HIT ME RUNNINGDon't sell me funeral plots
on late night television
if the end is already in sight
am I supposed to pull the sheets up to my neck,
count to zero,
smile, and cease?
keep your pills, in all their pretty colors:
celebrex, propecia, allegra, lipitor, zanex, viagra
keep them for scrabble
keep your rogaine, your facelifts
keep your death insurance
keep your graveyard reservations
hit me running.
let me go down swinging
make it a sport:
give me a ten-minute head start
and an obstacle course.
place a beautiful girl on the far side of a mine field
and whisper, "she wants to kiss you"
target me on my feet
dodging doomsday's in slow-mo bullet time
let me duel the grim reaper in a poetry slam
but let me lay where i fall
let the buzzards and coyotes
pick apart my bones
don't stuff me and sew me up
waste my estate on alcohol for my wake
instead of wood for a coffin,
build me a funeral pyre
and set me ablaze like a pagan-warrior-king
SPINAL LANGUAGESPINAL LANGUAGESPINAL LANGUAGE11 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
give me a tattoo
deeper than skin
on the bones of my spine
onto the surface of every vertebrae
in every human tongue
tattoo their word for "poetry"
so that no language feels foreign anymore;
so that each human voice
can speak a word in me
let Arabic and Hebrew
sit side by side without throwing stones
let Cantonese and Hindi characters
link hands to hold Swahili and Hutu in a hammock
let Basque and Zulu finally touch lips Vietnamese
while Navajo rests it's head on the shoulder of Malay
we speak six thousand tongues
but i'll endure the pain and the time
so no human voice can speak to me
without being felt
down to the bone
let African syllables
share space with European articulations,
and Aboriginal pronunciations,
line them up and engrave them
like an organic barcode written in Braille
readable by the worms that will one day convert me back
to the religion of dust and ash
that we believed in once
before this cult of flesh and bl
Imagine a religionFor Erin L. S.Imagine a religion10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
imagine a religion
and we only speak to pray
this is how she and I communicate
each word with salvation on its edges
the sounds of angels in our speech
and god in our sentences
I never want to open my mouth
let sound spill from my lips faithlessly
I want each word to move believers
in the way I have been moved
I want believers to quote my prose
knowing that faith is in the understanding of language
I want them to take vows of silence
except with speaking sincerely
no tone or breath should leave lips
without a purpose
except to shatter shackles
or build homes for those less fortunate
words should hammers become
raising walls and roofs beneath which families may flourish
words should be so valued
that each one is written down in sequence
we speak with this brevity of purpose
where minds lock hands with minds
dropping the illusion of wordplay
in favor of doubtlessness
imagine a world
where tongues speak truth without suspicion
where people a
Annie Comes Home to RufusAnnie Comes Home to Rufus11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Annie tumbles from the car
and onto the driveway.
I watch from behind the curtains
as Mother and Father trudge behind,
dragging duffles full of god-knows-what
(sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars
of bitter white pills and injections).
"Daddy – keys!" she cries,
and his mouth stretches, baring teeth
(he smiles, he thinks)
as he tosses a jingling cluster.
The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.
I hover in the kitchen –
I never know what to say.
She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.
"C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend
I'm happy to see her
eight pounds lighter than last Sunday.
Annie is tired.
Only I am allowed in her room,
where the angled light shafts and the dust motes
turn the plastic hairs of her wig
into faceted filaments.
