lying facedown on the train tracks;
home is where the heart is.
i sharpen my alibi on my mother’s bones
blink blink blink
the rays of the sun gouge my eyes out and
i blink, feeding on her conscience
through roots in the dirt.
regret metastasizes inside of me
like the very consumption that killed her

i found a way out, what now?
the daylight picked out my ribs one by one
the moon died and i buried her in the flowerbeds.
brave molly, come save me, the train's at the station

maybe today
i can talk to myself
out loud on the way there.
primal scream therapy.

(in between bittersweet fragments of memory
i can say your name without—
gangrene makes a home within my brittle skull.
cyanotic lips preach to me the
everlasting weight of my sin)

today
i’ll talk to myself out loud
on the way there
and maybe the echo won't
sound so **** scared

You ask me what I'd wish for if
I knew it would come true. I knew
it was true: you left me
to sleep out in the cold, dawn
hours and half a globe away.

If it meant I would receive frostbite,
shiver uncontrollably and turn cyanotic,
suffer hypothermia underneath the window
with the blinds closed and you
behind them shedding tears I cannot catch,
I would suffer. I did.

It reminded me of the Thanksgiving
my uncle had me grab the prong of a wishbone,
my best friend on the other side.
We made a wish and the horseshoe of ivory
cracked, and splintered into two pieces.
He got the larger half. I still kept my wish
hidden, hoping, that one day I'd meet you.

I would suckle the sorrow from your fingers,
wipe the tears and mascara with my cheek,
and croon to you I will change. I can change.
But, I must do that; and not for you.

Our love is like that wishbone. Every time
it breaks, we wish but do not work to see it through.

This painted lady is no butterfly.
Hair grey as driven snow.
Not naturally.
Not cold.
Fingers cyanotic.
Came not from the chill.
But outta plastic ***.

Wooden floorboards dashed.
As footprints gently crept.
Handbag full of fingerprints.
My couch has funny spots.
Decorating my walls.
My entire world's gone blue and grey.
Carpets cover paint spots.
Bring on wonderful Wednesday.


By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Pew, Pew, Barney, McGrew.
Trumpton's poor firemen are cyanotic blue.
Had to tackle a blaze at Windy's mill.
The local teens all held a rave.
Teenage gals and teenage boys with no regard,for flour and mills.
Wanted to manufacture wicked pills.
Chemistry sets and bunsen burners, thought they'd cook some rocking earners.
Boom, boom, bang the mill is exploding.
The mill's all full of smoke.
Firemen are trapped.
The kids are in a manic panic.
Theyall escape.
Teenage party people.
For heaven's sake.
Listens and learn, before you choke to death or burn.
The firemen they got rescued by their team commander,
His name was Lucky Lee.
In the fresh air the comical funny firemen breathed fresh air.
So glad to be free.
And the poetic woman will create poetic positivity.
The glass is full up with various optimistic stuff.
(c)Livvi

The beds of my nails are slowly turning lavender, 

cyanotic they call it. 

I want to whisper to them, 

promise that we will learn to breathe again.
But my lungs are uncertain of that truth,
and the blood does not tell where it hides precious oxygen from me.

I spend my nights laying on the floor. Feeling my heart beat,

the flood of blood through my body.
No one can explain why it races, 

why it thunders like derby horses from head to toes and back again. 

Insomnia sounds like an engine trying too hard to keep us alive, 

like heavy rain beating against capillary walls.

I’m purging liquid poison into the toilet, 

whispering your name like holy, 
like gospel, 

between gasps of breath even though you are far from me, 

And I know that you’ve long since forsaken me. 

Thats why I drink,
to swallow down the pain of missing you,

to slow burn deep in my stomach, 

to turn poison to blood, 

to turn myself numb. 

I wish this didn’t hurt,

even when I know I deserve this. 

The only good thing in my life has been reduced to memories, my tears, I tear into my flesh.
Maybe if I spill my poison blood I could create cure, 

or in the very least drain myself of this vicious viscous fluid and make amends.
I want to be the best I could for you
but I couldn’t even handle being myself.

