|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
it's your call, starlingmy sister is going to be a cyborg
and i hope she stays gentle. i heard
that cochlear implants
can sometimes become commanders
the same way that learning commands
formative love. i hope she
stays humble and continues
to make my tinctures in the endearing
way she does,
enough to flood underground tunnels
she takes my wrist by force
and she decrees that all knowledge
happens in a snow-felled wood
at sunset. it's like the natural life
inside her yearns still
for that brackish obliteration,
and maybe when she's a cyborg
it will detach itself from its carbon
sequestration and fly out to its avalon,
the hungry look...the hungry look,
the gully of your throat like wraiths,
we can feel you rusting, lost one;
i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet
and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,
but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,
and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;
where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq
we landed in oklahoma
and drank cheap martinis in the terminal;
you carried my guitar and fell in love
with my voice but not my tongue,
not my hands.
there's a man with a garage
that looks like a plane because nothing
meant more to him. will you make a model
of that bar? will you make a model
of my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhome
with her and three children?
the problem was you're not gay.
the problem was there was feeling
but it wasn't for us. i had you but
it wasn't for us.
i'm not sure if i resent you,
but i remember that bar and every pockmark
on the stool you sat on while i played
the song that parted yo
Davaothe equatorial sun
soft-etched on my skin,
there, del sur
the tan lines of shallow-bathing
in your eyes
there is so much time between
you spoil me, featherbreath
do i dare commit my memory
i laugh upon waking,
i did not realize--
i run when i go to you
carouselwe laughed like children high on m&ms,
danced like we were carousel horses,
and jump-roped our way through obstacle courses.
I saved our footsteps in mason jars,
in case we ever needed to follow yellow brick roads
to get home.
home was an illusion:
honesty without truth,
apologies without forgiveness,
I kept home sandwiched between
"never" and "have to."
caroline, they'd say. caroline,
stop being such a dreamer. stop taking
us for granted.
I packed every apology possible
into my breath, left runaway plans lingering
in the silence between family.
when I found you dancing in the street,
I listened for merry-go-round music.
Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2
Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.
The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura o
All Falling in the EndYou start with yourself.
Before anything grand can happen, you have to make a decision. A vow of dedication to your cause. Your ideals. Your path to reforming the world. The one that won’t forget you to the last seconds of your life and far beyond in neither heaven nor hell. Now that you have picked your door in the corridor of choices, you walk in, and the door locks itself behind you. The exhilarating click of devout commitment.
You start with a person.
It’s surprisingly hard to wield a knife properly, but your palms aren’t sweating. Cool and clenched and excited. Confident, too, that you can achieve what you set out to
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.
perhaps today i will play dead.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.
mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;
laughing and choking
on puns &
when you bend me over nouns
the words are there waiting to be spoken
me . you . love
my dear, we've been mute
for so long
speak to me.
like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided
Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins
surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,
like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours
And as the rain falls harder
as it falls faster
washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,
i pray it takes me with
Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate motion in
of - waves.
- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,
in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling
here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
the sea does not sleep.
bitter hug of mortalityso you sit there,
your awkward little hands folding awkward little birds,
as if you could inhale your own paper wings.
so you sit there,
and you think
about you watching the people and the people
not watching you.
and i whisper darling,
darling the only thing you're good for
is reading walt whitman out loud
to your used-to-be-white walls
until your throat chips, and your eyes dust over.
and you just shift your weight
and shake your head
buzzed in your ear.
on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell you
you are pretty.
How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?
2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six &
A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that paused
the daily, mundane stuff
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
Depressiondried food, caked and peeling on the counter.
the bread developed gangrene; it cannot be severed.
i am rotted meat with lowercase ego;
in the morning, chalk tablets pilfer tiny bits of soul.
lonelinessi am not Bukowski’s junkyard, but i am filled
with white-knuckled fear and petty excuses.
there is no room between the piss-stained
carpet and cockroach-infested refrigerator.
wakingi split myself in two in the face of my reflection:
sin, love. distressed and castrated in the wake
of your ministrations, your lips:
you handled me
so, so disjointedly. rickety, brittle air breaking
in my lungs.
get up! stomp this from my bones, forest
creature. breaking plates.
sprigs of new life
springing up between the spaces of shattered glass.
wild flowers will bloom here after this
i never intended to remain whole, my dear.
i will wake.
i will let this river carry me to the end of myself;
quiet and still in the palms of her current. she will
break me on the rocks
and i will seep into the pores of the earth,
Lullabyborn from damp earth and oceansoul,
her sparrowbones sway in the wind
—too light to hold herself down: the unbearable
weightlessness of her own actions.
she digs her feet into the dirt,
hollowing out the pores, so her mother can breathe;
ash spews up from the earth’s core, shimmers
incandescent like stardust in the last rays of light.
oh, how mother mourns her empty womb:
everything dies, everything dies
in oil-spun fibers and oxygen-starved epithelium.
she holds herself down, presses her fingers into flesh
and curls inside herself, like a seed
and she welcomes it, the sleep that comes:
Keep in Touch!
`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More