van Gogh, the Orient: A Lament
When van Gogh lost his soul
'twas no bushy-eyed barbarian
babbling about bushido
that enthralled him, but
a docile geisha's pallid wrist,
in his whisky
of cherry blossom
in his soul.
when van Gogh lost his mind
to a gunshot,
'twas no starry-eyed samurai
supplicating for seppuku
that pulled the trigger, but
a dying puppy's whimper,
storms of samsara hanging
by a whisker
of dead sunflowers
in his mind.
expansionmemories...More Like This
are slightly, (or mightily), built upon as time goes by;
that's what we do with what we did.
whether those recollections have collected
added details along the way,
we often do not know - ourselves.
these things don't make those things less treasured -
no, not less, but more.
tales are told, and in their telling,
(in)advertant lies cause normal swelling.
llp - dec'09 - dA
For KevinMore Like This
What dreams may lie under surface of a frozen star?
Once turned supernova evidence comes painfully late .
For the light that we see is but luminance turned memory,
slipped though our hands forever .
© 2007 Alexandra
Funeral of misplaced wantAlas my love its come to pass I've tired of our idle song.More Like This
I euthanize my failing hope give it to naught where it belongs.
Thou love me not, we know this truth. I finally acquiesce to fate.
I thousand lies I told myself to ease the bruise I contemplate.
Dust to dust no divine spark to bring the miracle to life.
Ill begotten travesty I see it now from empty height.
Were your silken words of truth, your actions louder they would speak.
I lay to rest my orphaned heart to walk my freedoms lonely street.
© 2009 Alexandra
Ritual Killing of my Child SibRitual killing of my child siblingMore Like This
He charged me like a one-ton bull,
deranged, afraid, eager.
But instead of waving a red gold embroidered capote,
I held a weed-whacker in my dream,
blades whirling full speed.
It was difficult at first to stay still
while metal ground on flesh, then bone,
his blood spurting out covering
my face in warmth as I stood unblinking,
but grew easier until all that was left to cut
For a moment all was still -
the smell of rusted metal fresh
with blood clung to the air,
the sound of gnashing steel and breaking bone
drummed in my ear, and
breath froze in my mouth.
The tool felt weightless in my hands
and effortless to control,
as if this act had been the estocada, death blow,
releasing my tension,
allowing me to slacken my white knuckled grip
on the hilt of my weapon.
Little brother's face was contorted in pain but also
in relief as though he simultaneously feared and craved
this end, as if it were his own release
or escape from whatever anxieti
the line to read and travelTo live is to travel. To let go of the known in search of one's true home.More Like This
Most of the time I see my home in open spaces, only for a moment or two at a time, but long enough to believe it exists. A glimpse of pale creamy sky punched by a slow sun above the oily waterfront, the moon coming out of the clouds just above the top of mountain in a moment before the scene shifts, the sunset above a thick hunter green forest where you can smell the chill in the air through the window glass. There is always a promise of familiarity and there is always a promise of losing the ambiguity of spaces and distances. The only way to find your home is to lose one.
The language works in the same way.
Before the Greek alphabet there were no vowels. The words were almost mysteries offering only a possibility of a meaning. They were a sacrament for themselves. The meaning was out there. They held the power of transformation, making the alchemy alive in the mind of the reader, calling for taking chances whil
in this space I knowRecords should be keptMore Like This
of ghastly forms, pixelized
a painting in our digital museum
of everyday life
Paintings and dolls come alive at midnight
ghastly forms come alive when they like
and they die when they like and resurrect
sometimes in illicit tryst with a stranger
who might be a savior or more likely not.
I may not have fallen in love
cause I find rising in love more appealing
but some of us do fall, with no love
and that well of self-pity is deep.
You may not have understood
it's a trial by fire
but wet nevertheless
not because of the rain
I have witnessed fiery angels
climbing up my spinal stairway
many of them fell
and now when the earth is still dry
in the tonal heat of october's end
I see I have failed, too.
