Across the Way

Red lights abound,

A flickering side-show hiding our frowns,

Dressed up all pretty;

just want to be found.

Empty glasses accenting nothing,

but young blood craving something;

more.

Things seems good,

potentially normal.

He wants to chat,

thinks I’m immoral.

I tell him to fuck off.

Mood seems dampened,

But I bite back the tears.

Because after all;

it was just a compliment, nothing weird.

At least that’s what my best friend seemed to think.

Hours later the bars all closed.

My spirits had lifted; I suppose.

Said my farewells and let her drive,

away.

because she was always more poised than I…

…thought I could be.

Can’t question that, because it’s easier just to trust she’s got your back. And if she has my back I’m sure she has her own…you can’t defend another if you’re all exposed. Can you?

And if I can’t honestly say I have my own, then who’s got her back? Because I clearly don’t…since I’m the bitch who let her drive away; all fucked up on oxy cut with glaze.

Too late now,

I say to myself;

Walking down the street,

On my way to the house.

Few minutes later,

phone makes a ding,

weights all seem lifted,

when she says she’s home safe.

And that makes one. I thought to myself, eyeing that same shadow across the way. It belongs to the creep that I’d kept at bay. But now it’s all dark, and I’m not feeling sure…that I could do it again. Alone. Here.

He probably lives on campus, probably not a bad guy. Just a little pushy when hyped up on rye. The rhyming is lazy when I’m all worked up. Thing’s don’t quite flow and we all know what they serve at bars. I could try and rhyme alcohol for you but I don’t think it would matter, in communicating this learned fucking reflex that causes me to cower…when I see a man. When I don’t know what he’s doing over there.

Across the way.

I’m sure it’s nothing, and that little flash every thirty seconds is probably his phone.

Still; my hand is on that whistle…the best gag gift I ever got.

And I’m sending this message because I just want you to know, that I don’t feel quite right being alone…right now. And maybe the drugs just cloud up my mind, maybe his shadow is nothing but kind, but maybe I don’t feel like he’s reassured me of that the way he touched me without asking.

So, I’ll send you a text in a minute or two,

When I walk through that door we’ll know I was a fool,

for shivering and quivering in these fucking high heels,

hoping to God he isn’t the kind of tool,

who likes my false advertisement; my eyes still belong to you.

So don’t fucking worry,

I’ll be home in a few.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Digital concept painting:

Soapyabstract4

Copr Blu-art 2018

The artwork and poetry portrayed here is the exclusive property of Blu-art and cannot be reproduced in any fashion without explicit and authentic written permission from me that is reproducible and recorded by me. 

Chelsea Grin (Artwork+Poem)

Chelsea grins when Chelsea wins,

something thin and something grim.

Chelsea grins through fading skin,

taking lives while moaning hymns.

Taking time to carve away,

the very essence of her prey…

…Up the lips and through the cheek,

a torturous smile that haunts the weak.

No one wins when she grins,

No,

No one wins when she sins.

_________________________________________

Note: This poem and artwork are based on the Chelsea grin, or Glasgow smile. Wherein the perpetrator cuts a smile into the victims face with a sharp object or razor.

Digital portrait

7x20inches

Bluv

Bird inside my Rib-cage.

There’s a bird inside my ribcage. He screams so I’ll never forget.

I wanna smash away my sternum.

I wanna rip him from his nest.

 

You’d sew me back up like a garden,

and there’d be flowers in my chest.

It’d hide away his power,

and give us a place to rest.

There’s a bird inside my rib-cage.

And I wish I could just forget.

 

All I wanted was our garden,

So;

I drew a line in our fault, with these worthless fucking hands.

I drew a line through this salt, so you’d connect the strands.

I drew this line in defense, of my God-damn worthless hands.

I drew a line through the salt, so you’d know my plans.

 

Beds

Stepped outside, only to meet a blank stare from a dead looking sky. A grey kind of light, overcast but dry. The kind of day, we would have stayed, inside. Curled up on that little thing we called our bed.

Wasting a day away, never felt so great. Now I can’t escape the red, fogging up my vision; hate.

I want nothing more than to walk back inside and lay on our bed. But you’re done with me. With we. You moved ahead. I should respect that, but my stomach feels like lead, and I can’t even curl up in my own fucking bed. Without crying out for you.

So fuck you for that, and all the rest.

I’m just trying my best, to just move on.

But when my place of rest, turns to bitter test, of me vs. myself and the memories of us and the nights we lay awake dreaming of less…and more…and how the world could be ours if we’d just reach out and…

But that’s worthless now.

And I’m worthless now.

Too bad you’re not.

And I want nothing more than to burn that bed, but I’m too filled with dread, that when it’s gone, these fading memories will finally leave my head.

_____________________

Hadley6_______________________________________________________

Portfolio Link: https://blu-art.myportfolio.com/

Lines? No Lines?

There’s something beautiful in the realization that the absence of pigment can be just as, if not more, impactful than a bold line.

It’s a subtle concept that bleeds into the rest of life. What you don’t say. What you never try. Where you never go. It all says just as much as your deliberate actions.

Not doing something seems to have some sort of negative connotation attached, but I’d argue there are times when not doing something takes strength and courage. Just a thought, though.

-Blu

Quotes of a Cynic #25-ish

I have it on good authority that there are four simple components that, when combined, guarantee a happy existence on this floating space-rock. Unfortunately, I have it on better authority that no-one knows what these four components are. Even worse, at least two-point-three million people are currently pedaling fakes! The nerve!

Willow o’ Wisp

Le Willow o’ Wisp

Cornhusking the dog,
It pauses,
Before sipping it’s grog,
A mixture of fermented oils from frogs.

A salesmen at start,
A sick fuck at heart,
Clyde shapens his pitch,
And my lips; how they part.

Wide an’ oh so wallow,
Like this neck in a noose,
He sells me his product,
As my hands won’t come loose.

The bonds o’ his trade,
Le willow of wisp,
A fragment; no spade,
Of hell and its bliss.

Behind me he walks,
Continues his talks,
And slithers his husk around my kin.

Making me watch,
He delivers his thoughts,
Oh; how do the knives even talk?
And;
“The darkness always wins.”

Creepy Doll

Creepy Doll

That clay-mold doll,
Strung up on our wall,
Is funny.

Stare out to the night,
An insomniacs call,
Red eyes stare me back,
Coarsened with fright.

That clay-mold doll,
You strung on my wall,
Is daddy.

A pale moon flight,
Three hallows prior,
Mom found him at sin,
Before stealing his light.
That old clay doll,

Strung up on my wall,
Is stretching.
Bending and breaking,
Clacking and creaking,
Faux-sect protrusions,
Of potters good wake.

That clay-mold doll,
Strung me up on the wall,
And started to sin for the old days sake.