X.The world is too smallAnd I, too restless.
Discordant She often found him out here, in the middle of the field, with the old guitar. He sang to it, crooned to it, told it his deepest secrets, clinging to it as if it was his last friend. She'd sit next to him and just listen to him play for hours, neither of them speaking much to each other, the guitar doing most of the talking. "So why the guitar?" she sometimes asked him. "What do you mean?" he replied, still picking the strings of the worn acoustic. "Well, of all the instruments there are in the world, pianos, violins, drums, et cetera, why'd you pick the acoustic?" "Too sweet, too sweet, the shadows," the guitar hummed. He looked around, taking in the scenery as if for the first time. "It has memories. It's not that I chose it. It just seemed right." She would sigh, the guitar (Felix, he called it) would chuckle,
Dust on the Lensi.He took photographsas if he were lovingwith a broken heart—Slowly,cautiously,Careful set up—The lighting softTo smooth the harsh shadowsThe colors just rightSighing against the eyeThe model all wrong,Yet interminably perfect.ii.He took photographsas if he were taking a lifeOr in the way you fall asleepor fall in love—“Slowly, then all at once.”iii.When he took my photograph,he also took my breathand the beat my heart skipped.
Oh dear, seems I've been tagged....people still do these? And they always come with a ridiculous set of rules. [imperious sigh] Good thing mama raised me to be a scofflaw.The rules:1. You must post these rules.2. Answer the questions the tagger set for you, and create new questions for people you tag to answer.3. You have to choose 10 people to tag and post their icons on your journal4. Go to their pages and tell them you have tagged her/him.5. No tag backs.1. What's the difference between :iconcypselurus: and Larrybirds?...I don't know anything about these people. Is Larrybirds a name? I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that one's an assassin and the other's the target.2. Do you read more or movie more?Read.3. If there was one thing you could do to change the world, what would it be?Rule it.4. What's a human in your opinion?Something that should not be wasted.5. What's your favorite animal?Toss up between foxes and kingfishers (have you seen all the difference species of kingfishers? They're
IX.So I made quiet the things I could not seeand continued to imagine that I was free.A wandering dream has left me cold--I grow old, I grow old.
Au Courant XISo although deviantArt has introduced the newest 'Undiscovered' feature, there's no possible way it can catch everything. Au Courant will continue! [triumphant for some odd reason]I've decided that every once in a while, I'll refresh the 'Newest' function on the front page and select some pieces that I think are good (that might not get a chance to really be seen). I know how frustrating it is to work hard on something and nobody notices.Of course, I'll probably also be picking up some pieces from people who already have a huge following/fanbase, but hey, extra advertising anyway. The Fellowship Taking a Rest by adavesseth Remains of War by latunov
stars only die from drug overdoses.there's a boy i knowwho used to swallow coinslike hard candy;tree sapstuck to his chinfrom my own hands,Septemberlucid in our lungsand the roada blur from our sadistic words.he doesn't believe in hellandneither do i.but i believe in the stars and i want to know what happens to themwhen they die.