Fallen like the shadows
closely tied to ground
I may not deserve anything more
ignored the auspices, ignored the forebodings
erecting pyramids of stern illusions
predicting all facets of ifs and if anys
in vain, as in vein
The Marble and The EdgeAt three, my wide eyes watchedMore Like This
as a marble rolled across the table,
its path illuminated by the light
from the window -
(light still entered that house then)
rolled and eventually lost
its grounding, fell like a misguided Columbus
off the edge, rolled under the radiator,
hot to touch and growling.
Then Christmas and the wrapping paper
strewn about the apartment, blood on the carpet.
I never could remember what happened
between the before and after,
but I remember the dark, frantic motion,
the lullaby siren.
While they methodically separated
shirt from body, bone from flesh,
my hand remained in hers.
We rolled steadily forward, away from the edge,
that precarious edge that my mother fell off of, and my father,
the man she rolled under.
50/50, the professionals say, my prophesy.
DNA-crossed, predisposed to insanity: a father
on the edge of schizophrenia and a great
grandmother who was in constant fear of the rabbits.
(They listened to her every word.)
Oh, and any moment I could st
Amorous TranscendenceYes, yes, I know you will believe me when I sayMore Like This
the dandelions will soon explode
and all the little girls will attack the sun
and, most importantly, that my fingers
will soon become dizzy from running in circles over your skin.
All the experts agree
it is quite possible that every citys
newspaper will scream at the top of its lungs
and decree a war on words,
but thank goodness we dont need those.
Surely it is only time until all the walls disintegrate
and reveal the vacuous voluptuaries,
and us, wide-eyed and bending
to the will of each others desire.
Dont breathe in
the wind carries the noxious scent of sweatshop romance.
Join me in the shelter of our bed,
let the air be filtered sweet with these twisted sheets.
Once the world is arrested by the universe
and charged with Grand Treason,
we will be left as testaments to amorous transcendence.
musings from a dark roomOne thing I've discovered lately is how bright the sky becomes after the sun goes down. It's as if the sun, that fleeting giver of warmth and luminence, isn't shining as much as transplanting itself into a comatose patient. The sky and all beneath her lies open on the operating table of the universe as Sol opens an incision. She lies, patiently waiting, as the gleaming golden surgeon cuts her in two, pushing aside her shimmering insides and coating them with a false veneer of flesh. She remains passive as the golden brilliance of the scalpel envelops her very core, expanding to push aside the glittering amulet of the moon. The famous blue raincoat of dusk and dimness and sweet, quiet solitude lies crumpled in a corner. Eventually the effervescent operator grows weary of his own exsanguinating presence, and the time-keepers scratch off another day. The wound in the sky slowly heals. Silence reigns.More Like This
Fall's OfferingPretend I am one of the many apples falling from the trees.More Like This
I spent all my life growing
while branches supported my pursuit of the sun.
Now I've fallen at your feet.
Pick me up.
Dust me off.
Bite into me.
Take all of me,
my skin, my flesh, my core.
Allow me to nourish you,
kiss your lips sweetly.
I want nothing more than to be devoured.
hunting lemmingswe followed off the cliffMore Like This
where gravity holds all domain
and on the frozen rocks below
we found our freshly gutted prey
El Caballero oxidadoAndando en los bosquesMore Like This
buscando mi norte
y algo que comer.
¿Amaba con mis cienes
o buscaba aparentar
para que la gente al verme,
me pudiera alabar?
¿Era Bueno,amoroso y generoso
o era todo una ilusión,
de un hombre orgulloso,
frío y sin corazón?
Fuerte me creía
un caballero sin igual,
sin embargo en mi armadura
atrapado quedé al final.
Movido por el miedo
partí en un viaje,
llevando como escudero
nada mas que este anclaje.
Vagué por una senda
sin ver en donde estaba,
pues el casco en mi cabeza
ciego me dejaba.
