The Poetry of a Broken Man by Inky-la-reve, literature
Literature
The Poetry of a Broken Man
When other loves have died and are long gone
To heaven, the eye in the hurricane spent
In dim ballrooms dance to clarinet
thin ghosts, old friends, names set
on white tombs, polished stone
When my solitude is pressing, roars
in woven black, with velvet claws
I wrap the clotted darkness 'round
gilt body, falling crockery the sound
of my cruel tongue
Butchery I am, sedated by your lips,
seeking my heart, it's string grips
a devastated soul or is that too cut
out and flung aside, gathering in glut
with conscience, useless
Anger I am, passion forged from ice
splinters, boy of glassy vice
jealousy and obsession held out
to you by
Current Residence: Hopwas Favourite genre of music: The Skull Club Favourite style of art: Art Nouveau Personal Quote: I am the poorly written third act.
This gallery of work has been condemned!
You can find all of my new work at:
www.pknives.deviantart.com
My new deviantart account. I hope to see some of my old friends and supporters on my new page soon.
Ah, the memories I have of this account are very fond!
I began my artistic career here, painting yaoi. I have seen myself progress from angst riddled teen to a young lady.
It's time I moved account to reflect the changes I have personally undergone. I don't want to delete the work I have on here, as some people still enjoy it!
THANK YOU FOR THE MEMORIES
THANK YOU FOR EVERY COMMENT
THANK YOU FOR EVERY FAVOURITE
I'll see you soon, at
I'll be submitting new work soon, my lovelies. Dare say I promise. My visual dictionary and I had a bit of a falling out... But we're on civil terms again.
I hope each of you are gloriously tanned, full of vim, and generally speaking, well.
Domo arigato for the support, as ever, sweeties.
A day ago I returned from Paris.
Paris in the summer is exquisite indeed. The sun is a hot caress and the bedsheets are paper thin. Night is warm ink, stirred, and the lights are a neon garland about the throat of Monmatre.
The city thrums.
Pere Lachaise is the empire of the dead and fashionable. It is quiet in the morning but for the language passed between the murders of crows. Oscar's tomb is pale stone, and is kissed, adored, by a thousand mouths, and thousand prints of lips in pink and red and peach and blood-dark scarlet.
It is quite beautiful. Kisses of grief. Kisses of want.
I had a flower for Oscar. And of course I kissed him.