She slides it from her skull
and drapes it on the sleeping styrofoam
"Poeticks: On Angst" 1 of 2"Poeticks: On Angst" 1 of 211 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Angst. People admire and despise, protest and support, immerse in and shun, indifferently yawn, while holding very firm opinions as their respective buttons are pressed when they hear the word "angst." As a starting point of Poeticks, we have decided to take up the differing opinions from inside DeviantArt, to lay out those arguments for all of you to read. Please keep in mind that these are "your" thoughts, as they are, and you are completely free to agree or disagree. Our objective is not to push forth an ultimate commandment, but rather to present to you the many (and often times conflicting) opinions we have received from fellow DeviantArt writers, in hopes of perhaps enlightening, sublimating or organizing your perspectives on the matter; or even to entertain you. We would be extremely pleased if it would serve as a personal reference point, or if it would incite writers to question and re-debate in
THREE DAYS FROM NOWfor Daniela Jara's 20th birthday on 6.21.04THREE DAYS FROM NOW10 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
three days from now
she will rise up to the playground of angels
fighter jets and zeppelins
burst open the door
translate her body into an equation
of one–hundred twenty pounds moving
nine–point–eight meters per second per second
and tumble from heaven
because she wants to taste the sky
on her birthday
this is the part of the poem
where I should drop metaphors
about falling in love with her
or how she's already fallen from heaven once
or something about shooting stars
or glass ceilings
but this isn't a love poem
I said I would fall alongside her
stretch out fingers to find her
falling ninety miles an hour
doesn't scare me nearly
as much as forgetting her touch
the romantic in me said
if her parachute does not open,
I will not open mine
instead, I would rather impress myself
emboss myself into the earth
next to her
so that the soil remembers me following her
until the crater I create
speaks poetry without my body there
SeepSeep11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sleeping on the floor;
The wood it cuts my skin.
I begin to bleed;
on floor and within.
Nothing as it seems,
as blood rips through dreams.
and I begin to weep,
I begin to seep away.
As darkness fades from sight;
I breathe it in the air.
Little left to see,
blank becomes my stare.
Colors start to fade.
This fate I have made,
I'm ending all alone.
You lay down with me;
a tear rolls down your cheek.
Shame is what you feel,
for loving one so weak.
Nothing left to do,
glazed eyes facing you.
As you begin to weep,
I begin to creep away;
Win Oneself to Win AnotherWin Oneself to Win Another11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I'll pull the trigger
On my motives
Kill my means
I'll burn intentions
at the stake
Before they beat me
To my dreams
Could a pauper
Warm a graceful queen?
Can the moonlight
By the sun be seen?
Could this thorn
Give a flower to a rose?
Will kind words descend
To make sure he knows?
Could the sky
See earth as a goal?
Could a diamond
Ever love a coal?
windowbreathwindowbreath13 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i am not in pain
because i am
i am in pain
because i am
i am not in pain
because of memories
that ring in my head
of happier days
i am in pain
because of memories
in my mind
of happier days
yet to come.
where we walk
along our own
beaches and sidewalks
to our own shelter
as we tangle in knots
and try (not) to find our way out.
memories yet to come
where we talk
and your voice is music
flowing into my ears
instead of letters
followed by blinking cursor
blinding my eyes.
memories yet to come
where we welcome the same sunrise
in the same time zone
over the same horizon
from the same window.
memories yet to come
where we carry each other
and swim together through
i am not pained
because of terrible lies
or long empty nights
or scars carved
or even worse,
i am pained
because of beautiful truth
and far too short nights
that leave me
only touched by type
instead of your hand
109187CRYSTELINE109187CRYSTELINE10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a kingdom of glass and crystal.
nearly into waking
as frost crystallized on my
through the silence
of my confined spaces
and the echoes
like a sentinel
in the doorway
to my kingdom
and she bore seven
tiny glass panes
dragdrag11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Of anathematized eggheads, dead poets, uprooted saddle-tramps -
an eclectic shangri-la that impales itself upon her sensibilities
like a beached whale on her shore
And this cold, small man-
call him Animus Annihilated-
"You wanna see Heaven baby?, Here's your chance." -
An open invitation to cool her heels in
the shadow of his soul.
Hoodwinked by her own loathsome ideal
she ogles the out-side,
staring through the cigarette that drips from her mouth,
into her love's eye
22-word Fiction Extravaganza22-word Fiction Extravaganza11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
There was a knock at the door - it was her date.