Caía de cara en la tierra
sin fuerzas para seguir,
y cuando queria levantarme
la armadura pesaba mas que el vivir.
¿Donde estará la respuesta
para quebrantar mis esposas?
las cuales queria mas que otra cosa,
e incluso mas que a mi esposa.
Sé que eso tornó la cuenta,
con mi familia y con mi mente
sin un hijo que me recuerde
y mi esposa con jarras hasta la fren
HowlI beat the street out of my lungs. BurnedMore Like This
Those pages of salvation until the ink boiled red.
When they finally caught me I cursed every soul still on
Their knees and damned the midnight lamps that
bled through two-faced windows. When they told me
“Son, you have nothing to howl about.”, My voice
Became a whisper. In the prison they put us in
There are no bars, guards, or machine gun towers.
People come and go like moths to hellfire.
Like mass extinction and funeral pyres.
Not once did I think about escaping. Until,
The girl in the cell next to mine started screaming. Until
She clawed so deep her arms started breathing. Until
She swallowed that bullet and called it leaving. Until
I finally learned what it really meant to stop bleeding.
I started seeing through the blank pages and white walls.
Underneath it all, different prophets sing the same song.
The greatest minds of my generation weren’t driven to madness.
They were born to it. Their first breaths
Mildew.i.More Like This
thought I'd ask your brother,
why you don't want to see me,
"it's just that my pockets
are warmer than your hands"
and I cannot keep myself
I do not have my own
feelings, they belong to
told you, I wouldn't tell
about the other night
in the car;
too late, the highway
saw us, as
silhouettes of sex
will I ever
to read you?
subterfuge at the cube farmreclaimed meatMore Like This
we were once solemn beings
like epaulets from imperious shoulders
diluted in bottles and sold
back to our fledgling descendants
DescartesLast night Jayne Mansfields´ severed head appeared before the town council and told them that Descartes was wrong .More Like This
She isShe isMore Like This
the idea of smoking,
hot tea in the afternoon,
a pool in the shade,
the person in personality,
chalk on a sidewalk,
blue skies and a rainbow,
shorn hair and an answered prayer;
music in the mountains.
one time i ate cat foodbecause I have nothing to say and know how to say itMore Like This
with my tongue hanging out spit-dry in the middle of your sentence
laughing, like this might mean something
like the way drawing cocks on toilet walls mean we're just rediscovering our tribal roots
i'm just talking because I have to say something, not because I have something to say
like so many everyone elses
brains bubbling through their teeth
all these unvoiced voices of reason talking embolisms into shapeless cerebellums
with gaps and dramatic pauses long enough to
remember what it was like being profound
Aftermath of Castle RockCrestfallenMore Like This
weak as the wake
of the tepid trembling
breaking over the sand.
How hard it is
To Treasure smiles
in a sweaty bath of
or to honour vows
haul prayers from our faded minds.
To turn in such
is to discover a web of feet and hands, disjointed, discombobulated, unable to be grasped
in supplication or remorse
(The household names have gone now).
with half-dead voices
or none at all
unbending under the sky's great agony
unsalted wounds of the spirit
fingers clumsily find fellows
Hold as the soreness stretches.
A Salvage AttemptDrop dead,More Like This
How people are molds
Of the predecessors minds,
With a shotgun strapped
Underneath their desk.
They send out submarines
Unprepared for battle,
Divers without tanks of oxygen,
But, to the chief,
They send back steak,
Not rare enough.
Bloody grease drips off the plate.
With all that is left,
Secret code ends up
On the check.
Classification of what's
Nothing but an old war movie,
A marathon of exhausted avenues.
A Devil's FormFight.More Like This
The men that wound.
The teeth that bite,
The feet that stomp,
The hands that slap
And punch and bruise.
Into a calm innocence.
As if never beckoned,
Buried deep within us all.
Summoned and asked to behave.
Robin and the Rowan treeMore Like This
Yule is here but I'm alone,
alone aloft a rowan tree.
