I like to stash quills.I keep a porcupine lodgedI like to stash quills.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my mouth, penned behind
my teeth. His name is Cantankerous, and we
are well acquainted. He paces,
forth, to and
fro, stumbling, every now-and-then,
because the expanse of my tongue is not
wide enough for his taste. With every
stutter of steps, his crown brushes
against the roof of my mouth, and his spines
skitter against my tongue or gums or slice
the simple flesh inside my cheeks, and he lurches
back to his feet and apologizes profusely, but his insignia
is there still. It has been
since I have wakened with a dry mouth. This morning,
to my self, and found blood dribbling past our lips.
When I move to speak, I discover quills
sprouting from my lips, buried
like grenades in my throat, but I have yet
to pluck them out. In return, my friend gives me
the blessing of silence; I have no need
of speech, when it sends bile flooding through my mouth,
and perhaps this is better; I harbor no great love
for loquacity. The porcupine
ScavengingWe discovered innocence in the tidal pools,Scavenging6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the water licking against our ankles in quiet, hungry circles.
sagging on the horizon, splayed across the sky
like a dog belly-up.
It panted yellow across the clouds
We let our fingers worm through the mud,
until we found our clam.
Brushing the pads of our fingers
against its shell, we found
scrawled in the bony ridges of years and growth.
You looked at me, and said: "We
should break it open."
I agreed. A fingernail was placed
on the seam of its mouth.
(Salt--you could see it,
crusting on its lips and sinking into my hangnail.)
Pressure was applied. I
dug into its gums,
this courier-of-honesty, sank my spade
into its words,
were fed to grasping teeth,
open and spread wide, wider,
waiting, like the jaws of a shredder,
letting words run through its toothless frown like lightning through air,
and disintegrating as quickly
as the water.
Tin RoseTin RoseTin Rose4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
By: Doug Gealy
Slick silver silk slides smooth to warmth's surrender
Tin rose blossom born blue upon an oceans wave
The neon sun still listens
Has it always been this way?
Sunny Disposish - Chapter 13.2Read 13.1 first! This is the second half because dA doesn't allow long chapters to be posted. Sorry for the inconvenience.Sunny Disposish - Chapter 13.26 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
If you see Alice in your mind's eye, flying down the low-angled front staircase of the villa, her skirts blown out from behind her in a long train, running steps rhythmic, her form gracefully urgent, her expression anxious and sober, the comparison between her and a princess whose time at the ball has run out ends when Alice's court shoes reached the gravel drive. She awoke then, and turning, saw the place lit with a strange haze; was it the foggy mist in the air, or was the house on fire? There was a fantastic crash, and the lights flickered once, the chandelier having been felled at last. The Hatter had reached one of the lit torches, and she could see him making wide gestures and heard him. Talking to himself.
Got to go back
Student's WeekOn Monday, I found out how the US is an empire,Student's Week4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And that English is what Esperanto never grew up to be;
These things were bound to happen.
On Tuesday, I heard that the soul was a broken flying saucer,
Yearning for the most metaphorical of kisses;
And that good men might be better off having their dishes broken.
There was also some debate on the do's and don't's of human sacrif
This Is The World"This is the world," she declared. She threw her arms wide in a grandiose gesture at the blank wall.This Is The World7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"This is my world, at least," she corrected herself. She slumped to the ground and considered the wall. It glared back at her sullenly and sulked in its wicked cloak of blankness. The girl sighed and shook her head. "You're insufferable," she informed it tartly. "Really, come on now. Why are you white, anyway? Couldn't you be a different color? A better one? Or maybe a pattern. Why, just think, you could even be a giraffe! Anything but a white wall!"
The wall was silent. Apparently it didn't much approve of her musings. The girl shook her head and rubbed a gentle finger over the bruised veins in her arms. "There's color there," she told the wall. "See? It's called blue."
Everything else in the room was white, of course. Her skin was white, her clothing was white; the ceiling and the floor and every wall was white. The veins in her arms were the last bastions of color in the world
Drifter-ManYou are buttercup spray-painted fields notDrifter-Man5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Afraid to carry your breath and speak your mind
You walk like a democracy the epitome of individuality
You live in worlds that I want to see and I hope
That if my head is sleeping close next to yours
Foreheads touching forming a heart like swan necks
That maybe I can leap into your dreams and travel with you
[And you still don't know you're amazing]
You are truth spitting honest, too train-line straightforward
For you own good, travelling the road of reality
By logically reasoning and never mind-stuttering closed
Leaving room for possibilities (after all, it's how we met)
Like daydreaming sometimes that's how humans survive,
Million dollar California man dreams like yours are held by the neck
And they have only two choices
"It's just pass or fail. I either win or lose and I wouldn't
advise anyone else to travel this path"
This PoemThis poemThis Poem6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
will be found
where you live,
somewhat short of breath,
missing an arm,
for the way
things used to be.
