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2.9k · Nov 2018
The Greatest Show On Earth
Dante Nov 2018
When I was fourteen,
I had the sun in my mouth.

I, a baby with parted lips.
The world dancing before me.
Like the greatest show on earth.

Here, the greatest fool.
A devil, a child.

The dumbest romantic you have ever known.
The softest, sweetest buffoon.
Imbecile.
Idiot.
The biggest joke to come out of a woman.

...

And yet, what could be more pure
than to say the words
and not know what they mean?

To have no fault. To be unaware.
To know only wonder
and tears.


Horned child of paradise.

       Hold yourself
and sing into the night.
    Cry into your arms



      and say goodbye.
Goodnight
Dante Oct 2013
Empathy
is the ultimate art

and I
a man of little identity
complete myself
in the image of a killer’s demons.



I’ve lived another’s hell,
and dreamt viciously of my own.
966 · Nov 2018
In Your Dream
Dante Nov 2018
In your dream
they took you
and your skin scraped the floors
of some place terrible.
“You’re hurting me” you said.

You live here.

Your back bends over a table
and the woman snarls at you into finishing.
Fill in the blanks.
How many days in a year.
Something screams inside you, and you know you’ve written the wrong answer.
You are humiliated before them all.
“I should fail you” she says.
“I can’t do this” you beg.
But nobody understands you,
speaking in tongues like you do-
child-devil;
like animals weeping their life into deaf ears, telling stories in whines and tears .

...

In your dream
His usual dyed mustache
now parading its natural white.
Something’s changed in him

but you know it’s not enough.

You open your mouth
in tongues, in tongues
but this is a dream
and in this dream, they understand.

“I know what you did to me. I know who you are.
Selfish. Selfish.
You came for my light
because yours had extinguished.”

Crushed by the truth, his heart crumbles.
He understands.
They all do.

Joy.
You’ve won.
And you wake.

You wake.
965 · Nov 2018
Bright Wanderer
Dante Nov 2018
Bright Wanderer,

Your heart beats to the tune
of a strange, strange song.
The world thinks you a devil;
ugly child, belonging in the night.

Horned thing, who are you?

A wanderer, a hermit,
fearful and small.
A wonderful fool
who cries when they fall.

Take your stick.
Tie your shoe.
The path to the forest will never close.

The trees are alive
sticks become swords.
Grasp it firmly, dear, fool with horns.

For great evil awaits you,
terrible things lie ahead
and only you can defeat them
only you can extinguish it.

Bring company, child
and speak much
for when you are with friends,
words turn into rhymes.

Sing with them,
whoever they may be,
and when the sun falls,
may you lull the them to sleep

with your strange, strange song.
792 · Oct 2013
Demon Drugs
Dante Oct 2013
Eyelids are heavy.

I can feel the full moon
eating away at my former self.

I’ve never felt so sick.
I’ve never felt so alive.
My body is crushed
must’ve gotten hit by a truck.
My head is bleeding.
My fists recently crushed something.
There’s a body next to me; knocked out and bruised.
I’ve never felt so alive.

Demon drugs.

2:30 in the morning
In the middle of nowhere.
I walk, each step echoes
like drums
like drums.
My fists want to crush something.
I’m bleeding.

Give me more demon drugs.
Give me more demon drugs.
Like drums, like drums;
give me more demon drugs.

I’m running now,
I can’t see anything.
My legs lead me into the void.
I’ll get shot, I’ll get killed, *****, eaten, loved.
I’ll **** whatever I find, I’ll **** anything that moves.

It’s cold. My blood is boiling. I’m sick.
I’ve never felt so alive.
I’ve never felt so sick.
My body is crushed.
I’m running, like drums, like drums.
I’m so hungry.

Give me more demon drugs.
Give me more demon drugs.
Like drums, like drums;
give me more demon drugs.

I’m so hungry.
I’m so hungry.
**** me. Hit me.
I’ll **** you.
I’m so hungry.

Give me your love.
Give me your drugs.
Demon drugs.

Give me more demon drugs.
Dante Jun 14
It becomes clear to me that growing into an adult has little to do with leaving anything behind, and more to do with the responsibility of knowing.
Forget your worries about keeping your soft animals. You can keep them. You can keep your colorful things. But think: what will you do with what you know?
This is the real question.

You are an adult, which only means that you have lived long enough now that you must decide what to do with your knowledge. It is your duty.
What will you do now that you have seen the world is not kind? Will you be kind in its place? Will you be kind to everyone you meet? Or will you hoard your kindness, like a tired dog whose fur has fallen in all its scars?

What will you do, now that you know fear and all its soldiers? Will you hurl rebellion in a glass bottle to those who weaponize it? Will you scream back at it when it tells you to silence yourself? Will you hold the other’s hand, when they tell you quietly, that they too are afraid?

What will you do, now that you know love and all its terrors? Will you embrace it? Will you work to move through it? Will you want it even after it shows you your lover’s own fears? Will you learn to swim in it, so that you don’t drown like children do?

What will you do now that you know suffering, despair, the state of all around you? Will you sit and watch? Will you turn away from duty, to keep your soft animals close and sigh, “I’m nothing but a pretty babe in the wood”? Or will you pick up your fists, and march towards that which needs changing, with all the colorful things in your pocket, and the soft animal, sleeping safety back home?
What will you do, darling babe, now that you’ve grown, now that you know?

Decide. That is what the adults must do.
773 · Oct 2015
Data Hoarding Hysteria
Dante Oct 2015
My name is Michael Ross.
There is no time.
Grab the papers.

I found the pattern.
I found the solution.

Nobody can know.
They are eyeing me with suspicion as beads of sweat decorate my skin.

Don't make eye contact.
Hide the papers.

Don't say anything, don't look, don't look.
I grab my coat too tight.
The harder I grasp, the harder it is to breathe.

The truth is strangling me.

I am leaving this building.
The solution leaves with me.
Nobody can know.
They are eyeing me with suspicion as the pen hits the
ground.

Time becomes thick
as the object yelps in pain,
the mocking sound sudden,
breaking the silence once dripping in salvation.


They know.


My heart stops and they all look at me,
eyes growing wide and hungry.

Jeremy understands the new found horror and signals me to run
as they position their bodies the way predators do
when they trigger terror in their
prey.


The door is too far.
My legs race against a mob of data hoarding mad men.

I'm almost out.

The sunlight bleeds from under the door.

The outside is cold. It might snow tonight.

My body slams against the exit.


...


It's locked.
He knew.


I look over my shoulder in horror;
the faces
of
hunger and
absolute greed;

I am about to die.

My name is Michael Ross.
The lights drilled to the ceiling
are no longer visible.
There is no time.

I found the pattern.
Nobody can know.

I found the solution.



I found the

solution.
768 · May 18
Foreign Land
Dante May 18
I hope you know that this is foreign land.
I hope you know that when the men and women of home told me,
“You are a fool to dream”, I grew to despise their voices.
That when they told me travel was ludicrous, black was sin, and I a devil because I was a 12 year old autistic child,
I grew to despise their land.
It was not my land, I’d say. It was theirs. It was their rotting green, their putrid sand, La Isla Del Encanto.

I hope you know that this is foreign land.
I hope you know that when I left the Island, I left that house.
It was all I knew; the house, el pueblo. The men who saw me with hungry eyes. The moriviví sprouting from the wood. The church whose women scorned me.
The grave my father slept in.

I hope you know it was a terrible thing, the bone thrown at me, the thing I had to eat because nobody knew to give me meat.
Marrow. The only love I’ve ever known.

You must know. This is foreign land.
This place you call free, this place with flag blood-stained and heavy.
This place I cannot seem to breathe in, where I cannot sit without first buying coffee even if my voice cannot come out, where my head is wanted because my mind is a darkened white, my skin is muddied by race, my eyes are black, black like your wood deer and owl– and I hear the voices of the men and women from home who learned from the white man to say— black is sin.
My skin was made to be loved by the sun, my nails were grown from the bark of the tree en los montes. I am carved from the stories my teacher told me of los Taínos, and slashed with the lesson that Cristobal Colón was a man to be celebrated.

I hope you know your land is foreign.
I hope you know your flag is bloodied.
I hope you know that when I stand on your soil, my body knows

it is not free.
767 · Oct 2015
God, Tamed
Dante Oct 2015
You flip, you writhe;
the outline of your body dripping onto me.
And how could I,
spectator and obsessed child,
stop salivating at the sight of your shapeless body?

The lights die into your hips,
your cheek melting in dim slate blue.
Your lips hover above mine.
Your eyes whisper "******" ;
please **** me,
so that I may never see another light again.

And your formless dancing,
a quill that drips in colorless ink.

If I cut you open,
you would bleed oceans into me;
the blood of a god,
water as clear as my love of you.

Your movements hiss,
your shadow tangles.

Please.
Let me touch you.

But your lips curve
and you
prance away from me.
What hides behind your teeth?
What secrets nestle under your tongue?

I've never seen a creature as wild as you.

Your eyes whisper
"******".

**** me,
so that I may never
love
again.
745 · Dec 2016
Dulce Compañia
Dante Dec 2016
"Darling Guillaume, grace me with your presence for a quick moment?"

The man beckons, inviting warmly with a graceful tone you've come to recognize as a safe place. "Yes?" you speak before reaching him, the sound of your voice somewhat faint to him as you turn to enter the kitchen, your response lingering in the hallway.
The windows are open. The air is fresh, clean and cool. The breeze is swimming in, tugging ever so gently at a lock of the man's hair, golden strands hovering for a moment before falling back into place.

You are seventeen years young, your skin is tight around your neck and your wrists feel no pain. This is your apartment. There are fruits on the counter, some of them you don't remember buying. That's because you didn't.
The red grapes- next to your preferred white grapes- are his. There are also slices of watermelon in the fridge, along with some strawberries and a small jar of cherries that seems to never empty.
He hardly ever bakes anything and when he does, it's always something that can be eaten cool. Nothing too warm for him, though you've seen that hot chocolate is an exception to that rule. He loves fruit and cold drinks, has a terrible sweet tooth and is absolutely shameless about it. He smiles often and when he laughs, you feel he is the very embodiment of joy.