The wind is cold, my nest is warm,
yet no bird's here to roost with me.
I had a lover too one day
she's found new birds to fawn upon;
Now little else bids me to stay
apart from hope for a new dawn.
But no dawn looms, distant or close,
and my nest's now fast going cold;
and soon, I fear, I'll feel the throes
of aching bones, and growing old.
In my despair, to thee I turn,
oh faithful, fluffy, rowan tree;
You love and ask naught in return
oh would you do the same to me?
Though I may long for redder chests
and beaks that chirp all morning long,
within your leaves I'll sleep and rest,
and hum in peace your silent song.
Yule is here, but I'm with you,
with you my dearest rowan tree.
The chill is slowly seeping through,
yet you've stayed here, to root with me.
The Ghost of your PerfumeComposed Upon the Ghost of your PerfumeMore Like This
Your scent, a sensual
petal of pale perfection,
is the one serenade
no siren could compose.
Your eyes, musky
almanacs of Celtic magic,
only the moon can tell.
Your lips, orchids
of sweet abandon,
beckon me closer
loosen my composure,
'til all thought of holding back
is gone beyond recall.
You are my ars poetica,
my dryad immemorial,
my hushed cello sonata,
my shrine in Art Nouveau.
And I... I am your doting dreamer,
ensnared yet again
by the subtle sorcery
of your smile.
Psyche et TristesseWhy do you probe and probe his mind,More Like This
your queries a craniotomy?
What is it you expect to find,
some error of physiognomy?
His mind is well beyond your sight
a puzzle sans solution.
Pure physics can't explain his plight,
nor give pain resolution.
So go ahead, prescribe your pills
Perhaps we will note change this time.
And should his sorrows rack him still,
prescribe some more just give it time.
But at some point you'll come to ask
'Is there aught wrong, that I can find?'
That's when you'll take his pain to task:
'There is no pain. It's just your mind.'
Away, away, oh wayward windAway, away, oh wayward wind More Like This
I've had enough of your finesse!
Why try to lift her silken skirt
And not just ask her to undress?
Oh I suppose it's not your fault
For after all, you have no choice.
We must make do with what we have
And though you breathe, you have no voice.
And b'sides all that, you lack a form
A shape to which girls can relate.
I'm sorry, mate it's sad but true:
You mystics share a lonely fate.
Well, darling wind, let's strike a deal
Why don't you leave the lass to me?
Go try to court the leaves instead
I'm off to ask her out for tea.
The HeartlessThe HeartlessMore Like This
A colorful image he portrayed
A warm smile put out on display
Disguising the evil game he likes to play
Care and attention he likes to show
A little affection here and your trust would grow
Making you believe in what you do not know
Understanding was what he mastered
Decieving so simply as if you were plastered
No light shines in the soul of the dark-hearted bastard
Successfully he plays their heart like violin
Hypnotising them into the shadows so no light comes in
His victims smile and fill with love unaware of the dying within
A relentless devil, he makes it look easy
He weaves his lies and his love stories are cheesy
Bare witness his true self and you will feel queasy
Go deep to his core, the soul of a monster so dark
He is the exuctioner of love and on your heart he makes his mark
Footsteps zombified on this one way journey you embark
He stands and laughs while you only see his smile
You feel protection and safety but his intentions couldnt be more vile
CloudsWhen you walk to here and there,More Like This
Out in the streets or anywhere,
Look up to the skies in wondrous stare,
The clouds are asking for a thought to spare,
Do you realise now?
How the winds bring change,
And how we dream of better ways?
Go challenge the world you live in,
And broaden the mind you wander in,
Lost in the madness of a cloud,
Lost in a world of your own.
Seas Left UnswumMore Like This
What closet poets are we,
who in moments more sober of thought show a stony face,
but lying alone at night hearing the rain's mourning fancy ourselves martyrs for love,
and epic heroes of romance.