The Land of Itmon


Nobody ever promised me
A patch of lilacs in the wintertime and
Pink clouds never truly rained
A river of tears-
I only promised myself the land of Itmon-
Something akin to a goddess or a saint
I would sit at the right hand of the holy octagon-
Fervently praying for my inner world to come alive-
Locked inside the chambers of madness and
Locked inside the confinement of my bedroom
For days my head would be lost in those pink clouds,
Even sometimes while they were raining
A fine mist of gold upon and before me-
My bed had become the ferryboat guiding me through the bleakness of
My sordid nightmares to
This mesmerizing world deemed as Itmon-
I am alive inside this far away place, though
Truly not so far away-
The voices inside of my mind, commanding-
Giving me orders day in and day out-
My closest companions whose orders
I feel inclined to obey-
Running far away from the voices of my past where
The planet earth has not been kind-
The land of Itmon is none but paradise-
Here I have come to know Kyt, my guiding light
Donning flaxen hair and eyes of
Cyanotic blue-
Hypnotizing me with her glance and
Charming me with her smile-
Taking me by the hand and leading me into
The magical land of Itmon-
This place where nobody feels despair and where
We lose ourselves within our dreams-
Pink clouds turning lavender at night fall-
Snow never falls in this land of my fantasies-
Fantasies have so abruptly transformed to reality-
Hand in hand Kyt and I have abandoned the demons of
Our squalid pasts and we have entered this fairytale place of our
Wildest dreams to remain forever bonded-
Nobody ever promised me inner peace-
Nobody ever sang to me the song of a nightingale-
As an inhabitant of this planet I was so rudely born in
Nobody ever understood or comprehended-
So I mounted my proud unicorn and fled into the sunrise-
Dismounting when I reached that path
Paved before me-
That path paved in platinum, which by nature guided me
Into the magnificent land of Itmon-
I see mountains of many colors-
Before whirlpools of waters of deep cobalt blue-
I stand stalwart besides tall reeds, viridian hued-
I am very much alive in this unique place of my dreams which
Has rapidly become my only reality-
Sing with me, Kyt, the song of a nightingale- for
I hear faint words of alien people saying that
I have lost my sanity and am in a wretched state-
I have never been a happier person alive-
I have lost myself inside the world of my dreams forever-
My dreams are reality and yesterday’s reality has vanished and
Looking into those eyes of Kyt’s-
Compelling and hypnotic as in my fondest dreams-
Eyes of cerulean blue truly spellbinding as are as always
The voices inside my mind commanding-
I have a home that only I can envision-
I sit on the right side of the holy octagon and
Thank the Goddess that rules this fine land for
Making my dreams come alive,
My fantasies are my only true reality now, as I
Walk that pathway paved in platinum before me
Into lavender skies and whirlpools of my destiny,
Abandoning my past forever-
Only to see ahead and to look forward
Without looking behind me and
Without ever turning back…


Claudia Krizay

In a cupboard somehow lives a silent heart that does not beat.
Somehow it still lives.
No warming blood, no veins to pulse through.
The silent heart is scarlet, not cyanotic blue.
Not executed,but shocking.
It half lives, wrapped up in a faded page, torn from a periodical, the paper keeping it warm.
Locked away for reigniting.
One day.

One day, the lights will switch on.
It fears emotions that are long gone.
Full of sinews, cuddled in old news.
Heart in recovery, just having a snooze.
Lub- dub, give it a rub, help it to stay alive.
This heart's a survivor.
Long may it live.
(c)Livvi

All the missed opportunities,
the collapsed, balled-up destinies
entwined with small scotch:
the heart misses a beat

when WhatsApp chimes in:
a message from A-----,
who got the wheel moving.
She's had a baby in Dublin,

but is looking to move back stateside.
The whole year waves violently
as it drowns in a Glencairn.
The clouds are fried on a rain griddle,

grease-dark, the outer bands
of the hurricane carcass.
A catalog of dresses sails on down
the long cement string, oblivious.

My little cat sleeps on the red rug,
& my old friend reads the legions
while I pluck at the silver tomb-pall
of my two day shirt.

Turn on the dread lamps,
let the bitter day escape into the vents
of the cyanotic eve - another fell day
chokes itself black into the withered ether.