Giving Back SundayI wanted to giveher my Sundays.the sky did not wantthem.It rejected the lazy orangearmada of clouds that shiftedthrough the skiesand the formally uncomfortableformalities of mannersat the dinner tableso it left themon my window sill.They were empty andI wanted to givethem to herthese Sundays that had failedto capture the meaning thatI tried to put into them.I wrapped them upin a silk purple bowhoping she could do withthem what I could not,I thought she wouldtake themand fill them maybewith her swelling heartor kiss them with ripe lips.I thought maybeshe would put her eye lashesin them and give them a chanceto wish.But she did not.she took themin her delicate handsand she whispered her wordsthat are,to memore golden than the sunand as the letters formedand shaped in her mouthand molded around her breathshe gave the Sundays wings."Its time to fly."she said,and they did so,soaring high into the sky.I did not stop them.She had allowed me to un
The GracefulThey ate rocks.What does that mean?It means they were trying to get back to the Earthwithout dying.They wanted to return to the soilwithout giving up their precious immortality.These peopleThe Gracefulthese lonely human beingswere willing to grind their very bone into dustthey were willing to digestthe geometric organsthe geographic inards of Gaia herselfif it meantthat they could liveforever.They ate rocksand it didn't matter if they couldn't breatheif they couldn't bleed red.It didn't even matterif they couldn't love.these lonely human beingswere willing to bury their hearts in the Earthif it meant they could live forever.
It's hot in my apartment even if you're not hereWhy do I wake up,halfway drowning in sweat and rattling thoughtsabout who you could be,candles in my room down to their wicks end,and me just laying in bed for a few hours.the worst part is that you're not ignoring me.I could call you up,lasso a conversation like we never left our last onetell you I love you like alwaysbut it's worsebecause you would only ever be half there.I could never have all of you,could never take the full moon for what it is.so why do I try to sleep,with a wild hare up my assabout what could have been of us,candles burning brighter and hotterthan all of the solar system,drowning in perspirationwhen I know I'll just lay in bed for hours.
Celestial Ignoranceyou lost me whenyou said"the stars mean nothing to me."
SkinI watch,I touch,and I understand.I taste stress in your sweat,tension stretched on the surface,so visiblein the landscape of yourback.I feelknots in your muscles,like pearls undersatin.I'll untie the ropesand kiss the blankred ribbonsof your broad browand I'll writeyou letterson my chest,things like silver liesand soft secrets,and wires of frigid truthbecause the truth ismy veryskindemands you.so kiss me back,strike a pose,be a bodyand let our bodiesjuxtapose like slow jazzand your fragile ears.take a deep breathof me andexhale yourselfas you tell youraching body that I miss it too
HarborShe'll have blue eyesfor the seagullsbecause she'll know how it must beto fly in the salt-kissed airand only see water for milesupon milesand love it.she'll want to taste the oceanin the wind,a particle of Calypso's tearsfor every life lost at seaand she'll want to save every snail and turtleshe can get her long, pale, fingers on.She'll never wear shoesbecause she'll need to feel the sandhugging her toes on the shorethe damp ocean water tenderly touchingher bare ankles.She'll chase after the water-linemore than she chases her dreamsbecause perhaps a life underwateris her dream.There will be somethingabout the way she stands to facethe Atlantic and Pacificthat will make you thinkshe stands on twin wooden pillars.And her smile that will look outto the fading and shining horizonwill remind you about hercloud-like breath,and how every faint sound she makesis like the slits and cracks and whispersof the boardwalk.Navy men and Sailors will ask herfor her na
Guacamole"that color is ugly."she would saywhen I would dip mypens and paint brushesin a glass dish of guacamole."food is beautiful."I stroke the avocado on the walls,I let it liveI let it breatheI let it absorb the colors,I let it eat."that color is ugly."she'll say again,in her plaid braand bronze skinand I'll hold back a sigh.I dip the tip of the brushinto the heart of theliquid emerald.I spread the avocado tearsacross my chest,an equilateral line of green life.my heart.I spread it across her collar bones,a vertical line of organic structure.her soul."that color is ugly."she'll say, taking her clothes off.I'll hold back the tears."that color is you."