Leander am I, and would take the strait in stroke to be with you!
Orpheus am I, and would venture into Hades to bring you back!"
But count us amateur Leanders as unlikely to swim the sea as the sea is to dry for us.
And perhaps this is best-
for Leander drowned,
and Orpheus lost Eurydice again in the end,
and how much worse should the fate of us imposters be?
Instead let me be the realist romantic,
one who can admit that the stars are simply spheres of flaming helium
(and think them no less enchanting at that!)
For Romeo am I not,
and have no dream of making my marriage bed in the crypt.
Here in the land of the living I will carry dreams to make the lovers of old quake.
google is your friend"Google it."More Like This
"Do I want to?"
"What do you mean? It's just Google."
"You say Google like it's a good thing. Like it's an entity that bears some sort of universal answer."
"It's a search engine. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless we go into Google Maps, but it's all the same difference, on some satellite-dish stalking level. You search for a place, it finds it for you. Especially in America. Yeah, they have the streets labeled in America."
"That's creepy. The zoom-in function too. Like, you can zoom down to street level and stare face to face with someone's house. Sometimes you can see their cars too. But never people. That's the part that irks me. They get all these pictures from space or something and capture what they claim to be the world and shit, and yet there are never any people in it "
"it them out."
"They edit them out. The people. Privacy and shit. Imagine checking out Google Maps and being able to see everyone in their homes. Like, through the windows
revelationsHis mind wiped clean, Joseph tried to gather what was happening. All he could remember was his own name and that there was a short man behind him. Dazed and confused, he looked around, trying to get a grip on things. There were many trees and lots of grass. A few benches and sidewalks broke the green expanse.More Like This
Joseph figured he was in a park. Ok, now why? He thought about the short man behind him, and glanced back only a second to see him. In fact he saw two men, a taller and a shorter. He remembered another detail; the short man was his employer. So why was he in a park?
Well that would have to wait until later. For now he would have to focus on what he had just discovered: he was in a different spot than the position he previously occupied, and even now was gaining distance from that place rapidly. That's rather strange, isn't it? Suddenly it hit him; he was running! So... why?
He decided people ran for two reasons: to get to or away from something. The first one would work for now. W
ThirteenOne day I'll let her go -More Like This
my balloon child,
made of air and stuff so thin
I don't know how it holds her in.
Nor what I'm to do then,
but watch her go, with her string
still attached like a doubt
she's not cast off yet. Not today,
but soon. For now,
she's still my child balloon.
Artificial light makes for bad photographsI am a foolMore Like This
for swallowing the stars -
now we must take rocket ships
full of light bulbs
up to the sky,
hang them on imaginary
lengths of fishing wire
and hope they might float.
on telephone wire,
gripping onto life
with nothing but
Fantastic Feature Tuesday #43... is on Thursday this week, guys! Heh... Sorry.More Like This
Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!
This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my
travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount
of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic
writers. Each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice (though this gets harder to keep track of
now that we can change usernames), so check out these lovely writers now while you can!
Shooting the moonhe will have cause to regretMore Like This
there will always be rivers,
the black sea
the underside of bones...)
UltrasoundYou - nervous,More Like This
like Lego blocks -
I wonder where
the baby will sleep
in your double
In the ultrasound
of the clinic lab
holds your ankles
with his rough
But you're terrified
the coffee machine
the smell of
in your hair,
Perhaps your baby
will be small,
came from your birth
The first time
you love each other,
will be that moment,
when you hear
the other screaming,
PacificLike ocean waves, you crash into me,More Like This
break against the shore,
and I am taken with the tide.
If ever I feared the ocean
I must not have known
the way the water would feel beneath my back,
the soft feeling of sand between my toes
and the strange satisfaction
of a body full of salt water.
In lieu of flowersThere are portraits, for which she never sitsMore Like This
while I dab with improbable brushes:
wine bottles, wedding gowns. When viewed
with narrowed eyes from a distance, she
appears less ambiguous where blue
might be the shadow of a breast, a lotus,
the ghost of some recent, terrible blow.
