Ginsberg's ChildrenI have seen the greatest lovers of my age raped byGinsberg's Children8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hatred, beaten,reviled, tortured,
defiling themselves to become worthy of the world's pious
burning angels of love and art, heat and sex, reveling in the profanity which
temporarily distracts then from their stolen sanctity,
who cried broken, damned and in love, at the feet of priests whose cudgels were still
dripping with dogmatic loathing,
who were lured to the tops of mountains and, a breath away from God, were bound
to splintering fences, pistol-whipped, robbed, and left to rot in Hell- Christs unresurrected,
whose mangled mouths leaked teeth and blood through lips which dared to be
who were raped five times to show how a woman should feel towards a man- three of
those times by a brother,
LilacsStage four lung cancer, they said. Six months, at best. You held on for so long, chemotherapy jovially turning you from a white haired lady in to a wig topped moppet. Vitamin C treatments, pills, sleep. Doctors, hospitals, tears and upset stomachs. To make you feel better, we announced that I was pregnant with your eleventh grandchild, and we hoped to God in Heaven that you would meet her. And you did. You clutched her to you with the fierce passion of somebody who has created a life inside of them and spooned her cake on her first birthday...and a month later you faded away.Lilacs4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
When the call came, I was sitting on my living room floor. It was my birthday, quietly I turned another year older while you hummed along on machines in a hospital room, far from me. Far from anywhere I needed you to be, and the last place I wanted. It was just before midnight, everything was peaceful, I was content. Contemplative.
We had been in to see you earlier, I stopped by, chatted for just a while. You coul
UntitledThe hours are slow in the white corridorsUntitled5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but you are with me when the hands strike fear
and the clock whispers twelve.
You hear my voice echo down the halls
a half-empty ward
a clear glass of psychotropic drops.
You crush my ribs
and rob my lungs of tears.
You kiss my wrists
and strip the bone
The silver constellation of scars,
the scarlet mouth of screams
softened by the gentle murmurs
of bodies creased with love.
You breathe the poetry I cannot speak,
you hold the fragile shape of my skull
like a bruised eggshell
as the nurses hold me down
You feel it in your lungs
when the needle slides through,
and the drop of blood is yours too.
You feel the medicated sleep,
the sweet lull of seduction
as sedation pulls at the hull of my veins.
Long hours spent visiting your daughter
While doctors tell you she's insane.
You lie awake each night as the weeks pass
and I feel it in my chest,
in each breath
The hurt I crease into the faces
of my sweet family.
I ache and I am hollow
but you sli
Jenenesoft hands breathe loveJenene5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
into worn creases
between breath and light.
shaping beauty into empty places
a single word, a lifeline in the dark.
echoing off the tongues of poets
she keeps fragile ghosts
safely wrapped inside her heart,
writing in the dusk
while the world sleeps and softly dreams
she sings elegies
and lovesongs through her fingertips
effortlessly into us.
Thank You, deviantARTThank You, deviantART8 years ago in Editorial More Like This
November 6, 2007
Dear deviantART Community,
Expressing thanks to you all seems so little, though words are all I have to offer. People from all around the world, that I've met through this community and become friends with, have offered so much more than tips, tricks, and information about art and photography. There are people from many different countries, with all sorts of belief systems and points of view, that have encouraged me, and through me, my family, during my Dad's sickness. There are many of us on dA who are serious about the art community and our love of art, whether it be photography, drawing, digital art, etc., that reach out to each other in different ways, and are always there to encourage and nudge each other along.
One of my real-life friends often comments about how people and friends through the internet aren't "real" people; how there is an "invisibility" barrier. But, I disagree. I know the internet can be a
A Hurried NoteWolf,A Hurried Note5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Grandma squealed. Huntsman armed.
Sleep Is The Drug OfThe LivingWhen I was eleven, I stopped crying at night.Sleep Is The Drug OfThe Living4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I just went to sleep.
I went to sleep and my self-loathing
sunk deeper into me, into my veins.
Then it covered me like a second skin.
I hated the body I lived in.