It will tell
the story of a dream
watching a dream.
Behind small jars
and bay leaf
you will catch
its scent, and,
as you move aside
a thing or two,
it will look up
with lips that move
like an eye
all the words for blue
(which might also
be all the names
for wind, weariness,
It will tell you
what kind you have been,
the shoes you wore
when you were.
will be found
where poems always are.
This is for anyone.You need flaws to be beautifulThis is for anyone.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but you can't share them with anyone.
Toss away your mouse hearted smiles
and stitch your spine straight.
Shine for me, little dancer,
and sharpen your hips.
Pry open your ribs
and count the scars of names;
let me sink incisors into your aches.
His hand on your throat
and you aren't scared.
Aren't you brave now?
Oh, misbehave, misbehave.
Look at your brilliance.
Listen to the music of your lashes.
You sing only the saddest songs
because you could never write them.
Eat up her words
they're just like yours
and oh, eat up her beliefs.
You have knees, don't you?
Tremble, tremble, tiny prancer,
and loosen your thighs.
The Headless Whore's ManDown Sleepy Hallow WayThe Headless Whore's Man4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
From beneath the odd streetlight
Whores call to me in song
Like sirens in the night
Thus begging me to come
And take them far away
To a dark and secret place
As long as I can pay
But little do they know
The fee I charge in kind
A soul to save my own
And thus a life defined
So I ride another whore
Then remove another head
For my soul they cannot steal
When all the whores are dead
GrammaticaI have imprints in my skin from your poor grammar.Grammatica7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was incorrectly rendered,
this conversation of ours
and, well, its of a rather low quality,
so, you know
fix the aspect, then, you snap,
the widescreen view cuts out too much.
[and cuts me off; shouldnt widescreen show more?]
we didnt need to see it all to begin with.
narrow views are good for you.
I dont think that I've ever tasted anything quite as bitter
as the sweet tang of passionfruit juice.
Here is where reality breaks down, in the ether,
that imaginary land where light needs to wait at the stop sign
before being given the go-ahead to travel on.
We know that light has no medium,
but do you?
Were caught in the ether, I say,
dreaming in a fictitious nothing-land
whose main function was to make life simpler.
[For who? The scientists?]
Heres the problem, though: I dont think that I have ever
met anyone quite as insufferable as you.
This medium of yo
Dancing on EggshellsBreak my heartDancing on Eggshells6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I won't notice any change.
You used to treat me like a paper princess,
with origami gowns and cardboard corsets
molding me into what you really wanted.
I culled myself to please your ego
but lost my own.
You thought I was unique
when in reality I was just like you.
Self-bondage conformed my performance
to the beauty I knew you deserved
because I was nothing.
I said I was nothing, and eventually
you stopped telling me otherwise.
Maybe, deep down,
you knew it all along.
My origami ballgowns and rice-paper slippers are withering
at the edges, like old parchment
and I'm no longer a princess.
One more paper doll in a paper world,
one in a long, eggshell-fragile chain,
hoping my hands don't tear away.
Because I'll float away on the wind
to a new place I never wanted to explore
EnvyMaiden.Envy4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The space between us is slant rhyme,
Burning-in, saturation, and exposure time,
Ink curves he drew from a lead line,
The way his fingers fit in yours,
Instead of mine.
You are difficult to hone, granite.
I am prone to severing.
You are a vestige made of stone
That I could never be.
Are you what is happening to me?
Rain and gravity have
Weathered the weaker parts
They leave you standing
Strong, a pyramid, a mountain.
I am haunted: a cliff, daunted
By the sea.
Jesus Lives In My AssJesus livesJesus Lives In My Ass3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Inside my ass
Butt of course
This too shall pass
I have been
To stay in there
Would be a sin
Butt to leave
When for years
Under the sun
To the masses
So in my ass
He will stay
To his father
I will pray
And in the end
Well, mine at least
My ass is saved
Or is it leased?