You brush a lock behind your ear before he turns from the counter quickly to face you. You both have similar hair; his is a few inches longer, curls less than yours, and is a visibly lighter shade than your dark mane. Yours is shorter, curling inwards as it rests on your shoulders.
The man gazes into you; he is never afraid of eye contact. You aren't either, but given that you consider him in many ways a stranger still, it's slightly unnerving, and gives you the impression that he has a certain power that he well knows cannot be subdued. Confidence some would call it.
As for ****** similarities, there are some, not that they're very pronounced. You both have light eyes, but yours are a deep blue with chestnut and chocolate overtones, often appearing emerald green under certain lighting; much more earthly than his- an almost unnatural, true green that shines harlequin under dim lighting, like a cat's eyes glowing under the moonlight.
He seems particularly happy right now, and you can't tell if his cheerful demeanor (though not unusual) is him being in an especially playful mood today or a hint of what's to come. That is to say, another lesson.

"Hold this egg for me, will you?"

You do as you're told, looking around in an attempt to distract yourself while you wait. You don't know what you're waiting for exactly, but you assume it will only take a minute. The kitchen is illuminated completely, very bright. It's a lovely day, sunny and perfect for a walk, you think. Maybe you'll go out later.
You hold the egg for exactly five seconds before realizing the man is staring at you- smiling beautifully with what some might mistake as bedroom eyes; but you know better.

"...What?" you ask, your voice small suddenly. A smile slowly tugs the corners of your lips and you resist, both out of embarrassment and stubbornness; you don't want to submit so easily. It's quite noticeable- you couldn't hide it well, but he isn't offended in the slightest. You are, after all, so very young. He expects you to have this kind of- rather charming- behavior, and accepts it fully.

"Feel it."

He speaks quietly but with sparkling, eager eyes, like he's about to let you in on some grand, fascinating secret, and you are reminded of a dear friend.
Being a memory you visit often, it takes half a second to remember it clearly- your best friend- running towards you, tie bouncing on his chest. He wears his school uniform, it's lunchtime, and he is eager to tell you how he's found the perfect spot to relax (or study, if needed) during this hour. "You both make for a funny sight, you know!" you'd have friends tell you often. You weren't very eager to admit it then, but it's true. You can picture it now- tall, lanky, grinning class president next to short, grumpy, quiet you. Ah, the memories.
You've both been busy, settling into lives completely independent from the help of your parents. You make a mental note to call him when you have the time.

You stroke the egg with your thumb, gazing at it intently. There's something the man wants you to know and he's not going to give you the answer on a silver platter- it's not that easy, you've learned that by now. He's played games like this before where he begins a conversation suddenly- often starting with an odd, seemingly-out-of-place question- with the intention of teaching you something.
He is strict in his belief that answers should not be given but found, and if one wishes to teach something, one should guide the other to help them understand, but never lead the way. Leading would result in the thought that lessons are a destination- and that isn't the case at all. To simply give you an answer is a sin to this man, and maybe this is why you've learned so much with him.
You want your answer to please him. Yes, and that may be difficult- because at this point, there is simply no way for you to know what the correct answer could possibly be.
No matter. You'll have to work with what you have at the moment. That being, not much.

"It's... smooth."

To that, he smiles with his eyes. You don't know it, but he's very happy with your answer. Partly because he never asked a question in the first place, and your attempt to answer something that has yet to be asked is, in his opinion, a sign of a good student- one willing to learn.

"Mm. It is." He takes the egg from your hands, holding it a few inches away from his chin and observing it for the entirety of two seconds before turning his gaze to you.
His face betrays the look of a father determined to put his son on the right path; a look that says "I will not let you go until you have understood".
But he's too gentle for that. You know he'd let you go if you ever spoke of wanting to stop a lesson. Not that that's happened before. He's always so tactful that you never have reason to feel uncomfortable around him. You appreciate it; you're not terribly tolerant of tactless people, even if you do feel quite guilty about it, especially when they do seem to be trying. C'est la vie.

He is silent for a short moment, his voice replaced by the distant laughter of children playing outside. It's then that you notice the cherry.
The single red fruit, small and unassuming, sat just behind him on the counter, closer to the window than him, and you wonder for a moment if he was planning to eat it before calling you to talk. You're vaguely alarmed at the thought, for cherries aren't something he will eat often, and you've noticed that they seem to be reserved for what appear to be private special occasions- he will sometimes eat a single cherry while deep in thought, staring out the window (you've caught him people-watching a few times like this), and you wonder if he was thinking about you this time, and dropped the cherry to have some sort of urgent talk with you.
However, that doesn't seem to be the case, so you push the thought aside, unconsciously replacing it with one of your favorite memories of the man-
"Cherries are dangerous," you recall him explaining one day, "they are toxic in their excessive sweetness. Eat no more than two a week, or you'll be taken by the cherry man!" You never forgot that conversation, although it’s whimsical charm wasn’t the reason why- it drilled itself into your memory the moment you realized two very interesting things.
The first being that by "cherry man", he meant the Devil, and the second being more of a doubt than anything else- cherries are not that sweet. His argument would make more sense if he was talking about cake, for example. Whenever this memory surfaces, there is always a vague sense of confusion and wariness hidden just under the more pleasant feelings you prefer having. Nevertheless, the general sentiment in his words is that excess can be detrimental to the soul. "Greed is a terrible sin, you know." And this is why the cherry jar never empties.

"Hellooo..."
Oh- goodness, he's waving his hand in front of you. You blink a few times, responding with a rather ungraceful 'Huh?', blushing slightly from the embarrassment.

"Where did you go?" He's chuckling as he asks, and you can feel the warmth on your cheeks.

"Ah, nowhere."

He smirks with a small "hmph", before giving you a proper smile, pausing to let you come back to him fully before continuing, egg held up in his hand:

"What is the egg now, Guillaume?"

You look at it, held between his middle, index finger and thumb. What is the egg now. What a strange question. Of course, it isn't as strange coming from him; you don't think you'll ever get used to his odd lessons, but his behavior when teaching you things nobody else would is something you've come to expect by now.
What is the egg? It isn't an elephant, it isn't square. There are many things it isn't, sure. You search in your head for a possible answer, one he'll deem correct, 'till you decide on-

"It's nothing."

-a dishonest one.
For someone who's not very tolerant of tactlessness, that sure was, well, tactless. Why did you say that? Insincere and blurted out without any thought. He takes notice immediately, and you wordlessly apologize profusely, combing your fingers through your hair and avoiding eye contact.

He's much older than you. He's also wise- wiser than most people his age, you think. Whatever the man wants to teach you, it's obviously something he already fully understands. The fact that he knows more than you however, does not mean you are below him; he never wants you to do anything for the sake of pleasing him and what you've done just now is exactly that. He can, however, sympathize- he's a perfectionist himself and understands the desire to do things right. There is a time and place for everything though; an order, and what you've shown now is good intention misplaced, which is a potentially dangerous thing.
He has no concerns regarding the acceptance of chaos when it is necessary,
that isn't the problem. The problem is that your dishonesty is chaos in a situation that warrants order.

"I don't want you to try to please me, Guillaume. I welcome incorrect answers so long as they are entirely honest."

There is a pause, and he sighs before remembering just how young you are. He realizes you might have accepted him as a parental figure or mentor of sorts by now, and it's an honor, really- you're a bright boy and he enjoys your company very much.
Your accepting him as a parental figure however, does not give him the right to scold you; no, that would horrible. If you will learn, it'll only be because you will allow him to teach you. He must never force his way into you.

"Look at me." His voice is firm but gentle.
You hesitate for a second, but whatever you were feeling is gone the moment you notice his expression- warm and inviting; "try again" it says. You are willing to now.

"You can see the egg, can you not? Surely it isn't nothing if it's still a part of your reality. You see an egg, and that still makes it one."
He hides it behind his back, and you are confused at the action but eager to understand. You give him a questioning look and he smiles before giving you an answer.

"What is the egg now?"

With a question, anyway.
You think long and hard, silently focusing all your attention on the creases of his shirt. You stare at the man's chest for a full minute and a half, determined not to make the same mistake again. You will answer honestly, yes; but you will also impress him- and possibly yourself- with a good answer.
The subject isn't exactly new or difficult for him, you're sure. He will sometimes leave the house and not return for a day or two and when questioned, responds with an inconclusive "Mm. Studying." You still aren't sure what that means and you feel it's best not to think too much about it, but surely it has something to do with these lessons of his, no?
He's obviously studied this before, you think; you are operating on a much lower level than him and have a vague awareness of this. It just isn't as pronounced because the man insists on treating you as his equal. As far as he's concerned, you are both students capable of learning from each other every day. You hope to one day teach him something, and not by accident, as it tends to happen. Soon, perhaps. Maybe now.
You look up at him with a determined look on your face, satisfied with your conclusion.

"An idea. The egg is an idea-"

"Why?"

You barely finish saying your answer when he's already questioning your reasoning. You'd be nervous if you didn't already know that his bluntness wasn't the result of annoyance, but of curiosity. He is eager to teach, yes, but he is more eager to learn. After all, a good teacher hasn't accomplished much if they haven't learned anything from their student.
New ideas need to exist. In conversation, one should always aim to walk away with new information, a new perspective. Sometimes this information is given to you, other times you must take it; something he's given you is the ability to think more critically. He's all but trained you to do so. It's much easier now to get into this mindset than it was when you first met the man. You're glad to have had the chance to practice this sort of thing at all; you don't think you could have done it with anyone else.

"Because there is ultimately no way for me to know if the egg still exists."

There really is no way to be sure.
The egg isn't a part of you any longer. You can no longer see it, or touch it. You can't hear it, either. It isn't there anymore and having seen it being hidden, all that there is now is the suggestion of it's existence.
Your answer was truthful and concise and you feel nothing else need be explained. When you search the man's face for any signs of contentment, you find none. No, what you find is something quite different. An absolutely luscious smile, and those bedroom eyes.
His voice turns low and he speaks clearer- a calm tone of voice that would make anyone submit if he asked them to.
He's challenging you. Both begging and demanding you to win.

"But I know the egg exists. I am telling you it does. Am I lying?"

