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Neco AvisThe birds preach:
"empathy, all things
beneath the arms of oaks;
all the wingless toilers of the earth.
Turn a kind eye on your lot
and we will gaze down upon you,
And the men beneath,
so busy carving arrows
do not reply.
StonesTake your time, intravenously;
like patient stones that never try
but polish over
as other shapes pass.
Give Up, SomeOur intentions slipped quiet
beneath the door
to let love run free
in the dusky streets
like some wild killer
just out of jail.
like the taste of iron, suddenly
and soft, unprovoked laughter
[ c o l d ye llo w c ur ls ]
with love between pressed pages
like a gun in the top drawer;
there was a lioness nipping at my collar bone
but she never comes home anymore.
Per Alius NominaFingerpainted
twisted little comets
sad young things
Arthouse FearIt struck softly; as though epiphany itself were unprepared and thus not committed to the impact - which did nothing to reduce the shock.
I was living in a studio with windows that were really mirrors that faced inward only all of the reflective surfaces were melting so that one was shown a bent, macabre version of the world within, which seemed a fitting commentary until the surfaces began to splinter and like a cannon or a child's baseball words came tumbling in with the sour air, the hollering streets and the scrambling masses; words like so many well-mannered gents into the grand opening of an art gallery in which every piece portrayed a terrified child cowering from wolves of a clearly phallic nature.
All at once with the air and the streets and the masses I could see and understood - as though the punchline of "us" had been reached and I were frozen there, in the moment just before laughter, living the lives of every bleeding heart with raised hands nearly compressing in applause
Of Poets and CosmonautsThe astronauts we abandoned
on the finite expanses of blasted white
riddled the empty with
stark black lines and sharp curves
letters built from letters and mailed home
shipped by ship to our rock
"we will not mine your pages
drinking deep of sadness,
with only these fleshy suits to tether us
to a universe of terror."
Stop putting words in my mouthYou shove your fingers
down my throat,
and insert words
I never spoke,
in desperate hopes
to make me choke
my pearly gates
that feeds me
swallow the universedecay remembers you --
fever breath and ocean-eyed ghosts,
secrets that smoke with poison desire.
we wake only to drink, to devour
the naked voices of dismantled stars.
glass kisses turn into granite lips
and pillars of salt; a haunted embrace
melts into the cracks of the universe.
Love is not blindLove is not blind. It can see clearly.
It looks past the boundaries.
It defies the judging stares of society.
It is a force to be reckoned with.
eight.sometimes i feel
life's been played like a puppet
on a tangled
[yet still i'm lifeless without you .]
eidolon longingbreath salts open rooms
that entomb my idle hants.
in gloomy aberrance.
when the pulse was flaunted
remain the pursuit
of lanterns haunted.
questions flung like
furtive surface glances
ghost through iris eyelines
with an epiphany;
this search sparked
full body shudderings.
shuttering every window
and portal alike,
a light threatened by
the tending toward pulsatory spikes.
aorta, i spied you
spidering open your eyes
sliding the pursuit of dawn
through your dim sight.
with the sun, beat,
you forge forward for
warded window panes,
a rhythmic wonder repeat.
but eyelids live locked,
a careless cage holding
in this socket shock.
tock and tick that slick swindle options;
your image a lit blossom in a bottomless pit.
i’m reaching, but god, this
isn’t possible when
you’re this obstinate;
i am a fossil you’ve discarded
with hardly a sniff.
snuff me out, i’ll sputter devout and wish
my cardiac espousal had been more
seven.my nights for the last weeks have
consisted of liquid
poison, smoke in
and the chilled sound of
wake up with my
head half off the sidewalk,
surrounded by shards of
and a faint touch of
[ill pick myself back up on my own two
feet.. and stumble back;
she had come seeking a riotshe found religion in silence.
there wasn't a prophet's bone
in her body, not a holy cell of skin, but
somehow she was something
to believe in. she called herself a woman, not an angel nor
madonna, and the crucifix on her tongue could
not make her hold her words.
they called her witch and called her
goddess, made of something
such as marble, but she said she wasn't one
to be revered -
icons made of glass were
made to break, she claimed she was not
born to die;
(silence is found in the loudest of tongues, for speaking is an art
not all have learned-)
One LessT i cks
are a consistent bed partner
not to be confused with the humming of ceiling fans
or the thrumming of cardiologist fascination
not to be mistaken for
the soft exhalation
in tangled threads or pallid flesh;
certainly they are similar
and quiet audible reactions
can drown within each other
if you listen
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More