"Dear God, you're fat," he said.
It went downhill from there.
A rhino followed me home from school today. My parents wouldn't let me keep him. They said the octopus would get jealous.
Sometimes, at night, I look up at the beauty of the universe and wonder why anyone actually cares. Then I watch TV.
John had a drinking problem.
"Stop drinking," his wife said.
"Hey, that just might work!"
He stopped the next day. Problem solved.
Ed's baby was no fun. It always cried. He tried putting it back where he found it, but his wife got mad.
Daddy's bellyDaddy's large belly protruded past the rest of us,Daddy's belly10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sometimes it gurgled
if it sensed the presence of an
In N' Out Burger close by.
It would shake a little
when he laughed.
It would rise and fall
when he slept.
It would demand much room,
when he drove mother's car.
It came to be that I was convinced
his heart was in that belly,
that it was big simply because
he needed more space.
His Death Certificate reads
H e a r t A t t a c k -
and a small part of me still wonders
why didn't his belly collapse?
Why couldn't his stomach
have attacked him instead?
Not his loving heart -
not his love that everyone envied, admired,
that beat so loudly
as though it were a Chinese gong.
I look in the mirror now
and wonder if my heart too,
is lower than it should be.
No Train For YesterdayI spend two & a half smiles on strangers,No Train For Yesterday11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on. Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
Things for J. to Holdboys who get lostThings for J. to Hold9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the way to being
girls, who sit quiet inside
large rooms without ever
being too small;
songs from under
apology and regret, to where
starlight and super nova
the rope God used
to tie us together;
water that eddies
into the falls and out
of the falls, without ever thinking
it was lost to the cascades;
the ground under your feet
when it beeps up to you
I think we're in love;
your hat, when the wind blows hard;
poems, and those who write them.
How ClicheHow Cliche13 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
How cliche am I
At a beatnik Coffeehaus
On the Northwest side
Clothes all of black
Smoking my lights
Writing a poem
On the meaning of life
How cliche is that?
how cliche am I?
I have Nietzsche himself
Sitting at my side
Reading the "weekly"
Striped suit-no tie
Red Scarf 'round his neck
Dark look in his eye
How cliche is he?
How cliche am I?
How cliche are we
to bicker the whys
of the soul
of the mind
of who's more divine?
Of our own petty egos
written in the sky?
How cliche are we?
How cliche am I?
Dies with these lines
In the foam of my latte,
The closed door of your mind
How cliche of you
Not to give me the time
How cliche are you?
How cliche am I?
Fit in with me
The many, the proud
The common, the free
to follow the crowd
We'll stand side by side
And listen out loud
As we cry quietly
at our own cliche shroud.
ScrutinyAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,Scrutiny7 years ago in Open More Like This
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I am going through the keyless gate
to watch and wait,
to wander here and there among the proud,
among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:
the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.
And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,
read of the sins their lips have took
and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect
I am lost in my own depth, I will say
in a slight, impartial way
(for I lack violets and an antic princes love)
and they, floating through their channels deep
dare to drown me in my sleep and in their orisons remember
So shall I be a queen bone and ash,
of crawling worms and sullied, melting flesh.
Kissed by death, I shall burn upon a pyre
knowing only distance and desire and, rising from the fire,
I shall step with soft, unfettered feet
NothingNothing10 years ago in Scraps More Like This
A bare stage. GUY 1 is standing CENTRE stage.
GUY 2 [entering]. Hey.
GUY 1. Hey.
GUY 2. What's going on?
GUY 1. I'm watching that burning house over there.
GUY 2. What burning house?
GUY 1. It's offstage.
GUY 2. Oh.
GUY 1. But it's there.
GUY 2. What for?
GUY 1. It's a plot device.
GUY 2. A what?
GUY 1. A plot device. Something introduced to the narrative in order to advance it. In this case, a burning house.