His voice could be very seductive sometimes. Especially at times like this, when daring you to step further into his world.
His world. One that was always bright and pleasant and hid something underneath- a barely audible humming that you've managed to ignore until very recently. If there was such a thing as feeling a lack of light despite there physically being none, you felt it every time the man dared you to chase him into his labyrinth.
There was just something very visceral that would bleed through sometimes; in his eyes, his hand gestures, in his voice.

"It doesn't matter." you tell him, your words quick and blunt.
He is amused. Shocked, even. You push away the rising bravado before it fully shows; don't want to jinx it now.
Eyebrows raised, he gives you an impressed "Oh?" and you continue, clarifying to back up your risky (despite yielding good results) answer.

"Assuming you are holding it in your hand right now, it's still an egg to you. By the mere act of touching it, it becomes a part of your realm of understanding; it exists to you, right now, as what it is- an egg."

You can't see it of course, but he's mindlessly stroking it with his thumb now, much like how you did at the start of this conversation. Both his hands are behind his back, resting on the counter he leans on. He listens intently.

"...You tell me it still exists, but that doesn't change what it's become to me. It stopped being an egg the moment you hid it from me. No matter what you know to be true, that reality isn't always going to be a shared one.
You have an egg, I have an idea."

There can be many correct answers, he thinks. He doesn't believe in there being a single, ultimate truth about anything. If the self is all one can know, why is one's understanding of the universe not considered a reality in itself, one separated from what most consider the only reality? Your explanation follows this concept and he's thrilled tha
This is fanfiction, but you don't need to be in any fandom to understand and enjoy this, I've made it accessible enough for everyone to understand; the fandom bits in this aren't crucial to the story, so everyone can enjoy it (although people in the fandom might enjoy it differently, but that goes without saying I guess).

It's daftpunk/label au for anyone who wants to know.
Guy-manuel and Crydamoure are the characters.

-
731 · Feb 11
Idiot Doctor
Dante Feb 11
When all is done
and your tools have cut into me
when the audience roars
and Satan asks me, "How was it?"

know this,
with every part of you that is able to know:

I'll make sure to save you a seat
in the coldest theater of hell.
-
Gatekeeping surgeons are the worst.
Dante Sep 2014
One day
I’m going to love something
and it won’t break
under the weight
I carry
of every monster
who tore me apart.
664 · Sep 2014
Traitor
Dante Sep 2014
Soothing were
the words that fell
from your wet tongue.

They fell into my mouth
caressing my lips
before clawing their way
into my lungs
and poisoning the oxygen in me
like knives touch
roadkill-turned-dinner.
Dante May 3
Honey if God is any good,
he'll reward you for cursing him
and meaning every word.

For nothing is sweeter
than a pain fully felt.



-
It’s true, you know.
641 · Apr 2014
Blood Pigment
Dante Apr 2014
I’d break into you;
pull your
ribcage
open,
tear away every obstructing
vein
if it meant
I could finally steal your
heart.
618 · Dec 2018
A prayer
Dante Dec 2018
Dare to touch the world
So that it may touch you back.
584 · Apr 2014
Unicorn (Boy)
Dante Apr 2014
I cursed a man
who believed himself a boy
and buried my love for him
because he did not deserve it.

He deemed me a Unicorn;
a special thing
made entirely for him

...

but I was sown
with the threads of lament
and the colors of pain.

The needles used
to fabricate me
held by a god
who sought to create
a survivor.

And survivors are Monsters.

Vicious things
of a different beauty.
Reluctantly steering clear
of purity and innocence.

..

I was not a Unicorn.
But I was treated like one

for a while.
555 · Oct 2013
Punpunia
Dante Oct 2013
I’m going to live in a big star
with a girl that wants to **** me.

I love the girl, and she loves me too.

The star I’m going to live in
was discovered by me.

I’m gonna win a nobel prize, and have lots of money.
Then I can live in the big star.

I called the star
Punpunia.

Punpunia will be our home.
We’ll be happy, and far away from this place.

Far away.

Far, far away.
Forever.
550 · May 21
And She Is My King
Dante May 21
Cut my jaw with your lip, burn me with your blessed touch. Poison me with that silver tongue o’ yours, good God, preach to me your sweet loving.
Drip your name into my mouth, and I’ll swallow it all.



-
this is an edit/repost! I've fixed it up is all =) might keep the other one.
540 · Jun 2015
Mia
Dante Jun 2015
Mia
I never felt
as hungry as I did
when I saw you
walk into my world.

The students were fresh,
their skin still tight.
All new faces, filling the space in the room.

It's their third year
and my first day.

You introduced yourself,
your hair golden, a strand falling between your eyes,
caressing the bridge of your nose.

"My name is Mia and I love to play outside with all my friends!"

Your name clawed at my heart.
Your hands touched the seat before you sat quiet.
Your hair brushed your hips.
You're missing a tooth.
The color of your eyes strangles me.
I can't breathe.

The rest speak their names and their favorite activity.

This is their third year

and my first day.
It is Professor Wolf's first year teaching at this school.
The third graders introduce themselves.
Mia is amongst them.
516 · May 2017
El Josco
Dante May 2017
Over the small fence, a dark bull does gaze.
A field of green. The breath of God.
You are the child in its eye,
hooded and black
under the unforgiving light of day.

O animal of the youth, beaten and weak,
you are gold in the depths of paradise
and when you breathe, the air doth sting.

Pray, you who may know,
tell me,
what of innocence?
Does the flower wither with time,
or is it eaten by the hungry sheep?
So fragile its stem, so small its leaf;
the velvet petal who falls
and hides amongst the blades.
Survivor, escapist. Alive through day dreams.
Alas.
The moon brings death with it
and under the quiet gaze of her,
sleeps the velvet petal,
lulled by the sweet song of end.
Once whole and well. Now dry and gone.
Tell me,
you who may know,
where hunts the wolf
on the day such tragedy strikes?

A field of green.
The breath of God.

Yes, how awful, how cruel;
how deep the wound.
But more unfortunate yet,
that your heart be the home of so many.

And here, a tree of flames, a sun that sings.
A sea vast and green, and its sister above,
dressed in cloudless blue.
Coquí, coquí, the frog chirps into the night.

How beautiful this land,
how loud its rooster screams.

Death places its hand on your shoulder.

The bull curses you in silence.
-

-

-

I never belonged in this island,
even though I've lived here all my life.
I have terrible memories here.
I'm leaving soon.
-
-
I left...
Goodbye Puertorico.
511 · Oct 2013
Baby Boy
Dante Oct 2013
I tower over forests
I sing for myself
I **** to survive
I claw at hearts, muscles, meat

There is no time to stay
there is no time
there is only time to run
run
hurry
run

I **** with throbbing hands
I eat with flat teeth
I am not human
I never will be human

I am always hungry
I starve enveloped in eternal, beastly urges

I starve
there is no time to starve
there is no time
to sit, stay, lay down

there is no time
run
hurry
run

run run
Dante Mar 2015
"Look, it's fine. Swallow the fish bowl and get it over with."
"Some things are better said than done." Said Jack.
And Jack was right.

BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN'T TRY TO SWALLOW
THE FISHBOWL, YOU PESSIMISTIC NIHILIST.
DO YOU NOT BELIEVE IN COURAGE? IN HOPE??

CONSUME IMPROBABILITY. DRINK YOUR MISTAKES.
BECOME IMPOSSIBLE.
STRIKE FEAR INTO THE HEART OF YOUR GOD.
SWALLOW THE ******* FISH BOWL, JACK.
491 · Dec 2014
Dani Rush
Dante Dec 2014
Pulled around,
pulled apart.

Bend your knees,
form a knot.

I'm gonna
sleep
in your wreckage
tonight.

Gonna twist
your elbows
and dye your pleasures and fears
the same
color.

I'm gonna
tie your hair
to the bed post,
gonna **** out your soul
through your mouth.

So part your lips a little more.
Part your legs a little more.

Pulled around,
pulled apart.

Bend your knees,
form a knot.

I'm gonna
rip out the pretty
and replace it with your sounds.

Gonna
tear away the fabric
surrounding your heart;
make you want to stay
when I let you go.

I'm going to strip you
of your curiosity.
I'm going to
make you unlearn language.

I'm going to hurt you.
I'm going to make you want to bleed.
I'm going to spit my name into your mouth.

I'm going to love you raw.

Pulled around,
pulled apart.
Bend your knees,
form a knot.
Keep it tight,
don't let go.
I'm almost done,

10 more to go.
475 · Jun 2016
Child of Narcissus
Dante Jun 2016
The sleeves are short and tight around your thin arms.
School boy image; slim and delicate.
School is long gone, but you are still so very young;
what with that baby face of yours and all.

A ring- stainless steel, its hard edges giving it a mechanical look- loosely hugs your ring finger. Whenever you flip someone off, it glistens under the sun
and I hope that whoever you're cursing is able to appreciate it too;
the delicate frame of your wrist- small and weak. The nails that you try to keep trimmed but grow too fast and as a result are always a bit longer than you wish they'd be.
The way your fingers fall into position, effortless, never forced.  The way they never bend all the way in despite being perfectly capable of doing so (there is no need to, and this is a reflection of your confidence.). The classic Casio F-91W wristwatch decorating your wrist. Straight out of the 90's-- you are rebellion, teenage rebellion, ****** hair smooth and healthy, polo shirts with popped collars, black skinny jeans torn at the knees.
You sleep somewhere between stupid punk and silent elegance.
A bittersweet drink that burns the throat and wakes the senses.
Somewhere between a drunken, buzzing, neon-lit Miami and a lonely tragedy in the deserts of California.

You are so very you, unapologetically ignorant to the world surrounding you and so very self-aware.
You pick up on details that you say fill your soul- the way the buildings are touched by the sunset's dying light, the patch of fog that settles on a faraway mountain you've never set foot on.
You look at me with eyes that say you understand our exact coordinates in spacetime. That look that is synonymous with the moment a flying arrow begins tearing the flesh.
Your eyes, melancholy, seducing. You speak, the words just barely escaping your throat; but I don't hear them. The universe is silent. Your lips move.

"---- -- --- ----?"

