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Dawn, February 29th
I drive all night,
following the skyline
through the trees
until I reach your side, deer.
It's something about the way
you're lying, mid-leap,
as if sleep has taken you unawares
that stops me there.
And it's your eyes that hold me,
your unseeing gaze
that somehow holds me whole
in the haze of the moonlight,
on the rim of the world.
Like that moon,
you have run yourself blind,
as if in a dream.
And it seems
your legs are broken, yet
in my headlights
you rise like heat
to the place where night
and day finally meet.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 13 4
Case History
We find you
where you had fallen:
face to the blue,
the wall between this world
and the next. You'd
slipped, perhaps, lost
your footing and now you flew –
webbed fingers outstretched,
your kelpie hair strewn
behind you. Your lips
are chapped and blue
as if bitten by frost or fishes,
the words choked back
in your throat as you open out
like an oracle, begin to bloat.
Your skin is starting to scale.
But you don't notice – in fact, you float
so serene, I wonder
if you've always been blind
and weightless, like an astronaut
tethered to the stars.
We find you
where you broke apart –
a balloon
from a child's hand.
And I wonder,
did you leave this lap of land
to try to drink the moon?
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 9 7
By Heart
Now that I have your face by heart
I look to piece the other parts
of you together – less your lips, your eyes,
like a knife-thrust, bright as dawn skies,
than the shadows gathering in your wake,
the bruises left by every heartache.
I long to drown in the depths of you,
to feel the waves breaking over me, the moon
inhaled, exhaled, cancelling out the sun.
I want to watch the lettercut light come undone
in awe of you, to see the stars run blind and tear
the very fabric of the sky. To hear
my heartbeat breaking on the same
shore as yours, time after time -
calling your name,
calling you mine.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 6 1
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never Meet
Thursday nights are silver screened.
At nine, it's time once again to air
the prelude to a dream.
I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate
contours of your face to appear:
the features of a lover I'll never meet.
It seems strange to say
(a kind of admission of defeat),
but to be honest I'm OK
with the pause, rewind, replay
that makes up our relationship.
You have to admit,
knowing I'd never flip
channels or walk out when
you're in a scene
is a devotion, of sorts.
I expect nothing in return.
I know you know nothing of me.
But I can't help but love you;
your close-ups, your scripted smile,
the way you lean towards the screen
of your plastic box and speak
only and always to me.
How could I not - a lonely girl,
curled on the sofa - have eyes
only for you? Think of it
(as I do) as a healthy obsession.
Because it's true, I'll say it,
I think you're perfection.
But don't worry: I'm OK with only
watching from afar, only dreaming
of a touch or a kiss. It's enough
for me just to see you on screen
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 263 50
     It's freezing, sub-zero out here. I make my way through the park to the lake, where the trees open out and you can see the sky once more. It's beautiful, on a day like today. Not a cloud in the sky - just a pale whiteness, a hole in the fabric of the heavens. I take the mud track through the undergrowth and find a place where no one will see.
      I grew up here, in this town, by this park. We used to come here all the time, to ride our bikes, feed the ducks in summer, and in winter, we'd take our skates and head for the lake, where we'd carve patterns into the ice. There's a photograph of me I remember, one of those old Polaroids that's been exposed to the light a little too often so the colour's all washed out. In it I'm crouched beneath the branches of an old willow tree, parting the leaves like curtains to frame my face. I'm grinning at the person behind the camera, my eyes not quite focused on the future. I don't remembe
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 18 12
     Sure, there is safety in routine, but there's something scary about permanence.
     That was the first thing I learnt when we made it to the big city. When I think of our arrival, taking a taxi through the rush hour, what I remember most is how transitory it all seemed, everything continually flickering and fading. And it was the same every day after, like a bleed that can't be stemmed. They were a people in flight, those city dwellers - always on the move. What I admired about them was their sense of direction, their sense of purpose. The way they all seemed to answer to the same call of the wild.
If there is such a thing. I can't say I have ever heard it. Looking back on how we came to be here, Lau would always laugh and say "you didn't move, you were moved." She was right, of course. I was always being swept up by the tide, tearing this way and that. "We've broken free," she'd say, "cut all our ties." But I still clung on to so
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 8 10
It's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 14 10
Home, again. The dome of night
presses down like a mighty bell jar.
She hides her face to escape the looks
of other travellers on the last train.
It pains her, their pity. Their stares
and their half-smiles that say
that bruise really sets off the blue
of your eyes.
As if they understood.
Instead, she examines her reflection
in the window, fragmented across fields
and clouds and telephone lines, reaching out.
She's a garden of black and blue blooms,
a harvest of half-moons and blinkered scars.
He says he loves her, needs her.
Sometimes, she's not so sure.