GUY 2. Oh. How's that working out?
GUY 1. Well, you showed up.
GUY 2. Is it a symbol or something?
GUY 1. Probably.
GUY 2. I don't get it.
GUY 1. Yeah, neither do I.
GUY 2. I don't think I like this plot device.
GUY 1. Give it some time. Sit down, have a smoke.
GUY 2. I do
Ri Ra agus Ruaille BuallieRi Ra agus Ruaille Buallie12 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
As older grows mine anxious mind, my shelf grows ever heavy;
I've won your love, the Nobel Prize, some crayons and a Chevy,
But still the loot I crave seems not to graze the skills I levy,
There's not a rhyme within my mind that wouldst earn me a Devvie.
Give the man a banjo and a funky, funky cat..
He can tailor suits and major moots and live within a hat..
He's got no purple cipher and his mushroom has no mat..
But still he spiels like a clockawork wheel and here's a song about that..
Words never were for wording,
And wording not for him,
And words and hymns that never were,
Were wondering when he'd win..
So if you see a peacock,
And wonder if it's me,
Then gizz' a call upon my phone,
At some time after three..
Where'pon I'll say- Confound it man,
Take thou me for some bird?
I'll state that I'm a camel,
And I'll rhyme it with absurd..
If words were writ for wording,
And wording wrote to me,
I'd write a word that rhymed with bird,
At some time after three..
Confound me if I seiz
New Orleans MinuteNew Orleans Minute11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Time sashays like a creole strumpet,
barefoot and brown down Rue Madeleine
past this window, this table,
where gumbo steams and shrimp tails
clutter my plate.
A molasses haze fogs the lamplight.
A young man too full of libation
succumbs to this damp heat,
bent nearly double,
splatters his feet.
A coasting cabbie slows to say,
Laissez le bon temps rouler
and laughs until his brakelights fade.
Procremationso he said let's make a babyProcremation10 years ago in Open More Like This
she said let's just make
and he said
What's the difference?
or a little pink pill
And he said
Isn't it about time... she said
You're never old enough
She said Make life-- make
Digging a HoleDigging beneath dappled shade,Digging a Hole7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And a chorus of applauding trees.
A sharp-spade chewing sound,
Metal hum like plucked wire.
Aching back, muddy smears,
And not a blister; just
A certain hardness of the skin,
Cracking like a gourd
Across the wrinkles of my thumb.
Why were you digging a hole?
She asked me, afterwards.
It felt I answered,
Like the right thing to do
At the time
Mulch smell, wet and bodily.
The hole opens, organic;
A ventricle, it gasps.
WinterWinter11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The old man smiles through clear blue eyes
and skies embracing fertile clouds
expectant with fractal flake children.
He doffs his hat of hazy mist
for geriatric trees, bald heads
displaying their crinkled-wood wisdom.
One hand adjusts his bare-earth tweed
to smooth the frost on collar hills
and straighten a river-ice necktie.
He wanders, smiling at his world
unfurled in tasteful winter shades
now painted on seasonal canvas.
Maurice Eugene DobsonMaurice Eugene Dobson, aged forty-three years and two months, is standing in the middle of a car of the A train, on his way home. He is not holding onto the pole: he stands off to its side, swaying slightly with the movements of the train, but balanced perfectly and seemingly without effort. He never holds onto the poles. He takes pride in being able to maintain his balance like this, although he knows its not the sort of quality anyone else will appreciate, and its not really something you can put on your résumé. Too bad.Maurice Eugene Dobson7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He is a small man, though he prefers the word diminutive. He is five feet, four and a half inches tall in his stocking feet, and slightly built: his clothes hang on him as though bewildered to have such an insufficient resident. He wears pressed khaki pants, their sharp creases billowing several inches forward of his knees; he wears a stiff checkered shirt and a navy blue suit jacket with a single gold button that is somehow incongruous.