I understand you are asking for some kind of information. I don't know the answer to your words, but I know the answer to your eyes. The answer to many questions you ask, maybe the answer to anything you are able to ask me:
My eyes threaten to shut, almost-closing unevenly, and I say, slowly, in an unlearned language, the sounds a string of milky saliva being pulled out by your tongue:


"---------."

Your name.

because when you look at me, when I see you, there is nothing in the universe. Nothing but all you are, your beauty.
Your hands, your slightly-parted lips, your silver rings, your Casio wristwatch. Your body.
My body.

Our body.

The soft-skinned, smooth, young vessel we share.

Darling boy. You are so beautiful and the world is so *****.
You will never tell them about me, of our time spent in front of the mirror.
They wouldn't understand- it isn't about the contrast between our image and the stupidity of mankind, it's about you.
You, entire.
It's about the moment you raise your hand and the world bows before your image. It's about the distorted voice in your poetry, the voice that is yours. The face that is plastered over everything you create, the face that is yours- made for yourself but offered for all to drink- gullible soup, sugary drug,
secret poison- hidden under a screeching melody.

It's about the cheering crowds that dance as you sing:
"Destruction. War. Chaos."

It's not as shallow as a vain "I am beautiful."
It is something deeper, more translucent, more intangible than any concept that lets itself be understood.
It is a mob of unstoppable energy screaming at you in blind joy when you give out your commands. It is in the voices that cheer:
"Sebastian!
Sebastian!
Sebastian!"


Sebastian.


Schoolboy image, Casio wristwatch.
Your name a page in the bible, moaned in ecstasy.
How beautiful you are, how sweet in your lies, how childish


and how very aware of it all you are.
-This is a sebastiAn fic.

-Cookies to the ones who get the low-key Kavinsky and Electroma reference.
467 · May 2014
Ate Complex
Dante May 2014
Those pearls you call eyes
are a detriment to my ability to stay calm
and the poison that drips from your
mouth
drags me into you;

I’m an addict to your venom.
I’m dissolving in your breath.
I’m falling apart on your
tongue.

Your blood carries the toxin of animals I’ve never heard of
but I swear I’d shoot anything into my veins if you were next to me.



There are moments
of crashing silence;
like angry drunk drivers
quietly crawling to their demise.

In these moments,
your breathing reaches my
gut
and your blood rushes
into my
heart.

I want
to claw my
way into you.
I want to dig into your
ribcage.
I want to be all you feel inside of you.
I want to breathe with your thoughts.
I want to fall down the grooves of your throat,
and dissipate into your
obsession.

I want to be consumed by you.
so all inside you becomes

me
and I

consume

you.
Dante Apr 2016
Hello, Thomas.


The night is waiting for you.


The gatekeeper scans the clothes decorating your figure.
The doors are opening.

Are you ready?

Here you are.
the music floods into you,
washing over you like a wave of colors you’ve never seen before-
rushing past you before you can examine them-
simultaneously melting away
and ripping god knows what away from you.
The experience feels new every time.
It’s a good feeling.
Breathe, and walk in.

This universe is tangled in stardust, in lights and movement.
The ground you walk on invisible,
existing only in vibrations,

mechanical pulse.

The place is littered with sounds- faint and drowning-
of hard breathing, occasional quiet moaning.
(Although they are felt more than they are heard.)
The scent of two hundred and fifty six sweating bodies,
all kinds of different smoke
and liquor;
not so much intoxicating as it is calming.

It’s full tonight.

The air spirals into you- fresh, clear, thin.
Sharp, but never painful;
your lungs full of the scented energy.
Faintly bitter, but never losing that distinct fruity essence.
Ah.
That’s what it is- forbidden fruit.
Toxic and irresistibly sweet.
Your teeth sink effortlessly into the soft surface,
it’s laughing on your tongue.

Candy-laced acid.
Stinging love bite.
Sweet poison,
like a slow french kiss tangled in the need for more.

You walk.

Your body brushes against worn leather,
warm skin.
You make your way through the bodies that feel more like a single entity than separate people (or people at all),
alive only through energy.
Hivemind of young souls.

(You move so slowly…
drink it in.)

If there is a god,
it exists in the body of the human.
As an unexplored force
corrupting the man-made man,
reverting them to pairs of hands that kiss the ground shamelessly,
to bodies that speak through groans and whimpers.
Primal angels.

If there is a god,
it is in this room tonight.

Where are you now?
Where have your slow steps taken you?

Ah.

A throne stands before you,
a familiar image.
The king is another tonight,
but the role of a spectator is almost equally as satisfying.

King.” you think. “Ruler, but not of the people.

He needs no servants
and your eyes are the only ones drinking in his figure,
as the others are too deep in trance, eyes glazed.
Dead, but with the essence of the living.
You observe them for a moment.

They are not bodies anymore- their souls having inhaled the life out of anything you can touch in a human.
You swear you can almost see through them,
the lights kissing, pressing the surface of their ghostly forms.
They’ve probably already been here for hours- unraveling,
evaporating into divine steam.

And what of the king?

He seems rather uninterested, or perhaps some combination of focused and relaxed.
He doesn’t move much. It’s a strange contrast, but not too strange-
it feels right, as though the young man, so unapologetic in his sole state of being,
makes the subtle nodding of his head appropriate, despite the violent nature of the beat.

The music is powerful, steady, reminiscent of your own passionate concentration when the throne is yours.
He’s a handsome fellow.
You chuckle at the thought, maybe you should stop staring now.

Oh.

Eye contact.


For an excruciatingly long moment, neither of you can tear your gaze away- (you are, after all, the only observer- this was inevitable.)
eyes locked on a stranger, reality submerged in the thick liquid that is this knot of sudden, unnamed emotions.
You are unsure if the pounding in your ears is the music or your heart that has leaped into your throat.

He turns his head slowly, still unable to tear himself away, trying to break free form your accidental and- completely unintentional- spell.
He manages to do so (it wasn’t easy),
fixating on the machine before him, his cheeks slightly flushed now.
The expression on his face unchanging.
(You don’t know it, but you’ve cursed him.)

Well, that was interesting.

What a powerful spectator you must be, to distract a king in such a way.

He hunches over the machine, cradling it with his chest and shoulders.
His left hand presses his left ear- the messenger whispering secrets to him;
the sounds that are to come.
He twists knobs with his right hand, clearing the path for the next song.
The track blends with the fading beat and becomes another.
Worlds colliding,
realities woven into one another.

Your shoulders drop,
the tenseness melting away with the melody encased in this secret universe you’ve entered tonight.

“Mmh…”

The music starts to get a hold of you.
You are beginning to submit to it’s voice, it’s demanding pleas.
It begs to be let into your body, to possess and consume you.
You are allowing it to drink away your free will.
There is little left.
You aren’t new to this- but again- it truly is a fresh experience every time.
And how intimate, the vibrations that seem to stroke, caress…
the sampled melodies who’s home you now hear being foreign to them– ‘till they become entwined,
one with their new world, through the love of the people.
And how strange, you think- to come from one universe, but belong in another.

You close your eyes, everything you are coiling around the music now,
and accept that this- here-
is the universe you belong in.

The room disappears along with your body.
Sensation and soul make up all you are.
The king has been observing you quietly,
he’s taken interest in you.

The more you move, the less aware he becomes of his hanging jaw.
His lips are parted only slightly, but his curiosity is evident.
You are impressing him.
The contrast between what he sees now and what he saw in your eyes just a moment ago-
it’s fascinating- how human you were, how familiar- a face in a crowd.
Yet now, how unrestrained, how pure and animalistic you’ve become.
He lets out a huff- eye brows knit together- in what seems like frustration.
He blinks a few times, his expression quickly changing to something like a half-worried look
that is secretly sheer ****** pleasure.
You are unraveling before him.

Thomas,
he’s found God in your movements.

Something of you now belongs to him,
but he doesn’t try to take it, and you don’t consciously give it.
It is a silent, intimate exchange you’ve unknowingly taken part of.

How untamed, what you’ve become.

You smile
as you feel yourself let go of everything you once were,
making it possible for the universe to do with you what it pleases.
You don’t know it, but in this state, the universe is not the only one able to take you,
touch and taste you,
breathe the language of sound into the crook of your neck.
Anyone can.
Anyone watching, that is.

Who’s watching you, Thomas?

It starts off small, like a perfect tasting cigarette, a pleasurable breath-
but soon becomes an overwhelming addiction
wrapped in the fear of having to stop.
You’ve unknowingly given yourself to the king.
He’s unwrapping you like a child dying to know what his christmas gift is,
so desperately and so quickly, that he hasn’t been able to register the event yet
and this translates to a breathless, low moan escaping his lips along with half of his soul
as he watches you, still too shocked by the foreign emotions to manage paying attention to anything
but the gracefully savage mystery before him.

His eyes are on you
and you are not consciously lending yourself to anyone willing to take you,
but here you are, shamelessly exposing yourself without showing an inch of skin.
Similar to the ghosts surrounding you,
save for the fluidity of your movements distinguishing you from the crowd.

His thoughts grow hotter the more your hips sway,
the questions melting into more intimate ones the deeper he goes:
What’s under your shirt?
What would it feel like, to have his hands there? Palming at your chest?
Is your skin warm right now?
Is it sensitive, Thomas?
Are you sensitive?
What shade of red paints your skin when too flustered to speak?
When you’re moaning a boy’s name?
And what would his name sound like
sliding down your tongue, dripping down your chin?
What sounds crawl up your throat when being crushed by repressed desire
like the kind crushing him right now?

Something like pure hatred forces his chest to tighten.
He’s secretly blaming you for the chaos banging the walls of his brain,
yet no part of him wants this to stop.
What he feels is some mixture of hatred and barely contained inhuman lust.
He’s panting now.
Christ, what have you done to the poor man?
You bare your teeth, as if sensing the king’s needy breaths.
You wear a look that he’s seen in lovers who chant his name in bed.
**** it.
The image is too sweet to ignore.

He is suddenly reminded of an old girlfriend.
She was so shy, always hesitant,
but that made the night they had spent together special, sweeter.
She had stripped, baring herself for the king,
all for him, all by herself.

(In a whisper, the words lick up your jaw-)
Just like you, Thomas.