Her eyes are the sole constant in a face
which shifts like white sand over shale
in the wind, a slurry of volcanic glass.
They've become quite the host, her many
disparate aspects, best approached alone
and out of sequence. I dread to think
of them lined up in a chronological arc
from girlhood to its distant, mad conclusion,
each cell animated by the one before it
as if attempting to spark a second life.
This is her art, the image which leaves me
crying like a child for its mother.
CalistaAnd it comesMore Like This
like a trigger
that grow from
The faint scent
and orange blossom
in the Northern breeze.
It makes me think
of the time
we bounced on the trampoline
The only way we get those days
is when the little
out of you.
And we will
circle around her
like wisemen with gifts.
like dancing wishes
if it's sincere, it isn't flattery...the eloquence, the artistry,More Like This
transcends the mere word 'poetry';
i doubt, leonard, this poor bard could out do ya.
i smile and cry, i nod and sigh,
i lift beseeching hands on high
and whisper in the darkness, 'hallelujah...'
hate crimes and other ways to give backthis is it,More Like This
pretending to be grown up
when you're only held up by summer breezes
and i'm in the other court, cold as stone
and there's definite morale here, but the
postman just isn't delivering more
than strangers with manes, strangers who
must fit tightly against someone else, like a human puzzle
only more disastrous and twice as much grace.
these subtle little hatreds we cover our skin with,
they're not weapons, only defense mechanisms
for thinking out loud, for drunken slurs and
last words in separate spaces, because honey,
let's be straight here,
i can't get close when you're wrapped in barbwire,
and you can't get farther when you're tied to another.
it's all about blame now, and neither of us can share
so pour another cup of sweet wine and we'll start
this dance again, oh darling, we both know that's
how this is going to go down.
(take my teenage bag of tricks and
give me wings, honey, everything deserves a chance
to be something more than a dying wish.)
i am a prophet and yet i am godoh, but this suffering is a sacrament!More Like This
lying backwards off of the bed,
arms outstretched in a parody of piety,
in paroxysms of guilt!
oh, but the absurd mirrors the sublime!
this scene is ridiculous as it is
the buzzing of fluorescent lights
in my blood, in the skin of my teeth—
the only scourge upon my cheek
and not pock or plague.
and yet, a holy hush descends,
as if I am hallowed!
as if I am blessed!
Jesus of Nazareth had skin like mine—
Muhammad spoke the language from which
I draw my name—
my bones are the bones into which
Al-Quddus blew life!
oh, but I am a portent of the Divine!!!
Muse #10Dekino`osMore Like This
There is a tale of a tenth muse, born from the brain of Dios, or "Zeus". Dekino`os, the random ruler of invention of things inartistic. He it is that created steam in all its machines, the eternal combustion engine, computers in all their glory and destruction. And Spying.
Dekino`os is the secret ruler of the world, its creator and destroyer, its Fate.
Many are the stories of his deeds.