Infini-Fridge 9000Barry loved his Infinity Fridge. Or at least, until he got married, anyway.At first, it was amazing. As a freshly-recruited maintenance engineer on the Luxury Star Cruiser The Astronut, Barry had found his new home and workplace full wonders. He walked through rooms so tall he couldn't see the sky; he swept up litter from artificial beaches which captured more beauty than the real thing; he watched the stars pass by like rain from the sweeping observation deck.And, of course, he had his Infinity Fridge.An Infini-Fridge 9000 was standard-issue hardware for a Luxury class cruiser, but Barry had never seen anything like it. In the slums of his native Bomalomalom, pretty much everything was finite (except perhaps for misery). Water was rationed. Food was served via nutritional pills only. Even electricity was limited to ten tera-watt-hours per day. That was barely enough to run a sens-o-vision sim and have enough left over to purify your evening drink.So to step into a room with a frid
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;stars trapped in the linings of mystomach andthe regurgitation of meteorsthunderingthe chambers of a heart--deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stainedglass.This is the reason why my throatbubbles like witch's brew--the insides of my body form monsoons thatscratch my lungs anddisintegrate my windpipe,an off-pitched dissonancelike wind chimeswhenever I try to shout or speak oreven whisper. (and they tell me that you could sing the moon to sleep when you cast your faithful nothings on a star)[and, no, I'm not some kind of genietrapped in an expanse of dustrather than a lamp]Darling, I was never caught betweena collision of star-crossed galaxies,nor an accident between the big bangand a black hole.I was born a star-child.and, no, they could never be beautiful.Yet, I could never be as graceful.I could never carve my face the way gods do, and
Letter to a loved one, on losing a loved one.I want to tell youthat this grief is temporary,that even if you feel lost,you are not a ship adriftwithout a crew.But darling, grief stillsits heavy on my tongue andI will not lie to you. [Grief gathers at the back of my mouth and renders me useless on days that feel like the day she died, my limbs heavy, my heart sore.]Instead I am going to tell youthat grief is not the last thingyou will ever feel;there will still berumpled sheets and lazy smiles,your fingers will still findmy naked waist beneath the blanketsand mine will still fit neatly betweenthe knobs of your spine.We will still drink too much coffee,smoke too many cigarettes, and love withurgency but not with haste.I will sit with your grief,as you have sat with mine andwe will be okay.
Six years ago.I wasn't ready for you. I was readyfor a brawl. I was ready to trade in the handI'd been dealt for new cards, all of themthe queen of hearts. I was readyto fight my mother for the next four years,to blow so many holes in our relationship that we'restill half-sunk & bailing water out of a boatwe don't recognise anymore.I was ready for a drink. I was readyto hit rock bottom & start digging, to put outmy own fire with dirt and a shovel. I was readyto be the kind of shitty girlfriend that leavesyou hanging on the other end of the linewhile I chain smoke cigarettesin the rain,to spend six years and countingwaiting for another man to hit me,to stay up late every night decidingwhether to walk away this timeor close my eyes and take it.I was a rabid dog in too-small skin, itchingto break everything around meuntil I felt whole again.I wasn't ready to be happy.I was on hands and skinned knees crawlingtowards the day that I would.---
I Seek...They had been fighting for hours. It was a fight for power, for dominance. No one dared to touch the other's body. If they did, it would be lethal; their death. They compromised destroying everything else around them.She circled him with blazing eyes. They radiated a quenchless desire for revenge. She was on fire. He, on the other side, stood still at the same place. It was like he was
frozen. He had his eyes closed but he could sense her. She was around him, provoking him to an endless fight. Her insistence bothered him. He opened his eyes, dark blue eyes, and pierced her with invisible blades. A faint cry slipped her lips. His cold indifference hurt her and that was enough to pull the trigger.She covered the distance between them and attacked him without thinking the consequences. Her searing fire covered him as she embraced his figure with immaterial hands. He screamed in acute pain. Her heat melted his boneless body. She always found a way to destroy h
Lately, the waitHighway traffic, seamless like the skiesof October; distant lights foretella visitor.A gush of wind, a magnolia laden threshold.Another blackout.We sharethemuch sought afterlunacy.[Lunar/lunatic]
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
Melatonin Addictioncan i fill you up?on brine, boosts and bronze.I mean that literally,we'll dine,fuckand dash.The Earth is hollow but we still drill through.Space is a concept evidently named.I'm a warrior and you be the princess,you're already rescued, promised to curses.is a line is a line is a line is a lineand I'm in enigmas, sure by shore leaves.sunken ships launch from the beach frontand take their ghosts,a secret suicide.If ants drew us and we marched past,would it be any different, would it be any different?in a line to end all lines,and seductive co-workers fling their shit at me.once primal, always primal, just anthropomorphic.I'm just a collection of piss stains,wrung out and forgottenstinky and melancholic.addicted to that pin-prick well,settling for justice with a bucket,we dip our heads into water and crack the rot over bemusement.I hope you wake upoh, god i hope you fucking wake up
Like Only the Stars are WatchingMr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted.“She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said.“In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said.Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.”“No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes across the farm.”“I don’t think she liked this farm as much as you think,” Kurt said. “We should take the boat and spread her ashes out at sea. She would like that better.”Lisa Marie huffed and crossed her arms. “Mom told me everything, and I can promise you that what she would want is to be here, on the farm.