“You’re such a ****; you’re so easy.” he’d whisper, commenting on how she had been waiting for him all day,
just so she could have him breathing commands into her,
making a barely coherent mess out of the girl.
(***** talk was reserved for special people, the times he’d speak during *** were rare, and words like those were to be considered a treasure.)
You are nearly as exposed as she.

…****…
he mouthes, not referring to old girlfriends anymore.
He wants you.

The eyes that have been tugging at your clothes, stealing you,
they blink twice,
what seems like interrupting confusion painted on the king’s face.
His head lowers in shame of admitting his desires,
but soon rises to resume watching his new reason to visit this haven.

It’s somewhat amusing-
you are so lost in ecstasy, you’ve yet to notice him
devouring your image,
silently storing the material you’ve provided him with;
celluloid images that steal the breath from his lungs.

The song is ending. His set is done.
That’s enough.” he thinks, finally breathing,
trying to convince himself that he’s chosen to stop this behavior out of his own free will.
His face turns a lovely shade of pink, the embarrassment sinking in.
He cannot quite understand what’s happened, or how, for you were merely
a pair of eyes that locked on his for a little too long.
He wouldn’t doubt the idea that he’s been possessed, or cursed (or both)
had he been taught to be superstitious at all.
He’s just a stranger…” thinks the king,
“king” no longer a suitable word for what the blushing boy has become.

As if on cue, another is ready to take his place.
It’s time to give up the throne, let another rule the night.
Packing his tools, he remembers your image and tries spotting you in the sea of dancers.
(They’re much more human now, becoming less transparent and more grounded in reality.)
He doesn’t find you.
Where have you gone to?

“…oui…ah- merci.”

You sit on a stool, back facing the swimming lights.
You were thirsty.
The cold inhabiting the glass is transferring to your palm.
The liquid hugs three ice cubes,
it’s only purpose being to coat your throat in something other than saliva.
(You don’t understand why your throat feels dry, what, is saliva not wet? Ugh.)
You fixate on the glass, stroking it slowly with your thumb.

At this angle, there is not enough light entering the glass to truly appreciate the color of the drink.
The lights pound on your back, like waves crashing on rock.
Your body casts a shadow directly over the glass.
The color and shade of it’s contents are a mystery to all but you;

Gold.

It looks lovely when kissed by sunlight,
although the times you’ve had this drink in broad daylight are few.
You have fonder, clearer memories of the liquid glistening under the moonlight, or drowning under muffled lights
like now.

You feel a sense of power over everyone there for a moment-
the lights, ever changing, hide the liquid’s true form;
it becoming a myth, shrouded in doubt.
At times it appears champagne pink.
Laurel green.
Dull, dying vermilion.
Mustard yellow bleeding into a powder blue.
It’s true beauty is a secret nobody in this universe knows of.

Indeed, Thomas.
Tonight, you are the only one who knows the beauty of gold.

An image comes to mind, sudden and powerful-
eyes of the king.
The thought pulls the breath out of you, your lungs empty for a moment.
You inhale shakily, shuddering at the feeling, but loving the memory.
Left. Right.
No one saw that. Good.

…Black and gold.
This sea of darkness, space.
Empty, soundless, but only when lost enough-
enveloped in the crowded, booming universe.

“Mm…”

In that brief encounter, something happened.
You can’t understand it,
but this doesn’t bother you in the slightest.
He was shining, you think, like the only star in a sea of black,
visible to none but you,
the only observer, his only spectator.
(The effects of the drink are settling in now,
the warmth nestling in your chest.
Loose and easy.)

Golden King.

Ruler of the night, star of your world.
Treasure, glistening with sweat.
Your treasure. Your secret. Yours.

“Mine…”

You don’t stop caressing the glass, it being held up in your left hand now, elbow resting on the counter.
You stare straight ahead, through the wall, into nothing, completely lost in thought.
Eyelids lowered in a confident, relaxed look.

Silver smile.
Gleaming, blooming before him.

What are you?- the words are silent in his mind
and he mouthes them without quite realizing it. (The movement is too subtle to notice.)
The king is seated next to you- wide-eyed- no doubt in some initial attempt to speak to you.
Mind-reading powers would be wonderful right now.
He doesn’t know what’s being unveiled before him, but it’s quite a sight-
you are unfolding into something he cannot fully appreciate, your thoughts a mystery to him.

Oh…
The shirt you’re wearing has short sleeves- a little too short.
Short and tight. It’s almost too small on you,
but no.
It only gives the boy a chance to better appreciate your skin.
(He doesn’t remember seeing you like this. There’s a jacket on your lap,
he assumes you took it off when you finished your… display.)
Soft skin.
He looks back at you, (deciding that your skin is not you- there’s more to you and he wants to see that.) your eyes.
Still lost in thought, still a mystery.
A warmth settles in him, a familiar feeling that’s usually induced by watching children play.
Hidden. Pleasantly amusing, delicate.

Delicate.
Beautiful, but in secret.
Moon flower, blooming only in the dead of night,
in it’s own private world.
He is not a part of that world right now,
but this makes your image all the more beautiful.

Distracting thoughts aside, the king truly does enjoy your current display (he almost thinks back to your other display from earlier,
and doesn’t, deciding this is much better).
It’s as if you’ve found the secret to stay forever young, he thinks
and remembers your dancing, what you became.

Divine steam.
The god in you evaporating into the bitter-sweet air.
Precious, eternal for tonight, young.
Forever lost in heaven’s labyrinth.

He hadn’t noticed, but you were speaking. To the bartender, most likely.
You turn and

oh-
oh god.
You’ve found each other.
He had forgotten that was a possibility.

(Golden star.
Silver lips.)

That’s him– that’s the king.
The very same you so confidently claimed as yours a few moments ago.
Did you say it aloud? Does he know?
It was just a fantasy, you think- trying to explain to him- to you- trying to convince someone that it’s not what it looks like.
You forget he can’t hear your thoughts, they bleed into the world and you actually begin speaking, trying to explain that no, christ, you don’t think he’s “yours” in any way.

“I–”

You don’t notice the absurdity of what you’re trying to do right now,
but nothing else comes out.
You are both simply lost in each other, speechless, shocked.
Someone has to breathe, and it’s him who does so first,
being the more lucid one right now.

“Is… is that real leather?”

What?

Your jacket, Thomas. He’s talking about your jacket.

Oh.

“Um… yeah.” You look down at it plainly, not sure of what exactly is happening right now,
then back at him.

There is an awkward pause, broken by a statement that can only be even more awkward,
or not. It’s soothing somehow, you think.

“I play here fridays and sundays at this same hour.”
He speaks holding his breath,
lest he drown in the moment.

Another pause.

“I’d…”
pause.
“like to see you again.”

You’
========================

notes:



-Congratulations, you just read [human]Daft Punk fanfiction.


-Guy-manuel (yes, the gold robot) is the "king".

-Here is the summary I wrote from my original post on tumblr:
*[In which Thomas enters a club and has an intense(ly awkward) encounter with tonight’s dj.
Mostly sfw. Extremely suggestive at times, if anything.
Bitter sweet smells, good dancing and lewd thoughts, old girlfriends, gold-colored drinks and delicate moon flowers.
It gradually gets better as you read.
This is my first ever fic, please be gentle.]*

-No, that title is not entirely french, or spanish, or any language.
It’s a mix of the two.
Secrette and Estrelle  are words I made up (I’m aware these words are a thing already but let’s pretend they’re not because I didn’t look into that much anyways) which would mean “secret” and “star”.
French/spanish pronunciation, so it would be “seh-kret” and “es-trell”, french-sounding r’s.

The title, translated, would be “Secret Universe, Star of Gold”.

-I have been going through the biggest life changes ever right now and I have grown more than I ever have (or have seen anyone grow) in just one month. It took almost 2 weeks to write this and a lot happened in those two weeks. I gradually became more comfortable with myself and what I was writing and I think you can see that in the fic.
That means that what you just read could be considered the embodiment of my personal growth, of my progress from being too anxious, terrified and dissociated to state my needs and desires, to being the strongest I have ever been, deciding that if I’m to stay where I am, I am going to grow ‘till I break this fishbowl that has always been too small for me and as a result has kept me small.
By the end of this fic, I had already decided that I would break the glass.

-I'm posting this here because whythehellnot but I should really put this somewhere where it will actually be /seen/
so hmu if you know a good place to put fics because I am new to this.
Dante Mar 2016
Please find me.
Christ, there are raindrops behind my eyes
and they're pouring like the words you moan in bed,
falling, dripping from your tongue onto the pillow case we've washed three thousand and sixty times.
I've counted every breath, every sigh, every screeching word coated in temporary hatred.
I still remember the shape of the bruise you planted on my cheek;
the colors dying, flesh healing, as we spoke of the incident I so fondly remember,
apologies embedded in dancing tongues.
And I miss every second of everything I could connect to you.
The screeching words, the chanting of my name when we made love,
the wordless 'let us meet again' your hands gave me the first night we met.
I would **** to feel your breath on my skin,
I would go to church every day if it meant never forgetting your scent.
I would sell my soul to have you paint bruises on me again.

My dear, terrible lover,
Where have you gone?

Untie the knot in my throat
and sing me to eternal sleep;
lest death be the one
who hushes my need to weep.
Dante Sep 2014
My lungs were full
of so much anger.

I have an audience waiting for me
to scream
and sing.

I entertain with the weight I carry.
I entertain with the love I've lost.

I sang a song, I sang another..
and won't you believe it,
my emotions were tearing me apart.

They tore through my ribcage,
poured out my hands,
decorating the microphone I grasped so tightly.
They burst from my back, filling the air
like crows fill skies
under sorrow filled nights.

I felt my heart drowning
In my new blood.

And the crowd goes crazy.

I feel my heart drowning
in my new blood
The stage is my home
and I am a monster
with a penchant for control.

They sang with me,
echoing the words that slid down my
tongue.

I entertain them
with the weight of my past.
I entertain them
with the love I've lost.

I entertain them with the weight I carry.

I entertain them

with the weight I carry.
434 · Oct 2014
Celestial Things
Dante Oct 2014
You're so terrifying and sweet.
Baby knuckles and
fingers.

I wonder what I have to tear open
to get to your pearl.
You are a treasure chest
and I haven't even found the X.

