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About Deviant Artist that's 'milady' to you.Female/Australia Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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Six Months
It's easy to write months and forget
the minutiae of minutes,
hours, seconds. Days.
It's easy to write six months on a page
and let them pass by - merely
the distance of one space
and nine letters.
It's easy to write
You will be gone for six months
and believe in the bridging power
of ink, paper, pixels,
spanning the concept of a sea.
But the reader knows that words are eternal,
time means nothing in a book,
and I do not have the luxury of living
within the page, beyond
the sluggish tick-over of time.
You will be gone for six months,
but really,
you will just be gone.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 7 12
The absence of silence
There is no call
for the absence of my voice.
Silence is spacious
and I am tucked into the corner.
I do not have ticking clocks
or a watch on my wrist;
it is easy to believe
I am not waiting
for anything to happen.
I am listening to notes that press fingers
into nerves. Melodies push buttons,
dialling the number for the room where
my heart lies, idle, gazing at blank plaster
and trying to find shadows
where there is no light.
Telephone music sounds all-too-often
like the voice that is supposed to be
at the other end.
Are there mockingbirds in the speakers,
or do they nest in my ribcage?
Sharp beaks tear at vital organs and
my heart is connected to my ears.
We are preoccupied
with colour and volume and sound,
measuring distance with words:
We are two 'I love you's apart;
The quiet is too much
like thunder; You shine
a bright gold, but the gleam has faded
by the time it reaches me.
The metaphors are too vivid -
distracting camouflage
for plain and unadorned truth.
Sometimes we for
:iconarliddian:arliddian 5 7
Your hair
You say I am silly to love
your hair (and I know sometimes you mean
to omit the last five letters).
But I have waited years
for hair that I can weave my fingers through
as joyfully as I thread them
through the rain after summer's thirst;
hair that I can sweep aside
as I do the curtains on my birthday,
revealing the gift long hoped-
yet unasked-for;
hair that I can tangle with my hands
the way I knot my fingers
into promises made with a child's
optimism, faith.
You say I am silly
to love your hair.
But I tell you I love you, and sometimes
I say it with five extra letters.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 5 9
I hurl raindrops at your chest
of earth. Gravity lends them weight –
they splatter; the dry dirt
is scattered.
You watch my eyes, the deluge pouring
from clenching skies. There is a storm
beating you, water doing its best to dent
your surface. Nothing grows
in soil so firmly fixed.
I do not know
how else to move you, mould you,
disturb and shape you.
I wish this was not what it takes:
a monsoon, a flood, so much water
-damage to re-form
your settled landscape.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 13
the beauty of stars
Last night I swept my hands through the sky
and pricked my fingers on stars.
Here. I will show you the holes
pierced and cauterised by points of light.
You look at me and I can see
myself, reflected in the dancing glimmer
of your eyes: all soft curves
and diamond smiles and skin like jasmine
or baby's breath. And you,
you are a constellation
or maybe an entire shimmering galaxy.
You touch my wounds
and I ask, did you know
that beautiful things
:iconarliddian:arliddian 4 6
Advice for the Timekeeper
Caressing an hourglass and counting
each grain of time-soaked sand
does not make the seconds
more precious, more poignant,
more perfect.
Throw away the clocks.
Time is nothing
with no-one to measure it;
Forever has no need
for a personal assistant.
Mathematicians are not magicians.
Stop taking note of the numerals on your wrist.
Do not watch my hands
as they circle your face.
Close your eyes. Hours can pass
in one kiss. It does not matter.
Forget preoccupations
with firsts and lasts: numbers
only tell us what we know and have known:
     We are here,
           we are now,
                we are together.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 4
Dental Work
I wear false teeth,
set in a white-washed grin:
my company teeth, for the business
of being with people.
You shake your head and your hands
form pliers, a chisel, a mallet.
You chip at my cemented smile, snapping
porcelain masquerading as bone.
Your lightest touch has the force
of a bird-laden, star-twirling fist.
I did not know it would hurt so much
to lose a part of me that never was
my self.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 4
The reality of flying
Your heart is pressed against
my shoulder-blades, the steady beat
of wings. I am no longer afraid
of gravity: together,
you and I are defiant
in the face of heights.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 6
What I am looking forward to
Boxes. Too many boxes, and not enough
time to arrange the furniture.
Arguments over the best place to put
the crockery, the television, my books,
your hands. Pressing my clothes, smoothing wrinkles
from your shirts with a second-hand iron.
Dishes, piled in the sink and waiting
for you. My lips, formed around words that are
sharp, like fingernails. Your eyes,
bright behind glasses and the pain of scratch wounds.
Choking on a mouthful of pride,
unable to swallow. Delayed forgiveness.
You, sulking. You, refusing to speak. You,
tousle-haired and bleary-eyed in the morning, still
sulking. Slamming the bedroom door and crying. Undressing
onions and crying. Leaning against your chest and
crying. Damp eyelashes and blotchy skin. Air warmed by
apologies, vibrating and humming. Shivering
gooseflesh where your palms cross my body.
Tying knots with fingers, tangles with limbs.
Falling asleep in your arms, the ring on
my left hand warmed by your skin.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 2 5
This heavy emotion, it is
something cold
and amphibious; unblinking, pulsing
voice steady in the rain as well
as under deserted skies.
It crawled over my chest. I tried
pushing it off, but webbed feet are sticky.
Change of tactics – ignorance
didn’t work; that rhythmic breathing
and damply throbbing skin proved too distracting.
I tried to kiss it
goodbye (fairytale transformation –
I hear it is most rewarding),
but as I leaned down it leapt
down my throat.
Now I cannot answer you
without choking. My words
must squeeze past,
slippery and pressed flat.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 5
This is a story about...
How heavy it is, all this wait
-ing. It is a book balanced on my
head, thick with a story
with two familiar protagonists
and a mystery plot,
adjusting my posture,
cautioning my steps.
After all this time, my straightened spine
is almost natural – and yet,
I long to set this story on the table,
stop carrying it and
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 2
This is how I love you...
By staring defiantly at passing cars,
face glistening under traffic lights
because you did not come.
Stopping at the top of the hill,
blinking at the moon like a TV genie
attempting to make you appear.
By trying to squeeze blood from
my pillow, like that is what it takes to
kill. By using scissors to hack
off my shadow and chase it away,
hoping it dogs you instead,
your own faded ghost.
By ignoring the part of your message that says
‘I’m sorry’, then crying because
you did not apologise. By touching my ribcage
and wondering if this feeling is
a heart attack, or something a little more
serious. A cave-in, or maybe a wormhole opening.
Staring at the part where you wrote
‘I love you’. By choosing to
shut my eyes and pretend I’m
all alone. Laughing because I know
I’m not.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 4 4
I think you could be an artist,
the kind who brings imagined worlds to
life in finger-paints.
You trace my skin with your hands,
eyes intent and studious
as if, when you are alone,
you could close your eyes and draw
me into the room.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 9
Fear of flight
With gingered fingers, I touch your shoulders,
afraid they might erupt with wings.
What use is the love of a girl
to a bird; the gravity-bound
to the sky?
:iconarliddian:arliddian 5 6
First touch
You push back my layers:
hands pin the curtain of my hair,
lips part lips. This is the first
touch: our very centres brushing,
the sudden meeting of teeth,
bone to bone. And there it is,
the fabled electricity that crackles through
future lovers, tingling
from the first fleeting contact of hands.
The spark is soothed by your well-known tongue,
your well-loved mouth lingering on familiar paths
that now seem so new.
Our skeletons touch again,
no longer strangers.
:iconarliddian:arliddian 3 2
Inside the bowl of your hands, there trembles
my pulse, wound tight with a tangle
of teartracks and ink lines and feather-tipped quavers,
bookmark-ribbon and silver crucifixes,
the swirling curves of fresh-healed scars.
Cracked and chipped, so fragile
a vessel, you are too delicate.
The ends of me could slip out, unravel
through your finger-spaces; my heartbeat could drip
like ice cream – so cold, a useless mess on the floor.
But the One who set the rhythm of my blood
is holding together your fissured surface,
covering over your fractures,
smoothing your jagged edges with His fingertips.
If you were to split apart, I would fall
into His whole, unbroken hands.
Inside the bowl of your hands, inside
the cup of His, there rests
my heart:
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 4