SheWhen she left homeshe would leave her doors unlockedin the hopes that her life would be a little more exciting.she would strut the streets at nightmarveling at the neon dance of traffic lights and stars.the photons would hypnotize herand make her move her body in ways she never imagined.She would kiss girls until her lips bledbecause men's lips don't taste like cherry balm.She would stop by the liquor storeand brush her hand on the bottle green glassand end up buying coca cola.When she finally stumbled homeshe would shed her clothes like a snake sheds skinstrip teasing for an Invisible Man.shaking her hips and touching her legs andasking God why beautiful creatures spent so much time alone.Her fingers would traveland she would moan herself to sleep on the sheetswishing that somebody--anybody--would come and hold herand stop her from dreaming alone. but she was never alone.I was always therewatchingtouching her with my eyesand holding her with my mindwhile
VintageForce a strangerto sit next to you on the bus.Always take care of the women of societyand they will repay you with shaven legsand strawberry smiles.Vintage carsare the emblems of the past(of the past)Listen to the echoesof voting rightsand look to the mountin tops for snipets(of the future)Think of how much time has passedonce you make it to the topand once you get down,realize that things have changedback to the way they were,the way they are,and the way they always will be.
my soul is leakingthe steady drip drip of it in the kitchensink has me grinding my teethwhat a waste you said, and in vaintried to tighten the taps as I laugheda waste!indeed I am.you told me, pride is a virtue you seem to be lackingand I said pride leaves the blinds open and you laughedand left the the blinds open.Shiny black patent shoes, I watched as you werelowered into the ground and wondered if that's where life got you,if that's where life always got you,then,what good is pride anyway?
here's what i think.I was a better person when I wrote.I was a better person when I wrote about boys who'd never return my feelings on silver platters, and ships long lost, or drowned, at sea. It sounds like a disaster, but I only write well with the ashes of a crumpled, discarded spirit mixed with the still-warm tears of a troubled soul.Words kept me human, for they are what makes us human, and they distanced me from the animal I could become. All I do now is stalk around the concrete city, pace about my enclosure, and think about how my bitterness and I can never be released in the wilderness again.Before the city stole my words away, I was living in the harbor locked up in a crumbling lighthouse, hoping that some northeasterly wind would blow him back to me. I still yearn, but the sea-stained melody gets lost in the traffic and it's easier to be whole without it haunting my every second.But, the truth is, I'm burning for more.I'm not whole without part of him missing, and if I'm filling up the
BryceHe always stands very close to people when he speaks to them, staring with those huge golden eyes and leaning in ever so slightly, as if he is craving their touch and the feel of their breath and their hands more than anything. This is the first thing you notice when you meet him, the closeness. You ache, for a reason you don't know, to bridge the gap. To touch him. Your fingers twitch towards him but you keep your hands beside you.And then you hear him speak, and everything else seems loud and bright and harsh compared to the gentleness of him. His lips are chapped and his big galaxy earrings glitter and his hair stands straight up and his freckles are like kisses, and you think he will sound like all the others and then he speaks; he speaks and something shifts inside you and a little storm begins to crackle and swell inside your chest and suddenly you love him more than anything.And then he finishes asking you the time, and you tell him, and he walks on.
Mollusca1.Find whatever it is that is your treasure.Bury it alive.2.I wrestled the guardian angel for my birthstone,just a pearl like some full moon risen from a mollusk's growing pain.I counted the sheets of nacre like birthday candles,peeled away each one until I at last rememberedthat what I treasure is an infection.3.It was a gentle kind of wrestling,not Biblical, not even assertive,more like the way two sprite wolf cubs play,a light lunge, a jovial snarl,a fight over nothing in particular.The guardian angel renounced itselfas a guardian angel, saidI am a siren.I lie in the tunnels of nautilus shellsand sing until I collapse with the echoes.Then it hurts, like a shard of the wrong songembedded in my skin.4.It never healed the ache of adolescence,just buried it under a fall wound's nacre.Said one day, it'd show up in my smile.5.On the day of the dewinging:bury me alive.I want to see what I can agitate the earth into.
Cloud in a Bottle 1Cloud in a Bottle 1How is it your voice is a canyon which cutswhere you did not even speak, opening the riversof my lungs so they could cataract, could rage with breathyou breathed? That the rock swells of your ribs, washedround and floating, met then barred the way with mineso that my heart, turned to tides, could not slip by,and beat against the walls, unanswered, ‘til it drowned?And that I still don’t hate you, even now?There’s all this nonsense of lips and bubbles, that’s fine;still refuse drifts in one direction all the same, refusing—shored up maybe by some reassuring echoes still unsung—to sink, so like an opened blouse colored by brine, my hopefinds refuge at the highest point, and lays itself unlockedon barren sand to fade, suffuse with light, the way all thingsin the desert turn finally, achingly white.