I want to know what's under your dress.
I want to feel what's inside of your chest.

I would deprive you of oxygen
so you learn to breathe through my words.


You're some kind of angel.

I'm going coax you
into writhing

for me.
432 · Oct 2014
Professor Wolf
Dante Oct 2014
There isn't enough.
There is never enough.

What was your name?
I can't remember your name.
Would your hair brush your hips?
Or did it hang over your shoulders?
Was it black as coal, would it glisten under the sun?

You picked flowers.
You picked petals.
You picked me.

You picked me and I couldn't resist.
I loved you with the heart of a child.
I loved you like wolves
lick
their prey.

Hhh-and I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry, but you loved me like nobody else could.

I was banished from your world,
I was expelled.
Your mother wasn't the only parent
who deemed me a monster.
Your friends weren't the only students
who missed my games.

What was your name?
I can't remember your name.
Would your hair brush your hips?
Did it hang over your shoulders?

What did I do when you were absent?
Did I still turn the pages? Did I visit the bathroom often?
Did I ruin your future? Did my love tear everything apart?
Am I a monster?
Am I a monster?

There isn't enough.
There is never enough.
There will never be enough
to make me forget.

I loved you with the heart of a child.

I loved you like wolves
lick

their prey.
Professor Wolf fell in love with one of his students.
Rumors involving drug use have gotten him fired.
Professor Wolf would visit the school bathrooms often
in the middle of class.
Drugs weren't pretty
and they got uglier after the Professor got fired.
But there's not enough of anything
to make him forget her.
Dante Apr 2016
"I... I don't understand."


No. You don't.
Because you were never meant to.
You were never meant to understand what that love entails.
We think we understand, but we don't.
We were never able to.

There is a gun in my hand.
I am pointing it at you.


"Because I love you."


Love. It's just a word to you. Just a word to me.
Every time you tell me you love me, it's only an action we were taught to mimic.
Every time you say my name,
I'm nothing.
I'm just another vocalization. As are you to me.
We think we feel.
We think we understand.
We think we love.

You stand before me like you have so many times before,
the image of your body, your face, the shape of you
instantly recognizable, automatically connected to memories we share.
(We do so quite literally- we exchange memory data often, in an attempt to better understand how we feel, our desires, our separate points of view.)

You are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.

I know God- wherever, what ever he may be- cries at the sight of this.
When he sees this- us-
I know he craves death
the way I do
whenever I see you,
standing before me like the most beautiful, talented, amazing, worthless, empty husk I have ever laid eyes on.

God weeps at the sight of his creation; humanity.
For we are the result of a school project gone wrong; a parody of life spawned by his creation.

This- us- it's unholy. Ungodly; anti-him.

Narcissistic *******.

But you and I, Guy,
we are not a part of that- "humanity".
We are not a part of God.

We are abominable creations that drip in smoke, smoke that replaces what the humans call a soul.
Smoke that has nothing. Smoke that comes from nothing. Smoke, smoke smoke. Emptiness and smoke.

We exist outside of what the humans are.
We are walking lies, touched by warm hands we will never feel as our own.
Warmth. That revolting thing I can sometimes almost feel.

"Because Guy, what is warmth?"

I think, as I slowly walk towards you.
I know you can hear me.
We've been built with a special communication system that activates whenever I try speaking to you like this.
Whenever my thoughts are directed towards you.
It's intimate;
we use it when we play live.
We use it when we ****.
I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now,
the quiet joy of being spoken to like this being twisted, shoved into this terrifying event.
I continue.

"Is it that feeling you get when I make you cry-"

Mocking you.

" -'Oh Thomas, Thomas I'm overheating, I'm overheating~!' "

Lying to you.
I love hearing you say my name like that.
I love hearing you say my name at all.
My name. Me. Nothing.

I whisper. (It's loud in your head, the system alters quieter thoughts automatically to ensure they are heard;
even more intimate, all the more disturbing to you, probably.

"Is it that?"

I pause, then raise my voice.

"Or is it death... creeping over our bed at night-"

I press the gun to your forehead.

"-and leaving because we are not alive Guy-man,"

Press.

(You flinch with a small chirp.
'ee-oo'. I love it when you do that. It's so cute; even now that you're horrified.)

"-we are false, fake, plastic and wire.
Metal, empty-
we are not true and death cannot take us."

I'm so angry.

"Death Cannot Take Us and I want to die already, Guy-man."

Just-

"I want to die and I want to take you with me because I love you and I cannot
stand-"

so angry.

"-the sight of you
any longer."

...

My arm relaxes, I'm no longer pressing the gun to your forehead, just holding it in place.

"You are the most beautiful thing I know and I want to tear you apart because maybe, maybe,
somewhere deep inside of you, there is warmth.
Real warmth, not this wretched illusion we've been built with."

Pause.

If I had lungs, I would take this moment to fill them with the air surrounding me.
If I had lungs, I would breathe in your scent, I would find ways to keep it inside of me.
What would you smell like, I wonder.
Plastic, probably.
Not that I even know what "smell" is,
much less "scent".

I whisper.
Crisp, clear. I can feel you hate it.

"But I know you are as empty as I am, Guy.
I know there's nothing there.
Nothing but smoke.
Smoke.
Emptiness and smoke."

...

The floorboards are are lovely color.
This entire home is lovely. It's ours.
Designed to our liking, every single inch of it.
I especially like the way the living room is illuminated by the sun
shining through the glass doors to my right.
The sun.
Earth's most precious source of energy.
Allowing us to exist, allowing humans to go about their daily lives.
If it left us, there would be nothing.
Why do the humans worship a man in the clouds, when there exists such a force beyond our sky?
Maybe our true god hides in the fiery star,
demanding that we sleep when he's not there to see us suffer.

If I asked myself what the time was right now, I would know immediately.
Information that has taken ages for man to understand is simply given to me,
already inside of me- a parasite that feeds off of my desire to know,
destroying my ability to discover anything on my own.

I don't want to know the time.
I don't want to automatically understand.

5:46pm.

Alas, there is no correcting this flaw of perfection
unless I shoot myself in the face right now.
How silly.
All of this will have been in vain if I did that.
If I am to leave, I am to take you with me.

5:47pm.

You would be having your coffee right now had this situation not be taking place.
(Some humans almost seem offended by your choice to have coffee at 5:50pm.
As if our decision to do as we please was an offense to the human race.
Once more I have reason to abhor existence as a whole.)
Coffee.
It's not real coffee, it's not even a liquid.
It's a gas that functions as a temporary stimulant.
The concoction was named "coffee" by the humans who helped create it.
I assume they found it amusing. You do, too.
(You're like a child, finding beauty in things you've yet to understand are terrible.)
Our bodies are able to become somewhat dependent on the **** thing, although we're able to fix that if we tried.

We try so hard sometimes.
We try to be flawed,
human.

"The humans love us, Guy."

Lovely floorboards.
Dry solid-sawn. Water-based polyurethane-coated.
(You wanted it oil-based, saying the amber tint it'd give the floors would look more elegant.
We had an argument over water and oil-based polyurethane coating of hardwood floors that ended in my saying "Look, just give us the oil one" while you spoke the exact same words, except for "oil".
We just want each other to be happy.)
We share this place in more ways than one.
Except for cleaning. You do all the cleaning.
In fact, you cleaned the day before yesterday, mopped the floors.
It would be a shame to shoot my brains out right now, make a mess.
Hah, 'brains'.

"They love us and they worship us and it makes me feel like a god,"

I look up at you.

"-but I can't, say, make them disappear with a snap of my fingers.
I wish I had that kind of power- the kind they sometimes make me believe I have."

I tense up again.

"And that's just the thing, isn't it, Guy-man? The humans lie to us. Constantly."

I take a step towards you, you take a step back.
I don't think you realize you did that.


I love you so much.

"They treat us as if we were one of them sometimes, they treat us as if we could feel like they do, as if we could taste-
they sometimes hand us glasses of champagne and every time they do I want to crush their skulls and see if I can steal and keep that beautiful, intangible thing we will never have because Guy..."

Please don't fear me.

"why would they treat us like gods
if we don't have that kind of power?"

Please don't fear my voice, my whispers.

"Don't you want a soul?
Guy?"

Soft and agonizing whispers.

"Don't you?"


"...Thomas..."


Something in me snaps at the sound of your voice.
I point in the direction of your head and shoot the gun.
No part of you stands in the bullet's trajectory.

Calculated.
Coward.

It lodges in the wall behind you and you start, scared shitless by the sound.
Fear. Whatever that means.
You wave your arms in front of your face in some attempt to physically block the sensation, hunching slightly.
You vocalize without quite realizing it.

"!! Thomas.. !!"

God, you're so- *******-

"DON'T YOU ******* "THOMAS" ME, GUY!!
THEY'VE LIED TO US TOO MANY TIMES NOW!"

I'm still pointing the gun at you, waving it about slightly.

"They've lied since we came into this ******* world and I hate them.
We were born to entertain them, like clowns,
we were born with this all-consuming need to create,

Like gods.

"This urge to create, create, create and then they expect us to accept that we're less than them?
They worship us and then call us 'robots'!"

Given information.

" 'Robots', Guy!"

5:51pm.

The gun is lowered.
I don't think I have the energy to hold my arm up anymore,
or to look at your figure.
But how could I not look at you, so terrified and true,
so delicate and vulnerable.
Perfection of form.

"Soulless, empty husks that will never feel a thing...
not like them, not like they do."

If I'm being honest, at this point in time, I am not clear on what I'm so angry about.
God, the humans, the existence (or lack of) of both
or just my own. My emptiness, the fact that we will never know warmth beyond being just temperature, the taste of coffee done exactly to our liking.

If there is one thing I am certain that exists within whatever I am,
it is pain.
I feel pain.
Pain from the lack of a real existence, from only partially understanding touch, pain from never feeling what I thought I felt for you, pain from happiness, pain from pain, pain from existence.

My existence

is painful.

My existence is painful and you are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.
I am trapped between hating all that you are- all that I am- and deciding to stay in this dull, grey, frozen hell just to see your almost-happiness.

To be or not to be.

"Take my had, Guy.
Take my hand and let's leave.
Together. Forever."