The Man with no First NameDue to the lazy attitude of the author, the boy was born into the fictional world with no first name. His parents never knew what to make of it, and would refer to him as whatever random name would strike their fancy at the time. Children would make fun of him when he was old enough to attend school, children with names like "Billy" or "Jack" or "Thomas", which weren't particularly original names, but nonetheless better than not having one at all.The Man with no First Name4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The boy without a first name envied those children. Eventually, out of this envy grew jealousy, and this in turn became a seething hatred. As he grew into his teens, he rebelled against society as most teens do, but in a different way; by misnaming. Walking down streets, he would refer to them as alleys. Cats were dogs, boys were girls, up was down, opposites were setisoppo. Names, and by extension words, became meaningless.
Eventually the boy grew into a man, leaving his parents' home and going forth into the cold, named world. He worked at
how the insane buy milkgrokery paper sez...how the insane buy milk5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i need moo.
moo for morning.
or humans do not function right.
this is the moo-ish section of the stupormarket.
where's my moo?
they have orange moo;
nog moo?! still?!
is that my special flavor of moo i see?
moo top is the right color red.
but is the moo special?
is the moo on time?
no, this moo is dented.
but that moo is on time.
i now have moo.
moo for morning
moo for coffee.
Sunny Disposish - Chapter 13.1Champagne, if you are seeking the truth, is better than a lie detector. It encourages a man to be expansive, even reckless, while lie detectors are only a challenge to tell lies successfully.Sunny Disposish - Chapter 13.16 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Alice was not really the sort of girl who publicly participated in that peculiar sport known as goggling like a cod, which made her open-mouthed surprise upon her alighting into the marble entryway all the more archly enjoyable for the Hatter, who really began secretly to triumph when the apples of her cheeks appeared brightly and she smiled rhapsodic, actually showing her teeth for the first time since he'd seen her. She let loose the silk ruched opera cloak hooded about her and promptly forgot its existence as it was spirited safely away.
Everything for a ball becomes elevated into an excess we welcome with open arms, for gloves are not mere gloves but opera gloves, and great coats must be Inver
November is a JokeNovember is a joke; each punch line shiftsNovember is a Joke4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
down to the quick. New morning, frost lifts
and offers everything you ever craved
as long as you're willing to misbehave,
to simultaneously be what you wish
everyone else would be for you, and drift
towards being who you are. The tempting gift
of hibernation beckons, that warm, safe cave
November is a joke.
Wood smoke settles out of the wind, then lifts
to rise and disperse in cold air. Old rifts
and arguments do not apply. What's saved
is just what takes you by the throator bliss
November is a joke.
There is nothing in the field.I am dropping verbs, and that is bad,There is nothing in the field.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because I am rooted to my seat.
There are very few consolations to be had,
when you find yourself with nothingtodo
and therefore do nothing;
I think that this is a sign of a
because my skin is a conglomerate
of jittering verbs and stamping nouns,
whinnying like tethered mounts, and of
crackling language that is as rough
as chapped skin on those days
when your hands are bleeding from
I am a wire frame against a
being plugged with the vernacular as if
it is straw to scare them away, and my features are taking shape,
but this is a reverse process.
The sculptor is stripping my stuffing
and taking it for recyclables.
walk or talk without my limbs tangling like balloon strings
or my teeth snagging lip-skin and eating it for snack;
I cannot pray without my thoughts decomposing in my mind
into muddy dishwater, and I cannot read without my fingers
crawling to my scalp and carving white powder f
The Poison TreeI caught you near my poison treeThe Poison Tree5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in search of bitter fruit
and watched you shake its heavy limbs,
well watered from the roots
Its leaves were wraiths of withered hate;
its branches tipped in rue
Its trunk knew naught of happiness,
its blossoms all untrue.
And yet you climbed its slippery bark,
worn thin and grey with pain;
You stripped the boughs of tender shoots,
destroyed by tainted rain
And when at last its blood stained fruit
you plucked with fingers red
you knew the kiss of sweet revenge
lay buried with the dead.
Writer's BlockThere you stood in front of your enemy,Writer's Block5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Its blank face daunting, intimidating.
Slowly, slowly, you pick up your weapon,
A wooden sword, it's graphite blade shining in the sunlight.
You raise it up, eyes on your target,
Your muscles tensing as you plan your next move.
Uncertainties creep upon your thoughts,
And you wonder if you should go that way,
Or move this way,
Or just leave it be.
Frustration and anger gather inside,
As you stare at your paper foe, who patiently waits.
And so finally, after struggling and deciding,
You set your sword down and walk away.
You can battle again another day.