|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
EvelynThere were eight to-do lists I had for yesterday. And I forgot to get the groceries.
There's no time for today, but here I am. The smell of nail polish remover claws against a southeast breath of warm air. My aunt used to own that salon. I step over a calendar blowing as a city street tumbleweed that happened to get caught between here and the Laundromat. Cracks in the sidewalk are tightropes, but there only empty lion cages for the rest of the circus. The street lamp is cool beneath my touch just like her skin. She breathed like November. Tart and chilled to the bone with zealous bloody colors. Oh, yes, she lived like August. And I was only March.
I wait to cross the street. The cars lumber past.
It's late. I was late. Too late and missed Thanksgiving then missed Christmas while over seas.
There wasn't anything more elegant and tragic than the crook of her elbow when akimbo; delicate hands tracing her hips. She always held her cigarettes in her left hand. There was nothing
Damned BlackbirdsWhat is this stillness-save
for sight- that makes me feel
There are no branches in my
head, sir. And certainly no
I do admit; fall is my preferred
season. Yet what worldly force dis-
torts the innamable?
What as one is to two?
But aren't three always three?
If you refuse to state your intent
rather change my comprehension
with- Aye, small child- the scraping
outside that horizon would rather
How would you, dear, explicate my
he and I, that is.
I see golden shadows regardless of
whose groundings they surround.
Away, yet here-
but not quite gone?
Would you take adherence to
Nay, sir, you would think
me to be a fool.
Whores will be whoresthere is no
escaping that. But why does anything
double cross Connecticut?
- before thy carriage transforms
to an ornament pumpkin.
If this, then that. Then if, that this?
And here we find ourselves again.
The chill sets your plaster bones
even your eye sockets are
Circuitous.I wore tea to her wedding all the
time hoping that maybe I'd catch her
eye, she, thinking me unfit
At least then she'd think of me.
The crippled seamstress knitted scarves
for their children; I knit my own
butterflies and dress my nerves
for winter. My cell phone stayed on silent.
1 missed callit was Joyce calling
for a funeral. A doctor fellow mumbled
something like 'shaken baby syndrome'
to her bleeding ears.
Baby shoes go unscuffed and college
tuition goes to nice cars and petty
silk dressesthe phone stays on
silent. I divulge my hypocrisies.
Casual sex is easier to swallow
No one calls anyway. Town houses
to nursery homes; She does not
,not to think ill ofI do not cross her mind.
The shore wind taste different than
the citybeyond the comfort of throwing
hermy, self into the sea. What is what
is it was what is- now was?
But back en route ofhere in Liverpool
,no friends outside this gated yard. Yet
I above and my phone lies still&
Mr. SomebodyI know it can't be a
good day when my Chevy
pickup truck won't start at
5 AM so I'm stuck out in the
hail of mid March, which, in
my opinion is the worst month
of the year.
I hafta walk to the
construction site, hard hat
in hand, sloshing through half
frozen puddles and ignoring what
would have been a refreshing mist
had it been May instead of March.
Briefly I wonder if I am wearing the
same socks I wore last week
I can still feel the stiff bloodstains
where the winter air ripped open
the bottoms of my feet and bled out
I finally get to work half an hour late
the bricks from last night are frosted in
sugary snow powder like they're
trying to be ginger bread or something.
I scoff at the fresh noise escaping through
the slits between cement and brick
a freshly filled stone cube sits on my left
I don't know why it is, but now Lucy
won't be coming back to work.
A coworker with bright eyes and
a swollen lipYou're late,
Yes, yes I know, but the Boss
The Promises We MakeI'm a hardheaded person; I know that. But no one can say I don't do my best to overcome myself. It's hard to admit, but I know my stubbornness isn't always helpful and things I tell myself can be destructive. If anyone asked my mother, she'd dress it up like a Salem witch and call me mentally dysfunctional.
I assume she's seen her fair share of shrinks, and naturally that rubbed off on my otherwise peachy childhood. Yes, yes, I speak in jest. If I've learned anything from my past, it's to not take yourself too seriously. But I grew up slicked with the residue of past therapists and "How do you feel about that" s. Let me tell you; it's like living under a microscope, and my mother was constantly scrutinizing my every move. It was easier to make due with my given situation when my Dad was still around. He was a good man, I swear. He even married someone like my mother when he found out she was pregnant with me. He is the one who talked her out of the abortion. How could I think ill of hi
Accidentally Intentional Pt 21The only murmurs that echoed through the now toasty car were the occasional directions from Nora. Normally I would have felt some sympathy for her, curled up in the passenger seat, tears rolling down her cheek, but it only made me grind my teeth harder. I had to remind myself that she was part of the reason Tesla was in Nick's hands right now. And as much as I would love not to blame her, I had to, in some way.
My hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel and my foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. From somewhere inside my hazy head, I hoped no police happened to take a spin in the sketchy looking neighborhood I was driving through.
"Turn here," Nora whispered, barely audible. My lips thinned and I pulled behind a brick building into an alley. I parked and turned to my friend.
"Stay here," my voice was hard. "I don't want you to choose the wrong side again."
She flinched and buried her head in her hands, but didn't move. I waited for her to make some indication that
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutter
I have failed you,
for you were not forged
to be so insubstantial as that
You were writ
to be an epic fable
of endings ignored,
of outlasting your body
through the sheer will
of a writers starving heart
through a broken, bowed
but bravely abiding body
that fights the soul
to comprehend Beauty.
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
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—
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
Sound PoemIthrumden, ithrumden delsum
nith mul thruss elmrissull.
Eth rut mundelliss
Curmiette dessel renrin
irme trell ithrumden.
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.
RushSince time settled at this
The tinkling of pretty china
Has become a rolling of
With a countenance as
Fruitful as an apple spotted-
While only with once tender love
a sweet Lucy is perched
beyond the punch bowl
humming ditties and sonnets.
The echoes of glugging
and slurping, and Each
remains akin to their
tipple of choice.
A cat-lady-to-be hovers
Over a feathery spritzer
Rolled with chilled
Whiskers; The prowess
Of a future bitter in-law
Sprawls over a gaggle
Of gin-consuming children.
A barley skinned gent
Eyes my dear Lucy
Whilst sipping glasses
Of Rum or Whiskey.
Which it was, I remember
NotLucy was my sole
Trepidation. My eyes
Keys who locked to the
Soft slope of her lips
Around the salty-sin
Rimmed glass of Lucy's
I yearned to tell her
(You'd hate me for this)
But her toxins did little
To drive away....
Even if I wished t
Stuck The car sputtered and shook as it came to an almost silent stop. The engine had gone silent as the horn beeped loudly through the dark night. The orange gas light blinked mockingly at the woman behind the wheel. It was making fun of her; she knew it was making fun of her. Grabbing the black cellular phone on the passenger seat, she looked at it with full intention of calling somebody to come help her.
“Oh, what the hell?!”
The “no service” sign was mocking her at the same exact time. The horn beeped loudly as she slammed her head against it once again. The day was out to get her in general. She had arrived at all her classes late, and her son was sick with the flu. The babysitter was able to watch him as she went to her late night classes. Giving a heavy sigh, she lifted her head off the wheel to look out the window. Drops of water pooled on the windshield as rain started to fall in a pitter-patter pattern. She didn’t quite understand the message th
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It Saving...
occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are
Keep in Touch!
^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