, loving you so,
whispering of lip marks but no teeth,
sunsets but no rises, a bed but no you.
These aches are old, I know,
these aches are tired, I'm sorry,
this skin is a poem and
I leave unedited drafts of myself
in every bed
that has ever held me,
ever fractured me with metaphor,
abandoned with a half-cocked heart.

Take my bullets out.
Have mercy.
Dean Eastmond Jan 2015
My fingertips bruise
Whenever I touch him,
Ribcages tighten and confine
Me to what I am to be;
Pavement cracked and crippled
Under the weight of word.
Lungs expand to accommodate him,
But he just complains about
The noise of my heartbeat.
I am sanctioned under a law of silence,
Forbidden by growth and loss,
Entrusted in splinters and expected
To heal
Dean Eastmond Jan 2015
Head tilted upwardly opened. Eyes closed.
Ceiling desired and lulled.
He is the silhouette of a dream,
Ashes and dust,
Smoke and smoke and smoke,
Carcinogenic and mine.
He opens his mouth to speak,
Shrouded in carbon and yearning.
He is the reason I drift,
He is forgetting who's air I am breathing
and remembering the flames I used to be.
Dean Eastmond Jan 2015
Collapsed beautiful,
undefined and sharpened,
collated in the fatality of eyes;
I am slipping underneath
your eyelids, dust
trapped in kaleidoscope dreams,
Our words match, do we? Do we?
My joints mix between the blue and greys
of your optic landscape,
strengthened enough to resurrect
sunken ships. Submerge thought.
Fallen perfection, put the maps away.
Escape. Blink me out.
Dean Eastmond Jan 2015
My hands entire in splits
from the broken fences
you managed to escape from.
Old memories soak tendons,
douse fingertips; ignite.

Suns set and the metals
in my blood
no longer act as a magnetic
means of reeling in our stars.
My palms are a midnight prism,
encaging bruised hearts
below broken darkness,
under thickening skin.
I no longer expect you to return.

Yet these 27 bones
still manage to remember you.
Dean Eastmond Jan 2015
It snowed that morning,
scarring the end of something
pitied lost repression,
buried with each shy snowflake.

Uncontested petals from the
formerly statuesque tress, fell,
dancing their merry little
way to the vacant ground.

And a feather dropped from
an outcast swan, alone it
surrendered to the frigid
incapability of the terra firma.

On that Saturday morning,
nothing could have fallen,
as sporadically as I did,
for each of your rays.
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