|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
silver-tinged twilight owls
with the help of lofty, fresh leaves
so too, do the summer's evening
winds whistle around
the empty park bench passing
through the p
Owl and CrowYour fingertips stuck to my forehead, and popped off when you pulled them back. We were both wearing black that day, mourning our own deaths. (Those little deaths that happen again and again.) Kisses planted grow rainbow flowers at twilight. We were waiting for twilight, that day. I pushed your fingers back into place on your hands, kissing the tips of each one. You cat-purred, I bird-screamed. Twilight rolled in like a fog, smooth and beautiful, the way it does sometimes in autumn. We didn't need anything more.
I Modestly Trudge OnMuck plastered and carcass ridden:
the earth is a burial ground
where humanity went extinct long ago.
And we, the souless wanderers left,
we hope for a new meaning, a new life...
We hope, and we pretend desperately
that hope is enough
to keep us human.
When the angel speaks, Mary dips a finger
into the wine, holds it out for the angel to taste.
This may be the last thing
of the world .... The angel's tongue
wraps around her finger, a string tied tight.
Mary wants to remember the cracked cup,
the wind fluttering like a trapped moth,
the taste sharp as a pinprick in her mouth.
"Chosen," the angel calls. But Mary is listening
to the scrape of an oxen's hooves
as he drags a cart, wheels crunching leaves,
the last thing .... She already knows.
She sniffs her hands: eucalyptus, pungent, crushed,
a bright thread tying her to this world.
"Innocent," the angel says. "No," Mary answers.
keepsakein old boxes we keep
next to spider web walls and heirloom
small pieces of ourselves
hoarded like weapons from the
the shrapnel of unsettled palavers
for the right time on the wrong day
the right day but the wrong time
to echo sharp olloquies
thought erased with the analgesic
ebbing of time
salvaged from boxes
and back to the surface
like sickness in gingerale dreams
in vitro meatsloth;
sill diffusing the bombs
the crime sorcier of hyper-
this air is so dirty
the sophists are sweating
while eating their supper, while
scratching their slogans
'to the spine of our eyes
and the future assured
on the whim of synthetics
confined to the marginsapproximate silence has killed
our mystique with dancing out of time
to the physics of a ripple
HumanI don't want to go outside.
It just don't
I hate explaining myself
I hate reality sometimes
I hate being alone
I hate having people around me
I'm sometimes a hypocrite
I'm sometimes a liar
I'm sometimes a procrastinator
I'm sometimes too bunt
I sometimes can't catch a clue
I sometimes don't understand
I sometimes get jealous
I sometimes get scared
I sometimes remember him
and want to slam my head on the counter
to erase what I thought was fatherly love
I'm scared of lots of things
I'm scared of bumps in the night
I'm scared of being touched
I'm scared of upsetting friends
I'm scared of being insensitive
I'm scared of people dying
See there's the girlSee there's the girl
The girl who's losing grip
Who is slowly losing everything
her screams of pain and sorrow
Fill her heart.
Do you hear her
Can you see her
Listen to her
Look at her scars that bleed
She means no harm
She's just dying inside
Help her before she's gone
Don't let her slip
Do you hear her
can you see her
can you listen to her
look at the scars that bleed
There she lays
The girl who cried out
the girl who everyone
The girl who did the permanent
Solution to a temporary problem.
DO you hear her
Can you see her
Can you listen to her screams
Look at her she's six feet under now
catch and releaseproselytizing disparate discoveries
opined by rusty keys
contraindication was a craze
that could rout us through these doldrum days
hegira fed and ostentatious
quicksilver in a haze
and drawn the perfect line, i've never
usurped the universe
but i can't spit out the hook...
She stands tallShe stands tall and brave
no pain is clear,
but look in her eyes
and you see
the mask of fear and
she has a secret
a small one
but it is big
she is slowly slipping
losing her sanity
her grip on that fragile line
she calls her relief.
You see a girl
that smiles every day,
but maybe she has a
secret one like no other
a plain to escape
she calls earth.
Above the kneeling angel, a sun dangles,
a ball of yarn. I want to unravel
what they did to me. Mary crosses her arms,
an X of blue cotton. They hung her son
on an X, cedar planks haphazardly nailed together,
no pattern, only
what has already happened.
I want prophecies,
warnings, road signs, a hand that scrawls,
their hands deep inside me,
claw hammers. Under Mary's blue robes,
red cloth drips, the folds gathering
into a puzzle on the floor.
The painter knew the end,
so he shaped the beginning so
there could be no other end,
no, if only I ....could I?
DepressionI visited my psychiatrist today
and in an office with no evident emotion
no obvious soul beyond a Gettys image
in a painfully drab frame
screwed firmly into a pale green wall
that matched the colour
of his uninspired suit
he told me
that people like me
he said that six months earlier
he had been told that he
only had mere months to live
and that he had been clutching, snatching,
grasping onto every second that he had left.
His light brown skin creased and
cracked as he told me this,
frail grey hair fell onto the lines of his forehead
and I said nothing
aware of my body swallowing itself in shame,
'So to see a person,' he sai
stargazersShe lives in a river of stars, intricately weaved into the eyes of Eden
the way his roses find beauty in her bramble-berry eyes
watching the sun sink into the ocean
waiting for the night sky
I will always remember him, eyes dancing, hiding her broken heart
Rainwater, hurricanes of lonely gray spilling onto the cloudy sidewalk. The stars are gone tonight.
Bluestar's Broken MindLike maggots in her heart, she rots away from the inside.
She has no outside wounds, nothing her body couldn't heal from.
It's her mind; she has a dead mind, empty, void.
Others around her strt to notice, start to worry.
They're afraid. She was the one that held them together, and if others
see her like this, then they will know of he weakness the Clan has.
She has failed them and they panic, until her mind is right... Or
until she dies.
The TypewriterThe Typewriter
It began and ended with a word.
Not a particularly strong or powerful word, but a word that changed everything. It wasn't too long or difficult to spell. It wasn't uncommon either. In fact, it was a perfectly ordinary word, but, I suppose, its commonplace origin is what made it so special.
I loved that word.
But the word doesn't mean much without the story along with it and I was always one for telling good stories.
I ignored the call from the other room and remained seated. That tone wasn't unfamiliar. Taking a bite from my toast, I waited for him to call again. It wouldn't be more than ten—
"Sammy! Come q
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