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
Counting Starslatelyi've taken uplyingon the floorlooking upat the ceilingof the earthcounting starsdiscountinglaws of physicsthey seemso closeto touchingon the tipsof my fingersas ourheadsbump topon topwith ourentangled hairand synchronizedhearts.
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that draglike hooks through a river,turning dead thingsbelly-up on your shores. listen.i am listening. to name it lover,this ripening ache stretchedbetween us; to knowwhat it is you carry. youare a deep silence gardenedby ghosts; hangingfrom the hinges of a sprawledelsewhere. (they are herestill, pacing the long brimof your memory aroundto the long brim of mine.)i too have been drowning.if not by one stone,then another. the autumn quietof the bodyin bed. this language named skin,beast, temple, home. underwater,you open your mouth; amnioticvoid of unspeaking, horizontaltrespass from dark to dark.lover, i would kissyour ghosts. the spinning prayerof my mouth taking their poisoninto mine. secretsblooming there, blooming darklike strangers. we sleep now. dreamourselves against them, dancing. promisethe space of your breath worth morethan its abandoning, the static stainthat crawls you out to sea.low, circl
the letter that never arrivedas if grief had never hollowed out my heart,caverns echoing with the memory of a laugh,as if despair had never stolen my voiceuntil love whispered in my earand I knew what mattered,to speakof knowing: there are thingsyou will decide to protect yourself from,painyou must never relive,and some you must liveand live again,no matter the cost
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680: car-comets in full spin, orbital lights his dreams planetary, saturnian - he almost sprouted wings that night and i cannot say it would not be beautiful; the palpations of downtown pumping luminous cells, coursing through highway veins and he, standing in the heart of his world visions galactic mind ecstatic - his feet began to lift just a little.9 20 13a few phone callsand a pair of
fragments.You tell me that hearts don't work, that the sounds they make are just ghosts passing through. That bodies are pieces of everything everyone's lost slowly coming apart. Burning down childhood homes is a hobby of yours, and it's your plan to die that way, dancing with the flames. But oh, warrior of summers spent kissing too many girls with sharp teeth, put your lighter down. The night is a snow globe, and we are two figurines posed together as stars swirl around us. You can always burn yourself tomorrow. Be with me tonight, instead. Let the broken parts of me fit into the broken parts of you; I could be the piece you need to get your chest to start.
Sparrows and Train Tracks She listens to the corpse of a wingbeat.The stories of faraway peopleetched on sea glass and flower petals,like legends told for lullabiesprinted with rose thornsin the absence of paper.Do the fingers of clock handshold the questions of children,the way wine kisses guiltand disposable wedding rings?Handmade letters and gift-wrapped packagesresemble the music of a laughterthat isn't really there.How many facesare the reflections of a momentdying in the second of a memory-or the dances in the i love you'sthat you never told me.
A Dust of SnowSnow was the great purification. All of the dark places of the land dotted with coated trees were blanketed by mother snows cold hand. The earth was softer in winter, in white. It was sleeping soundly beneath the coverlets where only wolves, rabbits and deer went tuttering by leaving their trails and magic.The girl’s cheeks had long turned chill-burnt red, polished and bright as two crisp autumn apples. They burned in the pale of her skin in the moonlight. In some other time, her lips as red as hearts and her hair as dark as raven’s wings might have stirred a poem. But the eerie mingling of fear and desire glass coating her brown eyes made her seem a mad, mad straw creature than a beauty.The snow was deep and it bit to the knee, sometimes keeping her stuck in place. Frostbite tingled, a small sting at first and now a sharp bite in her feet; fingers. Her mittens had been swiped by a lashing pine, a boot kept by unforgiving drift. Her dress cold and wet.These things
Creamy Red Live Preview“The reader became the book; and summer nightWas like the conscious being of the book.”― Wallace Stevens