I hated my mind,
and I wanted to die.
everything and nothing.maybe he would have been a beautiful boy.everything and nothing.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
do you think he'd have had your brown eyes?
i know he'd have your smile.
you're playing this out of tune guitar, and i'm sitting across the room. the music is bittersweet. you can't really play the guitar but you've got pretty fingers and you're shining in the pre-dawn light that filters though the gaps in my curtains. i'm shaking and you ask if i'm alright, and i tell you i'm just cold. you place the guitar on the ground next to you and crawl towards me, across the field of clothes and tissues that litter my bedroom floor. we lie down together and i close my eyes but everything is so quiet. the room seems empty without your music.
maybe he'd have your tanned skin
with your thick hair and skinny legs.
he'd have your laugh; the one i love.
its raining and the water in your mother's pool stings our bare feet but i take off my clothes anyway. i guide you; my pinky finger wrapped around your index finger and pull you gently down the steps int
The Station of a PoetThe Station of a Poet9 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
The station of a poet is one that connects the mind of man with the mind of god into a fluid consciousness. This unity is one that helps the world grow and thrive, amidst all of the heartache, oppression, and depression that can be seen today.
We are the vanguard that continually, in every age and sector, force the envelope that makes people think, debate, and dig into their psyche. Take John Donne, as a prime example: in the fourteen lines of Death, be not Proud, the poet creates both a well of hope, and a clearer understanding of the ideas regarding death, the afterlife, and mortal fear of that death.
But poets and poetry dig further beneath the skin; we, a rather eccentric lot, reach for the curtain that separates man and god and attempt if not to rip it away, then to unveil for a glimpse. Most poets will no doubt understand that the supreme powers we define as god are in fact, scarcely definable, and in most cases difficult if not impossible to articulate in any human tongue. There
Posers It was a bright summer afternoon, there was the barest of breezes and the sun shone down on the Pride family Ranch. Woody was glad for the lack of rain, but thought the cool shade a cloud offered would not go unappreciated. He, Ken, and Buzz were at work gathering up the hay from the fields, an arduous task that took up much of the summer months. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, casting a quick look to the one shady spot near the farmhouse.Posers4 years ago in Humor More Like This
Under the large tree sat Barbie, Bo, and Jessie, each busy with their own tasks. Barbie was mending the seams on one of Ken's many shirts. Bo sat on the edge of a wooden chair, a wicker basket balanced daintily on her lap to catch the peas she was shelling, a pitcher of lemonade sat sweating on the ground beside her. Jessie was sitting on the ground, her back resting against the tree trunk, applying oil to Bulleye's sadd
Elven ElevensYou soften your limbsElven Elevens4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the white hollow of your bones
on the floorboards
until they're smooth and pale
as skeleton keys
in a piano with a quiet layer of dust.
music hums in your ribs
echoing up to your mouth
until your tongue bleeds notes of lust
that promise secrets into the ether.
Eleven fingers trace messages
onto the dew of a broken window
and you breathe hush, hush
until the words are bathed in light
and the sun sets
making shadows over your hands.
A hymn trembles in the wake of you
and crescendos build in the quiet
barrel of a gun.
You build God in gold babels
shivering in the morning air.
prayers trip empty with sorrow
over your bare chest
you swallow an ocean of silence
and pluck at your skin
like an untuned instrument.
there's no violin in the shape of your hips
and you cut the strings on angel's hair
and let the bow fall, fall,
watch the dust settle
making love to a cello
in a decaying auditorium
TrichShe tore them out every morning, and left them wriggling in the sink. It always left her scalp bloody, so she swabbed her head with hydrogen peroxide and tied on one of the rainbow collection of bandanas she'd accumulated.Trich5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Maddie studied herself in the mirror, or rather she studied most of herself. She straightened her Born to Wear Black t-shirt and slid on a silver bracelet in the shape of a snake biting its tail. Her mother gave it to her when she was little.
She walked out into what passed for a living room. "Mom, I'm out," she called, not really expecting an answer. Mom worked late, and never came home half the time. Maddie made a halfhearted swipe at the piles of dirty laundry draped over the couch, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the door.
"Why don't you ever audition?" Manny's question came out of the blue as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Normally he flexed his fingers when he was impatient, but he had to keep a tight grip on the fly lines, waiting for Rene to c