She's late, again. She imagines him,
sitting in the dark, hands before him
on the kitchen table, like weapons, laid bare.
Glaring at the unopened door.
There's no need for her to read palms
when she knows the fist is already clenched.
Home is where the heart is, they say. But
they never mentioned that home is also
where the heart is torn apart.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 6 4
He dreamt of eternity condensed in a fist,
the clench of a metal heart – building
a sister of bone. All shining plates
and saucer eyes, a battery-acid born disguise;
he anticipates a future struck from stone.
She stands, cogs poised, ready for the spark of life
- a face to emulate under the surgeon's knife.
Wires crossed, bodies lost, minds cleaved -
                                                 she breathes.
He brings her out into the night, the night,
where the lights dance and bite like greek fire
wound round her head in a halo of wire.
The city opens out like a mirage, a restless dream,
all pendulums and fraying seams –
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 24 17
Forest, Fathomed
Dreamscape, whitewash. Snow on snow.
The curvature of love's dumb cry
beneath the arclight of the sky.
The hillside rises up, up – a shadow
hung in the shadow of a heaven,
clung to the sides of all it has been,
the air gauzed as if in awe of it.
The trees are only as solid as they seem,
cut-paper casts like the heads of dolls.
Fathom-deep, deaf as dark under the mask
of sleep: the toll of blackened hearts.
Below, the train pulls on through the snow
like a string of beads – all pinprick sparks
and needle-eyed stars - a trail stark as the tail
of a comet streaming 'cross the hollow of the hill,
seeming to fall into the white like a satellite
drowned beneath the downs of snow.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 12 8
Between The Acts
Shuffling in the shadows,
they fight in the halflight
with buttons, clasps, the ties
on stiff-toed shoes. To the right
the wardrobe juts out like
a branch of stars – all glass
beads and sequins and shards
of coloured fabric, hanging
like the ghosts of people they have been.
It's strange, this limbo between faces,
this place of neither here nor there.
How do you begin to comprehend
the ones undone, dehusked in the dusklight?
The dress before it's worn, the button
before it's clasped back into the heart
of darkness – torn and shattered like a jewel.
Between the scenes, the fits of flight, they are on hold.
They have sold their souls to the dance, and they are nothing,
stripped raw – 'til they're back beneath the stage lights
and the music moves them once more.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 10 8
The curvature of a thumbprint:
each line a fleck of space, time,
traversed like a galaxy, a sea
of scars. Home-grown: the touch
of it an opiate, silk as sedative
but        broken.      Imperfect,
like nail-marks, cut cursive
into floorboards, where I caught
light by its ankles and dragged it
back to black. Uprooted it to pitch
like the closing of a fist.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 20 25
Lady M.
Act V, Scene I.
She's sleepwalking again,
white as the sheets she's slipped from.
Eyes open, nightblind, she spoors the shadows
of her mind, treads barefoot on the floor.
"What's done cannot be undone," she says,
retracing her steps once more.
"Like the undead," he murmurs.
He watches her from afar –
the quiver of her lips, the twitch
and falter of her hands.  He tries
to understand why she lifts her scars,
examines them under the light.
"The dead don't walk, can't talk- "
She says this every night.
Her whisperings fill the corridors,
the secrets she seeps flood the floors.
And still she shakes, mumbles -
fumbles with her hands. "The blood,"
she cries, "oh, the blood!" Her eyes,
a knife-thrust - a ghost, cut open.
In sleep, she sees, dreams too deep.
"Often," the doctor says, "fractured minds
make their mysteries known only
to the deafness of the dark. God
help her – help us all for sins and things
I think, but dare not speak."
She goes back to the shadows, t
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 6 13
They're the usual cast, so to speak.
They sit, with only the electric hum
of the late night diner lights to accompany them –
too white, too bright, like the tattered string
of pearls round her neck. Cheap, he thinks.
The moon sinks and surfaces between the city spires,
scraping the sky, inconstant as a lover.
He drains the last dregs, takes a drag
on his cigarette. Behind the glass,
she shifts uncomfortably in her seat,
hopes he doesn't notice. She pretends
to examine her fingernails with an elaborate air
of lack of care – but it's too much, too obvious.
Typical, he thinks. All too familiar.
He catches the tremor of her coffee cup
out the corner of his eye. She hates this, clearly,
but yet (he doesn't forget) she can't help
but to help herself. The offer's on the table,
and it's one he knows she can't afford to refuse.
And this he understands, completely –
rising to the shriek of an alley cat,
the call of a nighthawk -
he knows, after all,
that nothi
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 8 10
Night, Light
[It is dark. The darkness is full and heavy. We are somewhere in space beneath a belly of sky – we could be anywhere. Nix sits cross-legged, a sheet held stretched above her head to form a tent. She reaches out and, with the click of bones knitting, the lantern beside her flickers on, as if of its own accord. The darkness shifts and sways.]
[Nix hums 'Mary, Mary', slowly, deliberately, quietly to herself as she repositions the lantern before her so that she is fully illuminated, up-lit. She seems calm, but glances around herself before she stops, abruptly, and begins to speak. As she does so, she gazes intently at the lantern.]

