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a collection of mornings, ii
we backtrack where we should not, turning in a too-small bed to the freezing glare of ten am. uptown and downtown again. this is not a cure.
i say i am sorry and he says don't be. we creep back towards consciousness and i send him home in a flood of light and spring air. i wash my sheets of my indiscretion, his infidelity. so much for tacit understanding.
he whispers, turn your back from the dawn, our friends don't have curtains. i grind sugar into my teeth and think of him when i taste cigarettes. blondes are all sweetness.
alone, languorous.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 1 8
pirate by yourotherleft pirate :iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 0 3
a change of scenery, perhaps
It was after a year in the desert. Standing stranded on the tarmac I would have publicly imploded for a place to put my head and sleep just long enough for the dirt under my fingernails to turn to diamonds. I would have abandoned my image for a sleeve down which to cough up my lungs and never breathe that dry air again. Instead I found myself in a native's Jeep, spiraling up hills until that neon tourist trap of a city melted into mist-heavy rainforest. I abandoned the modern age for an ancient one in which the thirsty dip their hands into a stream and drink without fear.
If the ancients feared liars, I was the enemy. In all my contempt for the desert I learned nothing but cures from the rainforests; that every evil in nature is neatly packaged with an antidote. It is the cities that defy nature. The City has bad habits. It chews my neurons after dinner and spits me out in the bed of a stranger. It screams from its cavernous underground and in a few short stops punctuated with electron
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 1 6
sketch of a boy i know
It was that angled jaw and perfect symmetry that caught my eye from across the room. I could have stripped that boy down to his skeleton and still have found him beautiful. He had the sort of intellect that could find Lafayette Street on a map of Pangaea, that knows what Manhattan looked like before the advent of modern architecture. He was from the desert and I dreamt sand in his rough cheeks and dark curls. He held my waist as we slipped east down Ninth Street. Our curves locked together; his hips complimented mine.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 2 5
a collection of mornings, 2005
i wake to a foreign floor, having slept off a year of near-misses. he is long gone, still sleeping through more egregious sins. he does not remember three-two-one and his lips on mine. all the sweeter.
we lie awake in the sunrise, watching snow drift past the window and settle on the fire escape. he says nothing. i say nothing. in two hours i will be gone. he asks if i take my coffee black. of course.
alone in my bed i am piecing together the evening's failures. there is a day to face.
the loveliest morning i have ever seen. i let myself slowly into the world. the words from my mouth circle back and i can invent the tone in his voice. three weeks is not so long. seven hundred miles is not so far.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 2 5
calendars and the kids
she pushed a nail into the
drywall and hung her calendar, a perfect
glassy grid that now
sweats off the long months
past from the space between the window
and the refrigerator. with the first
threads of snow crawling
out from their clouds i am opening
the photo albums and she is
asking why. and every glossed face is
another expired summer sun
and that rigid skyline whispers back
in slow and careful reminders:
this one is the reason
i don't wear socks, this one is
why every morning i slip
a watch around my skinny wrist, and why
i cross streets without looking.
and she doesn't want to
hear and so our city is silent.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 2 7
no mirrors were harmed by yourotherleft no mirrors were harmed :iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 0 5
it is later than it looks
right now, darling, right now. the frost is settling on our car windows and on the scratched plastic paneling that closes each of us into those little hollow shuttles. the cat is darting under the neighbor's suv and its eyes are so so bright. the stoplights aren't blinking yet but stay long enough and we can forget the way they look when they are solid.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 1 11
untitled: november.
i remember when we
hanged our clumsy jackets
on the doorknobs,
their loose threads screaming
from the corners of discarded sleeves.
you were the frost
on the trimmed grass
crunching under my heels
and those icy pre-dawns
took calculated bites
out of your fingers.
i kept moving, crawling
like mercury through
a chthonian dreamlife
as the streetlamps
stung my retinas.
between us we had
two hands,
two eyes,
and three moments
of consciousness.
i hit  the brights
and flashed forward.
november loses its way
in a suffocating cloud
of leftover hurricanes and ash.
he half-smiles from one slow inch away
and on the other side of 95
an axe falls
across your white, feather-soft throat.
from the passenger seat
i hear his grin boil over,
our pulses mocking
the speed limit
as turn signals flash
like phosphorescent bees.
my mawkish shadow
grows in the distance.
i breathe towards escape.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 2 3
Let's run.
We've got three days
