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Literature
Sobriety As An Art Form
Quietly,
I watched as your knees and thighs--
toes and ankles--
bronzed in the midday sun.
The thin veil of cotton
that was your dress
strained against the breadth of your chest,
two buttons undone to ease the
pressure.
Alone,
(except for me)
all modesty failed and gave way
to the fluttering breeze--
pushing the edges of the seams
revealing the real estate of your thighs
--your underwear--
and the heat of the curves
just behind
that thin curtain of modesty.
I smiled. You smiled.
You laughed. My smile grew.
In the pocket of my jacket I found a felt tipped, black pen.
I pushed the cap off with my thumb
--a triumphant click to celebrate the moment--
and watched as the blades of grass swallowed it with
a certain satisfaction.
Then,
I began to write...
Your green eyes watched my brown hand.
My brown hand guided the black ink into curves and lines.
The black characters made bold the red of your dress.
The red of your dress was lost in the reflection from my eyes
(my eyes, sadly, are void of
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Literature
The Failed Resurrection
...strokes of lipstick unevenly smear
        across the sheen of teeth
while a dress fits loosely like the
        tattered rags of a forgotten scarecrow,
        the arms and legs
        billowing in the wind.
…douse the highway of vertebrae
        with cheap perfume
as metatarsals and phalanges swim,
        stripped,
        in the confines of heels.
…pearls, strung and dazzling,
        match the brilliance of
        a polished sternum,
mother of pearl reuniting at last
        with her child…