You know, I like it here. The darkness is so whole, so smooth and enamelled, like a shell. A safety. It is nice to have something to break.
I am going to tell you a secret.
It is a dark secret, a heavy secret. And it's very precious to me. No one knows, not even Nita. God, Nita wouldn't understand this, not the half of it. I'm only telling you becaus
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 5 12
And still he doesn't come.
She sits and waits, aches a little.
The sky has emptied out its eyes –
she cannot look. She hates this time,
when the day slopes towards dark
and the free evening fades to grey.
It is a reminder: once more forgotten,
once more forlorn. She scratches a name
into the old wood of the window frame,
wonders, fleetingly, if she sees a face
flickering across the glass - the scar
of an angel, fallen like the evening star.
Old footsteps pace the upper floors,
old voices echo down the halls.
Her heart haunts and hurts,
catches on the barbs of her ribcage
with each and every breath.
Still, he doesn't come.
It ends only with death.
In a dream, she waits,
watching the clouds deepen
through the noiseless sphere
of space and time itself,
opening out like a flower,
shattering like an idol.
Oh to sleep, to forget,
to put out the light -
He doesn't come.
And Heaven over Heaven
over earth rises the night.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 15 16


ApocaLit Fridays: Issue #28
Hello Horde :salute:
Welcome back to ApocaLit Fridays; Apocalypse-writing's bi-weekly roundup filled with news, information, features and updates on things ..... well, apocalyptic and literature in nature (hence the clever name :slow:).
:spotlight-left: In honour of our 300th member, we are holding a contest; The ABC’s of the Apocalypse. Check out the official journal for all the details! :spotlight-right:
This week we have the usual Group, Affiliate and Lit Community updates, as well as "What to Watch/Read/Web".
:star: Fun Fact Friday: The hole in a pencil sharpener into which a pencil is placed is called a chuck. :star:
Group Updates
:bulletblack: Our weekly prompt is Love Letters from the Apocalypse. The deadline is this Saturday 28 June 23:59 EDT.
:bulletblack: Check out our latest Member Feature Mondays.
:iconapocalypse-writing:Apocalypse-writing 2 2
Fabulous Friday Feature 17: Gardens