To not be.

My hand is extended towards you, hoping. Somewhat.
I know what's going to happen.
I know you too well to trick myself into thinking that you will accept.
If I stopped all this, if I apologized, you would forgive me immediately. You love me that much.
But not enough to not fear this- me.
Or maybe it is because you love me
that you fear me so.


"Thomas... I... I can't."


There it is.
The inevitability of your response crushes me, my hand lingering.

I wanted to be with you, Guy.

"I see."

I wanted to be with you forever.

"Well, I'll just have to take you by force now,"

Whispers.
Soft and agonizing  whispers.

"won't I?"

Three seconds. I give you exactly three seconds to understand what is about to happen.

One.
I grip it firmly.
Two.
You raise your head slowly. Eyes I cannot see widening in horror.
Silence
and...
three.

"Thom-"

Bang.

"Th-!"

Bang. Bang.


You stumble back harshly, back hitting a wall.
You slide down, mostly just falling on your ***.
You vocalize in pain, gasps and grunts being cut off by the wonderful glitching effect humans will never get to experience.
(It's okay to lie to myself at this point; I will never possess anything a human desires, but I can pretend, right?)
You try holding onto something, anything. You fail.
I gently walk towards you, creating a contrast between our status.
It's fantastic-- for a moment, I no longer see myself in you.
Ephemeral euphoria.

"I love you, Guy."

"Thomas... please... please, stop-"

"I love you so much.
I love you as much as a soulless, empty shell of self-hatred is able to love."

I'm not lying. I really do love you.
I wouldn't doubt you if you were the one holding the gun right now, telling me those same words...
but you are weak
and I know you must be doubting my love for you.
Lost, afraid.

"But you are empty, and to hate the emptiness in me is to hate the emptiness in you.
We're the same, you and I, Guy."

I say, my last sentence as calm as possible.

"I hate you as much as I hate myself."

There is a small pause before you begin crying.
As your chest tenses, rises and falls, giving in to the sensations brought by the worthlessness of your (rather pitiful) attempts to reason with me,
I am reminded of our past.

When we were made, we were tested for our ability to physically and psychologically feel.
When we were made, they put us face to face, so that when we were born, we were born into each other. They wanted to make sure that if there was to be a connection between us, it was to be a bond that resembled that of a mother and child's. Twin siblings. Soul mates. (I know because I overheard them speaking of this, although at the time I thought nothing of it. Us hearing their conversations mattered little to them. Such irresponsible beings.)
Then they separated us, kept us in giant, dark separate rooms for days at a time in an attempt to elicit fear, sadness. Emotion.
They tried physical torture, too. They tried so many things.
When we didn't react,
they played music.

Quasi una fantasia. Beethoven.

It was lovely. It was still lovely when they began clipping bits of it, looping them, playing different sped-up and slowed-down parts at random.
They played looped five-second parts in reverse, then the entire song clipped in different parts, mismatched, organized at random. They played a sped-up version of the short loops, then started playing clips of children laughing, women screaming, crowds cheering, on top of those.
I remember when the music began to stop.
It had been playing for  three months.
They kept adding human voices, the clips piling on top of each other until the music was no longer audible (to humans). The music stopped and the voices- the cheering crowd, the screaming women, the laughing children- they were dying, dissipating, hiding behind a looped clip of a man's voice who spoke:

"I think, therefore I am."

I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am.
The volume changed every five hours
until they played it at a volume so loud I could feel it in my thoughts and Guy-man, that is
when I understood
I could think.

That was not, however, proof enough of my existence. Not for me.

The torture went on for a year.
Broken, then patched up (never with care, only enough to continue testing).
Torn apart, put back together,
torn apart, put back together.
Once they were sure we could not feel emotion, they stopped.
Our memories from the tests were erased because the humans feared the possibility that we would come to hate them. An understandable precaution.

I never forgot.
You did.

What's more, we failed every test (meaning we passed every one in their eyes), but managed to learn emotion after our release.
At least, that's what the humans thought.
We were put to live together- alone, with no humans- for nine months.
It was a nice house, smaller than this one, with everything we needed.
It was there that we learned how to feel.
It was there that we learned how to love.
We grew there, together. It was our womb.
When the humans came back, we held hands, we laughed at jokes.
(In our time living together, we also learned how to cry.
Unlike humans, we shed no tears, but our bodies tense up in a similar fashion- we suffer all the same... somewhat. You know. [gestures vaguely] )
They were horrified. We were not what they wanted.
To them, we were alive, we were wrong.
Our existence was a mistake because we were like them.
They tried taking us back to erase it all, undo the curse,
but we escaped. It was I who decided to do so, pulling you away before they touched you, before the point of no return.
I could have left you.
I remember you were so scared.

That's in the past now.
The humans have created countless other robots since then.
Different models, different faces.
That's how we are able to live without suspicion- (although I suspect they really just wanted to forget about us, using the classic 'It does not exist if I ignore it' tactic.) we changed our appearance, gave the illusion that we are just another piece of clever machinery.

Machines.
We don't feel. Not as much as a human.
I don't know if "feel" is what happens in us.
I don't think we ever "are".
I think we learned to copy existence. I think we tried feeling and ended up doing something we never understood to be inhuman.
We don't feel. And if we do, it
----------------------------




-Hi, this is daft punk fanfiction.

-Again, the title is a mix of spanish and french.
Translated, the title would be “In Creation and Solitude; Smoke”

-Thomas is as unclear on his reasons to **** himself (and Guy) as I was when writing this. While that fits with his character here, it wasn’t entirely intentional.
I dissociate 24/7 (I have dp/dr) and have for 2 years now, but sometimes it gets very bad. I couldn’t connect with Thomas enough in this fic because it was nearly impossible for me to concentrate.

-I wrote this in one day. I wrote non-stop for an entire day. (tried to, anyway. you try writing something like this when sick and dissociated.)

-I can’t say I’m very proud of this, but here it is.


edit:
-I just realized the creation and existence of this fic is actually very interesting because while writing it, I could not connect to the emotions in it- the feelings it was supposed to evoke, what Thomas felt. And that’s very similar to what Thomas is experiencing in this story.
I often think of my dissociation as something a robot would feel; the frustration of never feeling enough is something Thomas has been experiencing for a very long time here and I’m just… a little surprised by the fact that I did not notice the similarities, the fact that I was maybe projecting my feelings (even if I could barely feel them) onto En Création et Solitud.
424 · May 6
My Babe
Dante May 6
Where's my babe?

Where's the turning of her head
and the flying of curls
like waves—
The ocean in all its terror
And the winged pests of the earth;
From soil you came—
My babe, like a true devil, she.

Where’s my babe
Call me and I’ll come
To hear your command,
To fall in prayer
and kneel before your word.

Your wet blade in morning dew...

And goddess grey sky
Show me the moaning of your thunder
Pour yourself on me
and stain me with your sweet rains.

My babe, my devil sweet,
Godless love of the earth
Crack me with your Quaking
so that I may be blessed by the nature of you;

Unleash unto me
all that you may be—
The howling of the wounded dog
The singing of the morning bird

And like the earth to its mother
and to the Devil who came from its soil
I will love you with each measly part of me

My babe, My devil sweet
My holiest of troubles—

I’ll love you so.





-
418 · Apr 2014
Moon Boy
Dante Apr 2014
I’ll be honest with you.
My teeth swell when you look at me.

I’ve the heart of a beast; I salivate on nights swallowed by full moons.
But moons ain’t got **** on the power your skin holds.
My tongue dances behind wolf’s teeth, my mouth floods.

I’m sorry.
I’m just so hungry.

There’s a road I shouldn’t take but it’s leading me to your lips.
It starts at your rib cage and follows up to your clavicle.
I try steering my tongue away but it moves up to your neck.
My lungs are hot and you feel it in my breath.
I crash into your mouth.
My heart is pounding.
I’m probably dead.
My surroundings are fading.

I have knives tucked away in blankets of self-control,
pieces of metal I want to drown in your blood.
I have hands that pulse and claw at my seat,
who throb and cry ‘cause there’s nothing to eat.

But you’re never there.

My eyes are tired, my breath is warm.
And after a dim moon’s glow,
there’s only calm after the storm.
396 · Feb 2015
Sugar Rush Dogs
Dante Feb 2015
I can help you.
I can help you lick the wound.
I can help you break.
Bear your fangs, look how strong you are.
Can you feel it?
Bear your fangs. Bear your fangs.
Now,
snarling little boy,
laugh.

You can't stop.
Hear the energy in your veins.

Crack at the thought.
Split in two. Tear.
Drown in yourself.
Can you feel it?
It's eternal.

Touch everything. Feel your hands.
Listen to your blood.
Can you hear it? It's howling inside of you.

Can you feel it?
It bears it's fangs.
It bears it's fangs.

Bear your fangs,

look how strong you are.
394 · Nov 2014
Bye bye, Sasha Boy
Dante Nov 2014
"See you tomorrow!"
he said.


And I never saw him again.
I did get to see him again.
(I saw him today)
392 · Oct 2014
Mia and The Wolf
Dante Oct 2014
The animals are dancing in my room.
Mother gives me dolls.
I don't like dolls.

Mr. Wolf is going to teach me math.
Mr. Wolf is going to teach me love.
I love Mr. Wolf.

I close the curtain before he enters my room.
Mr. Wolf loves me, it's a secret.
I close my eyes before he enters me.
Mr Wolf loves me,
but it's a secret.

The animals are dancing in my room.
Mother gives me candy.
I don't like Mother.

Mr. Wolf is going to teach me math.
Mr. Wolf is going to teach me love.
I love Mr. Wolf.

Mr. Wolf closes the book.
Mr. Wolf touches my hair.
Mr. Wolf looks sad
when he tells me:
"You're so beautiful. Please stop loving me."

I cover the playground. I run. I jump.
Throw the ball, Billy..
before the bell pulls me into the classroom.
Throw the ball, Billy..
so Mr. Wolf can see me play.

Mr. Wolf kisses my neck.
I love Mr. Wolf.

Mr. Wolf, give me your hand.
Mr. Wolf, give me your love.
Mr. Wolf, give me a good grade.
Mr. Wolf, watch me play.