Your Daughter has Sold Hundreds of Local PapersBut listen to me: I will tell youhow to love a bedspread;a car seat; a sun dressthat you cleaned two months ago.and should they find herin the breast of a riverbankor a cabinet,I will tell youfacts about scavenger birds;kettles, wakes and how to chair a committeewith a body on your desk,as scavenger birds do.
Rose Scented Ashes III - SchoolFast forward a few years...Daniel was now about four, five years old, and getting ready for his first day of school, of Kindergarten. His mother had recently suffered another bout of infuriation toward Valance, who had made one remark about "What happens if the other children find out Daniel's partly plant?" Apparently, she had assumed he meant to reveal it to the other kids, and instantly snapped, chucking a vase at his head, and - thankfully - missing.Suppose she really didn't want me to have any part in his life, Valance thought as he leaned back in the chair at his desk, reading by the sunlight, slate-violet eyes not really seeing the words on the page in front of him. Not beyond giving him a name - which she has probably already claimed as something she thought of anyway. No, not probably, he already knew as much from the whisperings he tuned in on.As he listened to the tumult outside of his door, of the babysitter attempting to get the rowdy young c
:: More Than You'll Ever Know ::Does it make you proudWhen you're the cause of someone's tears?Does it bring you joyEvery time you insult the innocent?Do you know what you doWhen you speak with your vicious tongue?Do you realize what happensEvery time you laugh at another's sorrow?You see a woman with male friendsAnd you accuse her of craving sexual attention.You notice a boy wearing glassesAnd you tease him with the name "four-eyes."There's a group of peace lovers;You proclaim they're annoying hipsters.The teenage boys who love each other;You tear them asunder by calling them abominations.Do you find pleasureIn being the source of a poor soul's agony?Do you even thinkOf what the consequences could be?Does it satisfy youTo make someone feel inferior to you?Does it quench your thirstWhenever you rule over the oppressed?If a young man loves writing poetry,Immediately you dismiss him as a lonely loser.Sho
Never Going Back.Little boy, little boy.Won't you come here.Little boy, little boy.Won't you stay here.He cries in the dark.Stands strong in the world.Fears that old monster.Slowly learns to push back.Young man, young man.Won't you come back.Young man, young man.Won't you ever return.He catches the strap.Shatters the firewater.Freeing himself.Sheds not a tear.Old man, old man.Won't you help them.Old man, old man.Will you ever go back?
Lit. Daily Pick Volume 3: March 2013At the start of the new year, I promised myself that I would be giving back to the literature community here on deviantArt again like I used to. Before I began university, I was able to help admin groups that featured deviants on a daily or weekly basis, and I missed having the time and opportunity to help lesser known deviants have their chance to shine. Now that I've finally graduated, I decided upon a small project that I hope to be able to keep up with: My Lit. Daily Pick Project.What is my Lit. Daily Pick Project?Every day, I choose one literature deviation that I have recently come across that I found to exceptionally stand out to me. That deviation remains featured on my page for 24 hours in my daily pick folder for any watcher or visitor to see and hopefully view, comment, or fave. At the end of the month, all of the deviations that I chose to feature are then featured in an art news journal together. The purpose of this daily feature is to help lesser k
Lit. Daily Pick Volume 1: January 2013At the start of the new year, I promised myself that I would be giving back to the literature community here on deviantArt again like I used to. Before I began university, I was able to help admin groups that featured deviants on a daily or weekly basis, and I missed having the time and opportunity. Now that I've finally graduated, I decided upon a small project that I hope to be able to keep up with: My Lit. Daily Pick Project.What is my Lit. Daily Pick Project?Every day, I choose one literature deviation that I had come across in the last day that I found to exceptionally stand out to me. That deviation remains featured on my page for 24 hours in my daily pick folder for any watcher or visitor to see and hopefully view, comment, or fave. At the end of the month, all of the deviations that I chose to feature will then be featured in an art news journal together.* I do take suggestions for deviations to feature, as well! This month, I had one suggestion from th
OsteoperosisWords and bonesare sticks and stonesand they will surely kill me