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Expectation Of An AvalancheOur emptiness, our spades and saws,
Old tools become debris,
The shattered bricks, a flayed applause
Shaking the snowy sea.
Tomorrow and the muted crawl,
The air's shock caught up, surging fall,
Beyond, until the motion stalls.
The bloodless gallop of the void
Between a dreamer's bones,
And at the foot lay there, destroyed,
Dissolving little ones -
So was it then, an elegy?
To soften their geometry,
So was it, then?
So was it then
When ice was all that I could see?
Alignment of translucent dunes,
Glass roofs but gravestones be;
Giving shelter to shedding moons
All polished perfectly.
An avalanche, as one would say,
No anchored noise thrown in the way,
To seize the feet with frozen clay.
Yet convalescence strips away
That jewel-box whose stems may slake
The eyes' long-thirsty lust of gray -
Our emptiness outwears and breaks.
No arabesque to dress the heart
Nor quickly sway its idle aches;
To whisk off vertigo, to part,
Our emptiness o
And Chains Will Not Release MeA certain pride and certain awe I see,
At times, your ardor all but has you gripped,
Yet not with love for your own child, or me,
But only for his newest manuscript.
Your verses are a gift from God himself,
Yet you dwell on those sentences amiss,
'Tis your novels that should be on the shelf,
But you treat each word as a crude, lewd kiss.
I'm writing this in hopes that you may know,
Finally understand what you ignore,
My veiled voice has long been pleading "Go..",
But 'tis I who must choose to stay no more.
Your words have chains and meaning thick as lead,
And chains will not release me once they're said.
Every Word I Say Has Chains 'Round Its AnklesI think of Hemingway everyday,
and murmur that it's going to be okay,
there's considerable difficulty
upon just being okay.
Just for one day.
Every word I say has chains 'round its ankles, running
for a porcelain knob too slick to turn,
and it seemed
that sentences inhabit darkness better
which is why they hide when exposed,
Oh how they pine.
I told myself calmly those words that had no sense,
and thrown away
so their leprous company
would not inhibit his craft.
Those he would never want to get back.
I'll desire in every way just to write like that.
Environed By Lights The traffic lights change too quickly around here, maybe because they know that nobody is coming. Heck, when we're not looking they probably turn purple and pink.
There's a certain poetry about them, like infinitessimally small stars we have the opportunity to watch die, and be reborn, we navigate about them and chart the best course, reading their instructions like fortune tellers. They are small Gods we honor with our approach, they govern the great consensus so that we may move fluidly together. I always thought randomness was true freedom, expectation a secret ruler, a calculable surrender.
I watched the walking envy the driver's speed, the drivers envy the walker's intimate view, neither truly happy to be doing what they were doing. The human condition: to compromise oneself, always finding something to want, something to give up in order to reach half-satisfaction. But that's the point I guess, to take something and leave something else leaves a man never overwhelmed, always i
A Flower Wouldn't Be So BoldAutumn leaves
Barely nothing, the wax of Summer wings
Long dried and scraped away.
And suddenly Winter cold — the mistletoe.
The new solstice, death and rebirth;
The air opens,
Upon the hearth a bough was hung,
And snow caught the tip of
Buildings clothed from head to toe,
And cars, too, as they inched a touch
It moves past you
In a flash.
Leaving only spiny-finger withered oak,
And one too many a stuffy nose.
We curse the cold,
Long for something old
To turn us away,
Reframe the mold.
A flower wouldn't be so bold.
A Conversation"What does unadorned beauty look like?"
An abrupt stillness came upon the snowstorm, as if the weather itself had posed the question. Not being able to see five feet in front of me, it didn't seem entirely unlikely. The bright and biting snow had left me disoriented, and I was sure I had been walking in entirely the wrong direction since breaking down on the highway a half-mile back. Just keep North, I told myself, because being lost is for people who take too many turns, like that even matters when each slow step is into the exact same nothingness. Supressing thoughts of the various scenarios of my death out in the cold I turned to where I thought the voice came from and shouted above the again-angry storm, "Hello? Is that you God? I can't talk now but if you've got any mechanic experience I could use your help!"
The blizzard snarled.
I nodded my head as if I understood.
There's nothing like being lost for the first time, it's as unique a feeling as being in lo
AgueAll vicious tinctures
Of changing textures
All that love's pleasures,
Flesh, in Death's measures,
By my own pressures,
The Metamorphosis AffairThe gardens rioted with weeds of glass,
Now and then a moisture deadened the glands;
I saw the world through gray water, no grass.
The floor-boards buckled, warped their weightless hands,
Thoughts held down by a sickness, viscous, slow;
I did not resist, scraped again by gray sands.
The muscles taut to plant new seeds to grow,
Just one night's sleep and suffering would rust;
I meddled in medicine long ago..
..but now cannot begin, unless from dust.
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
A Kiss not Forgotten (a special tribute)Like a frost spread across valleys silent and dreary,
ever my longing lost in shimmers of shadow & wind
And days bled into years, the seas became deserts
But thoughts of thee would not perish
Thru memories untamed I staggered far and long;
upon solemn nights lit by the torch of your soul
O’ how deep I miss your fragrant cheer ..
Of warm evenings shared across Lake’s reverie,
watching horizons journey into Autumn’s dream
— wherest our hearts once bloomed a fabled sky
Those passions shared will forsake me not
Lest the Moon would bestow solace upon my ache:
I will lay marooned, haunted by thy seraphic-figure,
Or the ever fleeting caress of your gaze ...
So my soul shall yield to this mythic abyss; –
as I peer from my carriage to Nirvana
And thou away, from my arms, the Sun weeps
Unto eternity—my dear beloved, we are entwined
Forever our footprints cast in golden firmament
A kiss not forgotten in a ballet of light softly falling
I now bear the want
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
obligation steam machineas always
grinding the cankerous
of your cognition
until the lack of compassion
leaves you unlubricated
seized frozen bound stuck
only then the machine of
your fears will burst to steam
squealing to suckle
at the genius of my
the unsung soiled hero
of middle-class ferocity
savior of the undeserving
winding slowly deftly dying
martyr to the self-justified cause
What Bismuth Taught Meinvalid, delete, radius of raven's feet leave inchmarks,
the street is pallid swale yellow, tooth and nail blues
that bismuth taught me, return path for the devil feed
from blind dwelling and family, this means of filial coding,
ineffectual fragment distinct enough to recall by rote,
cellophane cello plays its first notes,
my favorite part of the movie
invasive, entreat, making incense a choreogaphy,
dead to detestable meat, belief is an infirmary,
no calculable approach to revise the unknown,
where mortal imagination frames every statement,
maudlin misappropriation, head over senses,
picket fences jail the scenery's simplicity,
my favorite part of the movie
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More