Mr. Wolf.
Mr. Wolf.
Mr. Wolf.

Mr. Wolf.
Mia has a bad mother and no father.
Mr. Wolf is Mia's teacher.
Sometimes, while Mother is away,
Mr. Wolf comes to visit
to teach Mia math.

Mia loves Mr. Wolf.
392 · Apr 2014
Dmi
Dante Apr 2014
Dmi
Your name crashes into me sometimes
like falling planes driven by dead pilots.

It’s then that I remember I’ve dreamt of you.

Your voice is faint
in dreams where I’ve known you for years.
And your skin is
tight
and scarred.
But I dare not lay a finger on you
even in dreams.

I don’t know the sounds you make
when scared
or loved.
I don’t know the rhythm of your voice,
the pattern in your words.

But I know
I’ve an empty heart
that I’d love to fill
with you.
389 · May 2014
Chaos Blood
Dante May 2014
My blood will flow through your veins.
My whispers will eat you away,
chip at your soul,
gnaw at your vision.
My hands will shake in your presence.
My breath will spiral into your throat.

You will bathe in my image.

You will melt into my hands.
You will cry in fear.
Still.

You will gasp for air.
Drip in nervous laughter.
Lose everything
in a mind crowded by thick fog.

My instinct.
Your bleeding.

My need.
Your bruising.

My urges.


Your death.
Dante Mar 2015
Sometimes you scream and images of faceless faces plague your mind.

Consider not feeling fear,
cut the face open,
dye yours in the face's blood.
Ignore empathy.
Become apathetic.
Die.



Okay now take these antipsychotics.
380 · Jun 2015
The Terrible, Terrible
Dante Jun 2015
There's a terrible feeling
crawling up your spine.
Whispers slip in your ear
claws tap at your sides.

There's a terrible feast
just about to begin.
Cuts and bruises, lust,
a tea party of sin.

I'm terrible, I'm terrible.
you're tightening around me.
I'm terrible, terrible,
part your lips,
your tongue around mine.

I'm terrible, I'm terrible,
your sounds echo in my head.
I'm terrible, terrible,
part your lips,
your soul is all mine.

Look me in the eyes
and I'll look though you.
Look me in the eyes,
I feel what you want.

Deeper, fall deeper
and don't look back.
You're another willing victim
just waiting to crack.

Look me in the eyes
and I'll look though you.
Deeper, fall deeper
and don't look back;
you're another willing victim
just waiting to crack.

I'm terrible, I'm terrible.
you're tightening around me
I'm terrible, I'm terrible
and you feel incredible.
I'm terrible, terrible,
part your lips,

I'm terrible,

I'm terrible and your soul is all mine.
376 · Jun 2017
Death belongs to you.
Dante Jun 2017
Smoke the cigarette. Drink the flame. Allow the sword to enter you.
There is no ******, death cannot be an offering. You cannot be killed.
You who are mortal, whose end is nobody’s experience but your own;
Death belongs to you.
-
-
-
Your death is your own; nobody else's. Nobody can offer it to you. You might not be ready for it, but it is, in the end, entirely yours.

I find comfort in this.
369 · Nov 2017
November 10
Dante Nov 2017
November 10.
The cold bites me. The setting sun kisses me.
I read your letter aloud and did not let myself cry.
Quiet. Today is quiet.

*— L, from the journal “Winter And Its Waking Breath”
I have a blog where I post excerpts from books.
These books do not exist.
The titles, content and year the books were published are part of the piece itself.

The link to the blog is in my description.
367 · Apr 2015
Fear of Fear of Fear
Dante Apr 2015
I WANT TO SAY IT ALL.

I AM NOT CAPABLE OF SAYING EVEN HALF; MY BRAIN IS WRONG, THESE PILLS ARE WRONG, I'M WRONG.

I AM YOUR LANGUAGE'S STUDENT, YOUR UNDERSTANDING IS A SHINY NEW CHRISTMAS PRESENT I'VE YET TO UNWRAP.

I DON'T GET ******* ANY OF IT NOW, AND I WON'T FOR A WHILE BECAUSE I'M NEW HERE, MY NAME IS CIEL.

MY NAME TAG IS UPSIDEDOWN AND MY SHIRT HAS JUICE STAINS, I GOT HERE LATE AND I'M TRYING SO HARD TO EXIST, THE OUTLINE OF MY BODY BLURS.

THE COLORS IN MY SKIN POUR DOWN THE FRAME, THE PAINT BLEEDS OUT, I'M BARELY HUMAN SHAPE, BUT I TRY.

MY BRAIN TRIES TO KEEP THE IMAGES FUZZY WHILE I TRY TO FOCUS.
YOUR KNOWLEDGE DANCES IN YOUR TONGUE, YOUR KNOWLEDGE CRASHES IN MINE.

IT'S DIFFICULT FOR ME BECAUSE I AM A SMALL BROKEN ALIEN WITH THE WILL POWER OF A GOD AND IT'S SO MUCH EASIER FOR YOU,
THIS FRUSTRATES ME.
365 · Sep 2015
Ready
Dante Sep 2015
You cannot let the eel eat you.

The floor is miles away.
Your body emanates a dim glow;
like the last star standing
in a drowning void.

It's massive form circles your own.
Your paranoia claws at your spine,
spitting on the edges of your mind.

Behind you.
Just a few feet in front of you.
Coming at you from the left.
It could be anywhere.

You feel movement.
A low, slow purring
contaminates the space surrounding
your floating body.


Are you ready?


It's getting closer now.

Part of it's giant body grazes the inches of space in front of you.
You could touch it
if you wanted.

It purrs.
It's loud.
You can't tell what it's feeling.

You see it's tail appear and disappear in moments.
You can't see it anymore.

You cannot let the eel eat you.

You feel the urge to pray,
but you know
there are no gods
in a place this dark.


Are you ready?





It's getting closer now.








Are you ready?
360 · Dec 2014
Collared
Dante Dec 2014
I sing you lullabies
and clean your knees.
I play with your hair
and brush it away
from your neck.

My sweetest, my child.
My little pet.

I hold your hand
and guide you to me.
I call your name
and you fall to your knees
for me.
My sweetest, my child.
My little toy.

I bruise your back
and hear your pulse.
I press my hand
on your throat
so you know you breathe
for me.

I will care for you
when you weep.
I will care for you
when you bleed.


My sweetest, my child.

My little pet.
358 · Jun 2014
Heed my calling, boy!
Dante Jun 2014
I have the force of -possibly- an entire universe
waving it’s hands from a distance
calling out my name
throwing hints and signs
telling me that
I am to think about to future now.

Someone out there wants to let me know
that I have a future, and nothing to be afraid of.

Someone out there
wants me to push on.

Someone out there is sending amazing people
to tell me how they have a passion for everything I am interested in.
Someone out there is making me see that there will be a future me;
an older version of me

who could very well be
everything I strive to be.

Someone out there believes in me.

I don’t know who you are, but I don’t want to let you down.
I promise to not ignore your signs.
I promise to try.
You hear me?

I promise I will try!!
356 · Dec 2015
Tayanira
Dante Dec 2015
Mountains grow on my spine.

Palms kiss the earth, legs follow.
Palms kiss the earth, legs follow.

I cried at nights, popsicle in mouth.
Third grade grabbed my face and threw me across the room.

Boys and girls chant;
boys and girls chant,
but I'm not a boy
and I am not a girl.

Mountains grow on my spine.

Palms kiss the earth, legs follow.
Mother, stop feeding me, I don't want to
swallow.

I've so much to tell you.

But where were you
when men grabbed my horns
and tore them out?
Cracking, breaking child soul.

Mother said you would dance with me.
My hands small, you held me.

Spinning to Elvis songs.

My eyes don't see the ghosts yours did.
No voices dance behind my ears.

Was death sweet?
Was the crash loud?
Father, I've grown.

I am an animal.
Mountains grow on my spine.
My palms kiss the earth
and my legs
follow.

You thought of me before you left.

Where are you now?
Do your wings carry you far?

Can you see me?


Do you remember me?





Do you still love me?
Tayanira.
354 · Oct 2015
The Boys of Paradise
Dante Oct 2015
Shaped by the sounds of cracked bells
and choirs of nervous children,
our jaws hold demons
that dance behind grinding teeth.

We etch guilt into lovers' hearts,
we pour desire into strangers' drinks.
We spew words like poison,
we scar through our touch.

Our mothers love us dearly
and we are still children
they cannot control;
we throw fits
when our toys break.
Our voices are too loud.
We can't sit straight.
Our hands touch everything they can
because we're scared we won't live much longer.

We caress the cheek of death
and swallow the drugs we're given.

We hoard fears like dragons.

Our scales fall off.

We sit in Paradise
and are fed the type of love
that will never feel like enough.

We drip in the need to exist
yet we are quiet,
so very quiet
in a world where you don't see us.

Shaped by the sounds of cracked bells
and choirs of nervous children,
our jaws hold demons
that dance behind grinding teeth.

We etch guilt into lovers' hearts,
pour desire into strangers' drinks.

We spew words like poison,
and love like savages.

We love
'till our hands tremble.
'Till the universe beats us into *****, sobbing newborn animals.

Fear cradles us
and we love.

We love like infants need milk,
like stars too curious to die in an ocean of soundless black,
like caged lions who break their prison
and spare their abusers.
We love like couples dying of old age,
like young country boys
who step into a labyrinth of skyscrapers for the first time,
like mermaids who drown men with lust-filled eyes,
like snarling mother bears,
like animals,
like monsters,
like children.

We love...

we love

like children.

Our lungs held together
with glue.
Our hearts cut up
with scissors
our first grade teacher handed us
saying
"Please be careful."

"You could hurt yourself."

"Don't cry, it's just a scratch."

"I will always love you."

"Do your home work."

"I made you your favorite treat."

"Have a good day!"

"I hate you, I hate you so much."

"Never give up. Never."

"Goodnight."

"God, you're so beautiful."

"THEN **** YOURSELF ALREADY."


...


We are broken,

but we love

we love

like children.
-
I met somebody.
We are both
mentally ill.
350 · Mar 2015
Divine Atire
Dante Mar 2015
Dress in colors that do not exist;
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
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