Greetings, all, and welcome to my seventeenth
This week, I'm brightening up a grey winter with GARDENS. Unfortunately, I have to announce that there will not be a theme to next week's feature. I have made an executive decision based on my work load at grad school, and until further notice, I will simply be posting exceptional pieces I find over the course of the week. If you've got someone you think should be featured in next Friday's Feature, I AM EVEN MORE DESPERATE FOR YOUR SUGGESTIONS, and I'd love it if you would send me a note with a link to the deviation in question and I'll take a peek ;) I'd also love to hear about other features, particularly themed ones. I'll list those in the bottom section to help spread the word! The same goes for contests or news articles!
Please favorite this journal and pass it on! And if you liked this feature, be sure to check out the one from last week: http://azi
:iconazizriandaoxrak:AzizrianDaoXrak 13 21
Fantastic Feature Tuesday #28
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, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!
Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

Histology by angel-in-pieces herb-grace by toxic-scheherazade
:iconforestmeetwildfire:forestmeetwildfire 6 14
Winter Alliance Contest!
:wave: Greetings, fair Allies! It is my pleasure to announce the Winter Alliance Contest! :party:
What is the Alliance, you ask?
The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!
Because I, your founder, have a deep and abiding love for the seasons, this group will now host seasonal contests, and as the Autumn Contest is now over, it is time for Winter to re
:iconladyofgaerdon:LadyofGaerdon 67 84
Daily Literature Deviations for Sept. 25th, 2012
Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff Openings
Daily Lit Deviations for September 25th, 2012
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
You can show your support by :+favlove:ing this News Article.

Please comment and :+fav: the features and congratulate the artists!
:pointr: For all of the featured artists: If you receive a DD for one
:icondailylitdeviations:DailyLitDeviations 19 4
Magic by beyondimpression Magic :iconbeyondimpression:beyondimpression 85 5 Killing The Memories by beyondimpression Killing The Memories :iconbeyondimpression:beyondimpression 111 6
May you find silence in every storm
Reflection is a clingy whore, and September
is an incoherent borderline who flees
courageously from permanent stories.
I have not forgotten how to suck
the charcoal clouds out of the sky,
how to dream fevers out of lullaby,
or how to force the synapses of spirits.
On the way home, I stopped to consider the music of the rustling fountain
and the leaves shooting water in the breeze.
And I knew love by the pitch of the owl's hoot,
I knew soul by the order of the hornet's stripe.
They wanted an apology from her.
Shannon, they said, you broke the fucking universe.
And before I could stop twitching electricity
from spitting neutrinos
the pavement hit my lips
and I saw a galaxy rise.
:iconarchelyxs:archelyxs 40 43
Of all shapes, I like right triangles best. I like right triangles best when the hypotenuse slopes downward, and the short leg is vertical, and the long leg is horizontal. I don't like it when the long leg is vertical. I used to draw right triangles set on all different angles so that they looked like they were dancing at a silent rave. But each withheld itself in its own unspeakable loneliness, no matter how much it had to drink. That's how I feel when someone pronounces my name May-gan. May-gan became laden with so much ignominy that at age fourteen I told people to call me Meh-gan. I keep a special place in my heart for isosceles right triangles because I like their rational irrationality. Like at age eighteen I took on a middle name, a personal tetractys.
I walk next to, rather than in front of, the past. Someday, the past and I will have enough units between us to measure the square root of Otherness.
:iconarchelyxs:archelyxs 11 16
The days are like some mockery of babushka dolls,
each uncapped to reveal a more compact hideousness.
Eventually there remains neither fine detailing nor any hope of
a pleasant surprise, only solid wood, a lathed baby,
a perfect metaphor for my round and complete
unhappiness. We shed our hope with our skin,
dead cells on the floor. Onions may be peeled
into nothingness even as they incite tears;
stories end with the narrator suspended by
the neck, chair kicked to the side, cares
misplaced, love slumbering soundly
somewhere on the east coast.
Blissful only in oblivion.
Strange as it may seem, I used to think
that joy could nest anywhere.
:iconsliverofciel:sliverofciel 19 6
Romancing Cotton
Someone told me that the balled-up almost was growing inside her like
a sapling, that soon the girl would be all swell and wet.  What she said
was, "don't leave". Her ego was a white sheet caught on a branch, the
type of fabric my mother treated with contempt. Frippery, beautiful
but impractical: keeping it alive was like trying to catch a bubble with
dry hands.
The wind carried the sickly smell of opium and morning sickness,
signals of a spring in which fingers like white spiders cradled
the beginning of bloom. Hope seemed at once skin-near and star-far.
What I offered her was not a marriage proposal, it was a murder
of crows slipping across the sheet of day. Union makes for ardour
and sweat. We were trying to build a body bereft of bones, with
phrases shaped like small sharp pins, like dove-fletched
arrows, like abandoned gods—relatively, you're
and there are always greater pains.
I assembled cribs, prayed to the god of broken things.
The future
:iconsliverofciel:sliverofciel 190 34