against the clocks
and a full tank of gas.
And I've never seen this highway
but between the chords you're yelling
over the heater that
with gloves on, my hands might
slip from the wheel
and send us sailing,
capsized, off the road.
I turn up the volume.
Because, in the instant
between a red light and a green one,
I have left you at the curb:
another overlooked, overcooked
breakfast uneaten, your
fingertips twitching manically
the same way that use to
drive me crazy and send me
out of my skin and into yours.
And I remember those hands
on my waist, those eyes fixated
on the curves you could have sworn
were different, somehow, just a little.
No, I always said,
Nothing had changed.
Nothing but the gears,
the slope of our acceleration
against the white lines and white lies
and never ever too close to the curbs.
Nothing, but I've sharpened my teeth
and my tongue still sharper,
and with the pedal to the floor,
this is not about us,
or the green lights,
or the fl
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 0 2
politics, found
God doesn't make mistakes; Bush singed off on 152 executions. He added that he's an adult and capable of telling, as we learned, the difference between right and wrong. Cheney repeatedly interrupted him with shouts of "four more years" and "amen."
Enemies came from the parasitic elite; admitted conspiracy, dereliction of duty, maltreatment, assault and committing an indecent act, accused the Democrats of harassment, intimidation, dirty tricks and gigantic litigation by corporate law firms, failed to secure weapons of mass destruction stockpiles while leaving the nation's ports unprotected.
Corporate control of Washington DC warned the American people: "John Kerry does not have the judgment or the conviction that America needs in a president. Kerry favors relaxing. Kerry represents mass murder in our cities." Action has been blocked by low-income mothers.
Mr Clinton also sent out an e-mail.
"Our troops are, you know, so well-protected," Sgt Ivan Frederick said of sex outside of marriage
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 2 4
mechanics vs. minuets
i used to catch
his reflection in
shop windows.
he never noticed.
those trains stole
every last bit of
our careful silences.
i turned my quiet music
to full volume.
the shy angles
of our knees
told everything.
i remember that song
like a plague;
in the background
everything else
fell the fuck apart.
was sunday.  
i was alone
in the post office.
"it's a minuet," he says.
and i am thinking
about vector mechanics,
and how, just maybe,
rocket science is
easier than this.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 1 9
meet me in the pocket by yourotherleft meet me in the pocket :iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 0 3
5th ave, 11am _ 2.0
thursday morning, july. it was storming.
four blocks down fifth avenue and two more back to 86th street and we stumbled back to brooklyn with pants plastered to thighs. after that we made plans to plant flowers on the graves of our heroes and priests, to never have empty mailboxes. i bought this umbrella— it was five dollars, automatic, black. every time it opens on its own i remember— a postcard from russia, some wet cigarettes, a song in my head, an empty mailbox.
tuesday afternoon, october. it is storming.
eight blocks to the station, sloshing down the sidewalks with tiny floods splashing at ankles. that umbrella sprung open half an hour ago. i bought this record— it is eleven songs, veiled portraits, a voice i imagine coming from your mouth. and now i understand— a few words, a home-made envelope, geography.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 1 2
i don't miss fifth avenue.
thursday morning, july. it was storming. four blocks down fifth avenue and two more back to 86th street and we stumbled back to brooklyn with pants plastered to thighs. after that we made plans to plant flowers on the graves of our heroes and priests, to never have empty mailboxes. i bought this umbrella. it was five dollars, automatic, black. every time it opens on its own i remember. a postcard from russia, some wet cigarettes, a song in my head, an empty mailbox.
saturday night, october. it is storming. eight blocks to the station, sloshing down the sidewalks and the umbrella sprung open half an hour ago. i bought this record. a few words, a home-made envelope, geography.
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 0 5
driving miss distance
Curiously, curiously the sun rises.
From the passenger seat,
I clumsily wonder why it clings
to the east like an unbreakable
habit, while I have outgrown
micro-suede and  side-view
mirrors. "You
hungry?" Distance asks, her eyes
cast timidly down
out of a rare defeat.
"Oh," I say, "it's unbearable,"
though she knows I am thinking
not of food but of how it stings
to watch road signs pass in full view,
to accept the instability
of her recurring , imposing size.
"Let's get something to eat,"
I say. So Distance slows down,
turns her coarse wheel, and pulls around
exit 4b, while smiling
loudly to herself and tapping to the beat
of some strange new
symphony. Then she sighs,
accidentally recalling my ability
to speak. From my newly stable
position by the rolled-down
window with my hands on my thighs,
I start screaming.
And Distance looks at her feet.
"What are you but abstract? I would eat
you along with love and other fables.
You are not new.
Keep your head down.
Keep dreamin
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 3 19