This night will be the night
     
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My Spinal Deterioration by aheavenlywaytodie My Spinal Deterioration :iconaheavenlywaytodie:aheavenlywaytodie 1 1
Literature
four hours without fear
...at eleven I lay my body down
     in the tall grass,
          (allowing my spine to rest
               against the warm earth)
and count the constellations
     that my eyes feel free to design...
...at twelve I anchor my feet
     in the sand,
          (allowing the fine grains to slip
               between my toes)
and count the frequency of waves
     born from the thinness of darkness...
...at one I run my fingers through
     the bedding of pine needles,
          (allowing the pale moonlight that penetrates
        &
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Literature
Los Gorriones
They slept amongst the bare branches of an almond tree dreaming Siamese dreams, connected at the temple and disseminated through their bodies. Across the field the winds blew, chilling the morning air and freezing the earth to the flesh of the land with merciless vehemence.  Somewhere the sun was rising but without the promise of warmth, of life, of rejuvenation. A hollow gesture more so out of ceremony than desire. Everywhere Andalusia braced itself for the sorrow and greyness of winter.
The bride dreamt of white plumage, a ceremonial gown pristine as the flowers that grow wild across the country in spring. In her left talon an olive branch of gold, in her right talon a scroll with a guide to the constellations, in her mouth a sprig of mint. Gifts of love for her groom, promises of life for her dearest.
The groom dreamt of the scent of orange blossoms sprinkled across his wings, aromatic and pure as the country in summer. In his right talon a string of untainted pearls, in h
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Literature
A Psalm of Spite
These words will not consume you,
        nor will they bleed like a wound
        cut from the flesh with a thousand
        jagged teeth.
They will not offer salvation.
They will not hold fast
        to an illusion of glory.
These words are nearly silent.
These words will go unnoticed like a sparrow
        flittering above you,
        hidden among the vines,
        lost within the thorns.
This touch will not comfort you,
        nor will it course through
        the tangles of your
        hair with kindness.
It will not reach out if you drown.
It will not wrap itself around you
 &
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Literature
Counting Down To Zero
This year will be the year
of a million cuts,
each sharp enough to cut through
the sinew and marrow
but none deep enough to drain
a life,
to mortally wound.
This season will be the season
of a hundred thousand martyrs
with spines curved,
on hands and knees
in search of the promise of
a ground far kinder to their wounds
than the one on which they agonize.
This month will be the month
of ten thousand children
lost and traveling in the
dark, mapping out constellations
with the tips of their fingers
like ancient mariners,
praying for land.
This week will be the week
of a thousand fires
burning through the night
with insatiable
fury, consuming naked
and imperfect bodies
as they sleep.
This day will be the day
of a hundred tumbling waves
forging against the land with
turbulent anger,
carving a coastline suited
only for the hopelessly lonely
and the anxiously dying.
This hour will be the hour
of ten fallen stars,
ten wishes made,
ten promises given and ten hopes
betrayed because there is no
m
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Literature
Three Questions In The Cold
We stood shoulder to shoulder in the falling snow,
the cold bypassing our flesh and settling in the
hollow of our marrow.  Silently we stood watching
eternity pass in small increments before our eyes,
plumes of steam escaping from our mouths like bits
of our being looking for somewhere better to be.  
Night on a snowy meadow—even the wind doesn’t
have the courage to stir.
Lost in the silence of the night, His voice finally
pierced through the calm:
“Where I come from bourbon is the blood and
regret the body. You get three questions.”
I’d forgotten that I had a voice until I heard the
words spill out of my mouth:
“Is it true, damned if you do and damned if you don’t?”
“It’s more like damned if you are and damned if you ain’t.
That’s one.”
I watched as the night scraped the layers of Earth
with its darkness, preparing the land for the light
of day.  I counted snowflakes like souls lost from
Hea
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Literature
every day i die without...
everyday i die without realising it
There was little variation from night to night;
sheets scattered across the end of the bed
miming ghosts too tired to haunt—
steam, heat, hair, semen and sweat misting
the four corners of the room—
gasping breathes from the anonymous stranger
spread out on his back and staring at the ceiling,
little on his mind but sin and sex,
desire and gratification.
Shortly thereafter would come the tears,
silent and unnoticed as though it were a natural
aspect of the painted scenery.
She would turn her back to him,
her name, Soledad, already forgotten.
The curtain of her black hair incapable of hiding
her nudity,
her breasts, hips, thighs, soul, existence—
everything exposed to the elements.
Softly, she would sing to herself:
“…me muero todos los dias sin darme cuenta…”
Occasionally one of the faceless masses would wonder
what she was singing,
unaware that language had no bearing
as to her meaning. It was obvious, and written
o
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Literature
My Love Affair With Wellbutrin
I can’t stop the
Shake
Shake
Shaking.
a rhythm I can’t
keep up-- with.
I’m getting sea
Sick, car
Sick, motion
Sickness.
Motion
is a sickness of its own.
carbonated, I’m dancing through
the atmosphere
like bubbles, making
steadfast headway
up and up and up
up up up
through chaos.
repetition -- repetition
is a series -- is a series
of the same -- of the same
like a beat beat -- like a beat beat
beat beat -- beat beat
beat - beat - beat - beat
stop - stop - stop - stop
please - please - please - please
stop - stop - stop -
STOP!
rhythm; vibrating; shaking; dot dot dot
Etc.
dot dot dot.
let’s face it,
shaking makes the world go
Round.
tiny tiny shaking shaking atoms:
well, they shake fast--
enough, slow--
enough, just--
enough to
form the building
blocks
of a human.
so why complain about the
Shake
Shake
Shaking?
it’s something I can
Control.
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Literature
Eloise In A Mason Jar
I wanted to free you,
to break the mason jar around you,
open the door,
let you choose your own destiny.
Instead I watched you from the street
as you sat by the window
watching the world clamor over itself.
One day I stopped, people pushing me
because of my abandoned trajectory.
I played with a rock that I’d
found in the park
the same day I’d found you.
I had etched your name on my stone:
Eloise.
And daily ran my thumb across the letters:
E-L-O-I-S-E
Thinking of the sound your name made
in my head.
I took my hands out of my pockets,
angry faces shoving their way
past me. I showed my stone
to the sun,
quickly realizing it was unimpressed.
Suddenly I had a thought…
I reached back,
my eyes focused on your face,
and let go…
You never once saw me
nor the rock
that struck your window. The
glass shattered,
a vagrant piece flying back
and leaving a small cut across
your forehead.
You were angry. I had broken
your mason jar.
I left,
embarrassed that I was
wrong.
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Literature
lost and found
Lost and Found
I. Lost
At half past two he turned out all the lights and listened to the drone of the clock on the wall mechanically counting the seconds with each passing click:
1….2…. 3…. 4…. and so on until he reached 30 seconds and stopped, realizing that time and space have nothing to do with numbers and cadence.
He stared at the darkness of his empty apartment registering only the sounds that reverberated back to him:
the soft tapping of the rain scurrying against his window and the cavernous echoing of the vein
that was pulsing in his temple. Little time now for second guessing, the poison was well on its way through his digestive tract and seeping into his blood stream, marching its way without hesitation to his brain.
Some promises are impossible to break.
Others are impossible to sustain.
A virtuous life is no covenant for salvation. A cathedral warrants no real proof of God. His cancer was a guarantee of death. His cancer was the assurance of some cosmic
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Literature
ride on the underground