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my breath hopped with smoke that surged from lips
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But then it was no longer okay --
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In the speaker hole, there were yellow worlds burping out their wispy woes.
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                   we peered at them --  with a telephone wire gushing out of our clavicles.
                   The TV screen bled like a pomegranate,
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Eight Kisses
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innocent, surging
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that's 'milady' to you.
Current Residence: the sunshine state
Favourite cartoon character: Daria
Personal Quote: Listen to what I mean, not what I say
  • Reading: Rhubarb - Craig Silvey
Well, hello. It's been a while, hasn't it?

1. I wrote a poem. It is the first complete poem I have written in over a year.

2. There are poem-pieces in my old pink notebook, and I am thinking that I need to create the rest of the pieces so that they can be whole. This may or may not be one of those ideas that never take flight.

3. I have been in a relationship for one year, ten months and sixteen days. If we're lucky, it will keep going until I've lost the ability to count.

4. Doctor Who (the revival) is the only television shows that I feel particularly motivated to collect on DVD.

5. Holidays are even better when spent enjoyably productively.


Add a Comment:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner May 11, 2013   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
arliddian Featured By Owner May 11, 2013
Thank you! <3
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner May 11, 2012   Writer
happy birthday!!!
arliddian Featured By Owner May 12, 2012
Thank you muchly, Shane! xo
samanthalindholm Featured By Owner Jul 1, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Hi! I tagged you in this journal entry: [link]

You may have to scroll down a bit to find the "Tagged" heading, but now it's your turn if you'd like to do it! Have fun :)
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner May 11, 2011   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
arliddian Featured By Owner May 11, 2011
Thank you!! :)
ZombiesAteUs Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2010
thank you for the :+fav: on false transmissions!
arliddian Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2010
It was my pleasure. :)
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2010   Writer
thanks for the :+fav: on untitled

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