...I hope it finds you well! [/MLP reference]

Why hai thar! Yes, I am back online again. Sorry about the long, long wait. It's been a hectic time, as you can probably imagine. Term has finished and Christmas has been and gone, and I'm finally back home in the warm again. Such a relief, I can tell you. I needed a break.

The holidays so far have been good - I've actually been busy, for once. My cousins have recently moved down here from up north, and are now living only a couple of minutes away which is great - means we've been able to see them more times in a couple of weeks than we have in the last couple of years. I spent Christmas with them and tomorrow we'll celebrate the New Year together. Good times.
I've also been lucky enough to see my wonderful friends many times. I missed them like ker-azy over the last semester. It's been so nice to indulge in some proper DMC and tea-side chats again. There really is no one who can replace them. And we've also had a special reason to celebrate of late: my darling friend smicket has just got engaged!!! Do go congratulate her, she (and we all) couldn't be happier. :heart:

The rest of the time, I guess I've been writing essays. Managed to get the 4th one written today. It's been a bit of a slog - ok, a lot of a slog. I don't think my brain's ever felt more exhausted and resilient to writing than it does right now. Today's efforts were painful, to say the least. And I've still got one more to go. And then all the re-drafts to go through.
I'm starting to get super worried that the quality's not great - these are the first essays I've written that are actually going to count towards my degree. So it's super-scary-important stuff! It makes me want to cry just thinking about it... So wish me luck for getting through that!


I've made a start on replying to comments already, so rest assured I will get to yours at some point if I haven't already. Sorry about the super-late replies! I've been useless, it's true. And when I'm through replying, I'll get started on the deviations - you guys have certainly been keeping my inbox nice and full. I look forward to it. (:


Much love to you all, readers - I hope you've had a great Christmas-tide and that you all have a super-awesome New Year! :heart:
  • Listening to: Atavist - Otep
  • Reading: Re-Reading Harry Potter - Suman Gupta :D
  • Watching: Downton Christmas Special
  • Eating: Celebrations
  • Drinking: White Hot Choc


angel-in-pieces's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United Kingdom
broadcasting love and squalor since 1992~
(don't worry, even I don't understand me)

Sometimes, I write and leave the evidence here.

My glitch art account can be found here: girl-glitch



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Tuishimi Featured By Owner Aug 15, 2016
Hope all is well with you!
Vigilo Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2013  Student Writer
Happy birthday! I hope you have a great one! :party: :heart:
williamfdevault Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2013  Professional Writer
Happiest of birthdays!
katpissez Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2012
Hi. You're amazing <3. Bye.
Partack Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2012
A llama for your literature. you deserve it!
deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
Partack Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2012
Ugh.. i really rushed your doll..
i was so ashamed of being so lazy, i redrew it. sorry about that..
deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
Vigilo Featured By Owner May 2, 2012  Student Writer
Congratulations on the #EliteLiterature publication thing! You have no idea how stoked I am to be next to writers like you. :heart:
archelyxs Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2012
Happy birthday!! :heart:
LiliWrites Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday! :tighthug: I hope the coming year holds trial and triumph in equal measure. And lots of new writing, too! Cuz I'm greedy like that. :giggle:
Solarune Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2012   Writer
Happy Birthday! :la: Hope it's a fantastic one. :party:
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