Mature content
The Papers Of M. :iconfauxgravity:fauxgravity 63 67
addressing her past, today.
addressing her past, today.
the flowing water reminded
her of storm scattered skies
and bouts of sadness;
her head hung motionless
above a white sink basin
and leaking faucet.
:iconchampion-of-idiots:champion-of-idiots 2 8
love poem- number 6
Our kisses were always more beautiful than
the ones pinned on your wall.
But they could never be therre
to watch you sleep
So you dont know which one is real:
Static permanence
Arms painted around eachother
Forever there in gold leaf
A dissapearing and reappearing act of passion
Complete with mystery and mirrors:
It's emcee, calender dates and flight numbers

step right up.

Until you can't tell you're
alone or claustraphobic
when you look in the
Until soon, with
every kiss and every inch of bare skin
you'll wonder,
havent you had this
dream before?
:iconyoushouldsleep:YouSHouldSleep 3 1
all heroes gone by caitiecometrue all heroes gone :iconcaitiecometrue:caitiecometrue 60 67
Explosive Passion
I crave to breathe searing fire,
that it might rip my lungs.
I want to live
             for more
                   than stars.
I want to bleed quick
hurling shrapnel through car doors with a deafening screech.
Devastating city blocks
with awe.
I want to squeeze out
              every last tear of gasoline.
I want to breath sparks,
              I'll never wear eye brows!    (I defiantly cry)
All this, 
:iconvoixdelaraison:voixdelaraison 2 5
Our meeting
Our meeting
Where the moon eats the night,
And our worlds collide, under twilight sky.
How Euphoria fakes it,
My mirrors crash, and karma blesses.
Why the stars wink at me,
And the roses cease to fade.
When never sings forever,
And glass births the sands…
:iconjackcolon:jackcolon 7 20
I Can Taste Death by sixhours I Can Taste Death :iconsixhours:sixhours 14 42



mae g. saazlow.
United States
Current Residence: brooklyn.
Favourite genre of music: sad old bastard, madchester, matador records.
Favourite photographer: richard avedon.
Operating System: panther, bitch.
MP3 player of choice: ipod.
Shell of choice: newton's shell theorem.
blondes make my heart beat extrafast and they take twice as long to get out of my system. i would be lying if i said i didn't know why.

i have a dangerously pressing desire to tell an unfortunate amount of secrets.


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theaphroditeeffect Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2008
Your writing makes me ache for things that haven't ever happened.

I am envious.
Pixil8ed Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2006
Got a pretty nice gallery here.
railroadearth6 Featured By Owner Nov 6, 2006
isn't it lame that one of the best writers to ever grace the pages of deviantart has abandoned us all without even being banned or anything?

isn't it?
klmnumbers Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2006
gurlgoinghost Featured By Owner Dec 21, 2005
brAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIinnnnnsss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :zombie:

You were bitten by a zombie.... well.... there aren't any rules when you're undead...... just bite as many people as you can okay.......:D
rebelchic Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2005
railroadearth6 Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2005
HCShannon Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2005  Hobbyist Digital Artist
fallingsilver Featured By Owner Jul 7, 2005
Howdy day.
justb Featured By Owner May 17, 2005   Writer
Hey there. I'm shopping. Don't mind me.

Ohhhhh. I'd like a pair of those.

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