Lancelot Price 2014 September 18
AncientThe Ancient One watched. From the very beginning of All, he watched. He observed as the Universe of universes arrived, as the stars came to be, as the galaxies formed, as the worlds arrived. All made of Universal stuff transformed. Seemingly endless changes from things to other things proceded unimpeded. The great game was beautiful. Entertaining. Fun. And then came the holes, the black, the always empty. Worlds were hurled to Darkness, places without places, without event. Where nothing happened. Not ever. Where Ever was Not. Slowly, oh, so slowly, the Universe of universes faded and disappeared. And was gone. The Ancient One had nothing more to watch and cried timeless and empty tears.More Like This
Lancelot Price 2014 June 21
Star travelAvoiding Gravity's wellsMore Like This
we swing from its mountain tops
flying through planetary fields
And far beyond
Once outside the power of the sun
Someday our dreams
will take us to the stars
And a better life than this one we've destroyed
Lancelot Price 2014 May 21
Denial Is Not a River In Egypt Have we seen enough Cliven Bundy coverage yet? How about Basketball’s Los Angeles Clippers owner Donald Sterling? I am going to go out on a limb and assume everyone but the comatose know Cliven and Donald by now. I find it extremely ironic that, as these two old white guys reveal to the world their archaic putrid festering racism, one voluntarily and the other involuntarily, our Supreme Court has been busy neutering the seminal civil rights accomplishments of the sixties. Last year, declaring racism dead in this country, the SCOTUS killed section 4 of the voting rights act of 1965 that was implemented to keep certain states with a rich history of race hate from imposing any discriminatory or otherwise restrictive voting laws such as literacy tests or today’s photo I.D. requirements that discriminate against the poor and racial minorities.More Like This
To graphically illustrate the continuing necessity and efficacy of Section 4 of the Voting Rights Act, the very
The Blank PageA bare canvas for thoughts to scroll and enumerateMore Like This
Patiently pending projects of imaginative innovation
Tempting one’s free mind to hesitate
Ready with unconditional expectation
From some great unknown source,
It is right there – waiting.
And there it will stare
Mocking as a mirror for the empty mind
Glaring white in growing despair
Leaving one teetering on stupefied
…And then in an inspiring dare
A thought peens against the surface of memories.
Golden“No nudes,” the tech said as he sidled up next to me.More Like This
“Word from the top. No tits for aliens.”
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“Sagan's throwing a fit in his office.”
“I might throw one myself. Might as well shove an Amish guy into space and call it good. What about birth? Basic anatomy?”
“Well, I guess the aliens didn't need to see the Statue of David. Not like it's a big deal.”
He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day, or like it was either laugh or he'd never stop crying.
Someone picked up on the tell-tale hint of a strange signature. Just enough to stir interest. Suddenly every free telescope on the planet was pointed in one direction, searching out the source.
Pinning it down took some time. Getting a clear picture took longer. By the time some brain in the north figured it out, the object was already winging past the planet, deeper into the s
Iris's Runaways I remember the first day I met you. Third graders have a tendency to label everybody; I was the twin who wore blue, Iris was the twin who wore pink, and you were the boy with the light red casts on his left leg and right arm.More Like This
Third grade was the year we met. Fourth grade was when I fell in love with you. Fifth grade was when you stole Iris’s heart, and if there’s a god, I’m sure it would know when she stole yours.
In sixth grade, Iris confessed her love to you, as did you yours to her. By the seventh, you were bound to each other.
You, Ray, never knew how much I loved you, and you never would know. But Iris—the bitch—knew everything. Close though we were, I never spoke a word, but I’m certain that she knew.
I’m sorry, Iris, I would say, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. The way I killed her would change
Lara vs The Savage PackFirst Appeared: Monday, 13th, September ‘Wooden Pews’ online news aggregatorMore Like This
The Heaviest Change by Lara Craft.
When Barry Finbarr (the editor-in-chief and owner of the Wooden Pews) first asked me to write about my experiences of the so-called Lupin virus I must admit I had to think about it for a long time. Not because I do not want people to know what it is like to have suffered through this outbreak. Nor because I am worried about the attention it will bring.
My concern is due to the secrets that I have had to carry because of it that I have not discussed with anyone. What I will reveal here may never make it to print because of what I have done, and seen done at the hands of others.
