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    dots Submission Name: A Sane Taledots

    Author: Jakirina
    ASL Info:    19/F/WI
    Elite Ratio:    3.69 - 216/200/80
    Words: 667
    Class/Type: Poetry/Longing
    Total Views: 520
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4822

       This is a fairly long work. It is a poem written in 7 parts. Marilyn Manson did inspire this poem so I dedicate it to him. The only things really truly relevant to his life is the part one and the first part of part 2 where the italics ends, and the over all idea of the poem (perhaps other bits and pieces too, like the nightmares). Otherwise this is all me just working off an idea.

    2 questions for you:

    1. I haven't really settled on a real title yet. Any suggestions?

    2. Should part 7 stay in future tense?

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsA Sane Taledots

    A Sane Tale
         for Marilyn Manson

    In your reflection
    you’re blind to what I behold
    so you cover it up
    in a guise of rebellion

    You say your heart beats dark
    and pale your face
    rubbing with your palms
    blending well
    stain your lips the color of a sore
    or of the saddest bile

    Finally lining your eyes
    the way a skull should
    you leave your breath on the glass
    after you close the door
    I press in my fingerprints
    and watch them fade

    I want to leave a dent
    rough and deep
    and traumatize the world
    to truth.

    I have failed.

    Fallen into cliché
    and have eaten
    part of my soul.

    I have failed.

    You hold your fingers
    to your lips
    the tips bruised
         smudged red-black
    when I turn you hide them
    behind your thigh
    eyes and chin softly aside

    I pulled them out one by one

    You keep a case
    of two gently overlapping parts
    made at 13
    its glass stolen
    from your mother’s menagerie
    of china dolls

    The oak sanded smooth
    when the day
    became unbearable

    Filled it with stricken watch faces
    dissected in your hands
    when time no longer mattered
    as long as it kept you unseen

    Large flat
    and pale as river stones
    to minuscule and brazen
    like foreign coins

    They lie cradled in cotton
    some naming hours of death
    others baring their parts
    their blood scattered
         shaped in tiny brass wheels

    I’ve never felt your tears
    the way the strip of gray carpet
    between the plaster and bedside has

    I’d find you half eaten
    by the hollow darkness below the bed
    the edge of the comforter
    gently riding the angle of your jaw
    and sigh of your bare back
    trying to hide the mess

    Beneath the comforter
    your right arm would be outstretched
    hand clutched on the side of a handmade case
    the kind that stilled wing beats

    I’d rest my ear
    against your cream-hued shoulder
    my legs on yours
    and listen to your nightmare
    between inhales

    I knew I could
    never turn back.

    I keep a hinged wooden box
    a small window of chicken wire
    cut in its front

    Something I bought
    when 15
    painted its sides the deepest shadow
    and its inside churning carmine

    Filled it with severed rose heads
    pungent and dry
    one for each time I turned a boy away
    rusted skeleton keys
    buried near a child’s grave

    and a single crow’s feather
    I found beneath your pillow
    the night you cried
    and thrashed in your sleep

    I want to leave a dent
    rough and deep.

    Your lips a thin line
    as you snap off the head
    of a budding rose
    its vulnerable color
    a barely protruding pustule

    If I spiral further,

    Nail-less fingers peel back the sepals

    would you do it?

    then hand me the insides

    I’d like to hold you
    cradled in a bath of prime roses
    within an expanse of black porcelain
    our eyes guided
    by the warm hue of each synced heart beat.

    My right hand
    would keep your chin above heated liquid
    clear as obsidian at its weakest
    tendrils of its sweet vapor caressing your cheekbones

    The white on your face
    would tear away in cloudy beads
    your raw lip-stain smear
    the black around your eyes
    would blur into the creases of your smile

    Your fingertips would trace my lips
    then I’ll know
    as your pupils dilate from flat to depthless
    their color contracting from broken
    blue-tinged gems to nearly colorless

    My left hand
    over your lungs
    I’d hold you in this bath
    as you leave your mark down my cheek
    A truth to treasure

    Submitted on 2008-05-26 00:00:22     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    Rate This Submission

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    ||| Comments |||
      This is a lot like an epic Robert Browning poem, but with a dark and gothic twist to it. I could picture every image you described in my mind, reading it reminded me of watching an old black and white film with dark images and eerie music. Now for your questions. I definitely think the last part should be in future tense, it brings hope to the poem, and gives it it's own personality in a way. Also the subject matter you are describing in part seven seems to go better with future tense. Now for a title. I'm not good with them......but here are a few I thought of for this one:

    Black Roses for a Saint
    Black streams cut his pallid face
    Riddles in a Rosewood Box

    eh i dunno hahah. But those are the ones that came to mind. The poem is awesome, keep writing. You put a lot of feeling into it.

    Take it easy!
    | Posted on 2008-07-02 00:00:00 | by Sirbongatron | [ Reply to This ]

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