hunched creature rattling:
a snake in a rat-trap
shrieking like a banshee it
throbs along a thick tunnel
licks the curving walls away
sweating against them, eats
through gravel, wormlike—
skeleton bones howl and snap:
taca-ta-taca-ta-taca-ta
spitting through a dank fissure
clenched to ranks of tracks.
inside, hanging people shudder
swaying together, knocked
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old arthritic bones
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motto
i love being used,
let down, ignored and laughed at.
it builds character.
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Literature
exodus
I pray sometimes that the sea between us will
open up
and let us pass as Moses did.
As a child in Sunday school I silently wondered,
was there mud between his toes? Did fish
gasp frantically at air as the Lords miracle occurred?
In my mind the Israelites were struck dumb, jaws hanging at the sight
of something so amazing. If only
they knew of the desert that lay before them. Would they
appreciate the mud between their toes and breath life into fish?
I pray sometimes, that I could only just touch your hands
at the expense of the sea. I wish that
I could be as selfish as Moses to sacrifice nature for pleasure.
I didn’t know at seventeen if I could live
with sand in my shoes for as long Moses and the Israelites did but I know now love,
how it can be that Moses could part the sea and give fish to air to drown upon.
I know now the burn of one hundred and twenty years of sand and I too,
like the Israelites awestruck and tear blind
would ignore the mud and race for an ocean of sand
if I
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deviantID

aheavenlywaytodie
christopher
United States
Operating System: gerbil on wheel and abacus
Shell of choice: chocolatey-caramel
Skin of choice: the one that's on me now
Interests

Comments


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:iconaheavenlywaytodie:
aheavenlywaytodie Featured By Owner May 6, 2009
you're far too kind, but poetry is in essence a simple thing, a series of half constructed phrases and incongrous words that do little more than hope to elicit a response from anyone, anything, any response. what i do is not impressive nor all that creative. in truth i'd give up what little talent i had with words to draw one well done scene. congratulations for having the talent i would rather have been given than the one i may have.
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:iconmirleanda:
Mirleanda Featured By Owner May 5, 2009
Then my whole life seems to be spring. I can't remember a time when I could really focus on something. There are days that I spent mostly in my head rather than in the real world.
And they aren't the worst days in my life. Yet also not the best times.

I wish I was able to express my feelings through words like yours.

Counting down to zero is indeed no shit I must add, your poetry is the only poetry that I read. I can't connect to most poems, sometimes they are too deep for me and I don't get them but the average lyrics are just plain and especially darker ones tend to be more whiney than actually deep thoughts.
Hmm, somehow I'm not good at telling people that I like their art. But just telling "Wow, cool." is just not enough.

See you in summer.
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:iconaheavenlywaytodie:
aheavenlywaytodie Featured By Owner May 5, 2009
that makes two of us. spring is a hard time for us bipolar folks to try and do anything that requires patience and focus.
Reply
:iconmirleanda:
Mirleanda Featured By Owner May 4, 2009
Thank you for the fav, I'm glad you're still looking at my pictures. I know I've been quiet.
Reply
:iconyouaresolovely:
youaresolovely Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2009
thank you for the fave[:
Reply
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