To give a little background, my childhood couldn’t be considered difficult. I have loving parents and a sister with which I am very close. As children we would play with our dolls and pony figurines like any girls our age, dreaming of handsome princes
decemberist dreamingpurple rings over the hillsMore Like This
so noticed at the close
of the solstice long day
now the sun has set
and the dark hangs higher
blackened hills below
tell of where the days
have been and above us
the unavoidable truth
as ginsberg said
I am a ripple on the wave
she told me how we can
and so I did saying I am
angry! waves rolled and
crashed saying punch me
putting my fist through calm
I found a mirror of depth
and I asked how can something
so beautiful smash into
huts and living things draining
back into calm
as if you need to ask said
the mirror of thought
when all parts of the ocean
consist of water
on the beach lotus flowers
growing in sand
now this is impossible
and I am dreaming wide awake
good red wine a poetry book
and the moon over the sea
I have fallen out of love
with love itself
the lesson of repeatable
and replaceable I know
and I choose my empty
hands knowing water
will always run through
until my night is purple
at the dusk of the solstice
they are still sitting
on the sof
MapsWe marked the deaths on a map in little black tallies,More Like This
every day we counted the numbers and they had come to a strong incline.
You sat in the dust by the flames
playing with a cattail
and you asked me
“When will it be over?”
The smoke drifted into open sky above us and I tried to count the stars.
The map was held together by rivers and
And we were held together by a commonplace drive:
The poem in your eyes had no backbone and it was falling apart at the seams and it made you
The map is held together by little black tallies on the edges from an old charcoal pencil.
And we are held together by a thread of life that could very well be
Alas, that is out of our reach but we must remember to always
fight! and to stay alive
please keep holding on
Because home awaits with open arms and we are here counting stars and
we must never die.
The mayor warned when we came home to
never leave again
never go agai
Moving On“No.” It was all I could say, taking in the carnage of what had just last night been my pristine kitchen. I wanted to collapse onto a chair, but they – and our spacious table – were covered in miscellany. Cleaning supplies, random knick-knacks from the living room, a thermometer, a scale. It was all there, strewn about.More Like This
My legs were shaking, and I fought the urge to cry. So messy. So dirty. No, no, no. I collapsed onto the shoe bench in between the Franco Sarto and the Gucci. I don't know where Giesswein had gone. I wished I could blame it on burglars, but no.
“She's doing it again!” I called, and my husband came running into the kitchen. We watched his mother rearrange my cabinets, turning tea-cup handles to the left instead of the right. My hands twitched.
“Ma, stop it!” he said, exasperation coloring his voice. “Put these things back, they were fine where they were!”
"No," she said, her voice heavily-accented. "I will take
A Pupil's Plea: 5 Things That Ruin Good TutorialsMore Like This
First of all, I freely admit that what I say isn't gospel. I am a total amateur at art and writing. I've learned everything that I know via the internet and a few drawing books. It's just that I appreciate all of the tutorials here on dA that have helped me out, and I want to put a little bit of my own methods back in.
Look, I've only written three tutorials so far. I don't know if they're any good or not and I'm not experienced enough to be an expert by any means. I am, however, an experienced audience member for tutorials. My god, have I read a LOT of tutorials. This list is as much for me as it is for you. I made it so that I can keep the things that bother me the most in mind so that my tutorials will be less god-awful. I've picked out the top 5 things that ruin a tutorial for me as an audience member, so hold on to your pants as we count down the 5 Things That Ruin Good Tutorials.
#5: An Awful Title
Midnight Thought ProcessPerhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.More Like This
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judge others in life, and we keep track of others by categorisation.
Perhaps we should forget what year it is, and what we are…and just be.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Late Night CerealShe texted me to ask for milk,More Like This
A query so surreal,
For she was of the hungry ilk
Who craved for cereal.
Alas, I had no milk but soy,
Which she was wary to deploy
Within her bowl,
Within her bowl,
Her face showed she did not taste joy.
Oh Special K! 'Twas not the day
She meant for you to swim
With Mister Two-Percent, and play
Your tasty games with him.
The box was done, your final breath
Could only end in runny death.
A soggy grave was all she left.
All times, both good and bad, must end
In peacefulness or pain.
One moment, by your side a friend,
The next, gone and estranged.
While we still live, let's take control,
Together, let's live to the full
Like milk and flakes,
Like milk and flakes,
Creamy, crunchy in the bowl.