AzizrianDaoXrak's avatar
I am the Merlin, and he is me.
348 Watchers68.5K Page Views675 Deviations
T
Too Thick for Breathing
Thunderstorm kicks up dust, clears nothing away
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I am a weather system waiting to happen
Made with all the tenderness of igneous rock I am hale and healthy and cautious keep my heart rhythms in my magma folds, my rhizomes of earthen heat stretch only spires of hot air skyward unseen until they set the dust devils dancing
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Spring
branches choked with wisteria elegy in purple and pollen
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Haven't We Always
Her hands quiver uncontrollably over the page, eyes fixed on the words. Footsteps in the hallway bring her back to herself. Scrambling, she shoves the book back inside the cupboard and clicks the lock closed. A hand jiggles the door latch and the young woman throws herself under the nearby bed, shuffling aside old shoes and a trunk. The door opens. Ma Doran bustles in, cracking open her doctor's case. The jostling of glass signals an exchanging of empty vials for fresh ones. The young woman under the bed hardly dares breathe. More footsteps ring in the hallway. Both women glance toward the door. The doctor sweeps a low curtsy. "Majesty." The
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Necromancer: Exile Pitch - WIP
When Aderyn Dovan's family is assassinated, the girl begins training to avenge their deaths and reclaim her kingdom under the protection of the Order of the Kinsguard. But the whispered return of an ancient evil may Aderyn and her guardian knight Rurik know that the dragon attack was no mere chance - her family was assassinated. Now, the whispered return of an old evil brings a warning: war is returning to the Three Hundred Kingdoms, and to defend those she loves Aderyn will have to harness the same rare magical gift that got her family killed. Necromancer Exile: Chapter 1 Necromancer Exile: Chapter 2 Necromancer Exile: Chapter 3
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Woman God, Quiet Sun
i have become rounder jiggling broad buttocks wide-set breasts satisfying me selfish and sexual in a way that doesn't whisper of children women gods dwell in my solar plexus fire my chill steady womb clutch my breasts as theirs inhabit my blood spread my fingers we spin together how do i run my fingers through the hair of this power that is mine how do i teach this fire chant feather words searing breath give you my ashen throat swallow without swallowing to spit out all you who are in my care and keeping my saliva sanctifies gives curse and charm i move shadow and light together empty of all separation and yet separate facing each othe
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The Knight Who Was a Rabbit
Surana's father, Agni, held aloft a piece of paper crossed with neat folds and latticed with fluid script. Ryn, looking to Surana herself for guidance, saw that her friend's shoulders had slumped. "Papa..." she began wearily, but the man cut her off. "I have in my possession all the clues to illuminate this mystery!" Agni declared with relish. His wife Chanda heaved a sigh and moved forward to restrain her husband. "My dear, there is no mystery. Surana has chosen--." An imperious hand silenced the woman. "Allow me to explain." With a flourish, Agni spread the letter on the kitchen table. Surana, with apologetic looks to her companions, m
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In Autumn I Have Opened My Wings
Ghostly and more elusive than the spirits who come to me seeking counsel: confidence evades me. I better understand the dead. Cliffs still define me - distance of air between me and rocky teeth - still I love the fall, long for its lover's arms. *** In autumn I celebrate the coming of death's season. Glory in its wildfire whiteness, its cold cleansing. Winter Queen, come, kill the self that was. *** This is a prayer of strength to myself: I rise with autumn sun, rise to join my carrion-sisters picking flesh from my body to find buried earth-bone swords. I rise ash-rich and blackened, light enough now for the danger of the breeze,
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See all
T
Too Thick for Breathing
Thunderstorm kicks up dust, clears nothing away
1
3
I
I am a weather system waiting to happen
Made with all the tenderness of igneous rock I am hale and healthy and cautious keep my heart rhythms in my magma folds, my rhizomes of earthen heat stretch only spires of hot air skyward unseen until they set the dust devils dancing
0
5
S
Spring
branches choked with wisteria elegy in purple and pollen
2
4
H
Haven't We Always
Her hands quiver uncontrollably over the page, eyes fixed on the words. Footsteps in the hallway bring her back to herself. Scrambling, she shoves the book back inside the cupboard and clicks the lock closed. A hand jiggles the door latch and the young woman throws herself under the nearby bed, shuffling aside old shoes and a trunk. The door opens. Ma Doran bustles in, cracking open her doctor's case. The jostling of glass signals an exchanging of empty vials for fresh ones. The young woman under the bed hardly dares breathe. More footsteps ring in the hallway. Both women glance toward the door. The doctor sweeps a low curtsy. "Majesty." The
0
7
N
Necromancer: Exile Pitch - WIP
When Aderyn Dovan's family is assassinated, the girl begins training to avenge their deaths and reclaim her kingdom under the protection of the Order of the Kinsguard. But the whispered return of an ancient evil may Aderyn and her guardian knight Rurik know that the dragon attack was no mere chance - her family was assassinated. Now, the whispered return of an old evil brings a warning: war is returning to the Three Hundred Kingdoms, and to defend those she loves Aderyn will have to harness the same rare magical gift that got her family killed. Necromancer Exile: Chapter 1 Necromancer Exile: Chapter 2 Necromancer Exile: Chapter 3
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2
W
Woman God, Quiet Sun
i have become rounder jiggling broad buttocks wide-set breasts satisfying me selfish and sexual in a way that doesn't whisper of children women gods dwell in my solar plexus fire my chill steady womb clutch my breasts as theirs inhabit my blood spread my fingers we spin together how do i run my fingers through the hair of this power that is mine how do i teach this fire chant feather words searing breath give you my ashen throat swallow without swallowing to spit out all you who are in my care and keeping my saliva sanctifies gives curse and charm i move shadow and light together empty of all separation and yet separate facing each othe
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57
T
The Knight Who Was a Rabbit
Surana's father, Agni, held aloft a piece of paper crossed with neat folds and latticed with fluid script. Ryn, looking to Surana herself for guidance, saw that her friend's shoulders had slumped. "Papa..." she began wearily, but the man cut her off. "I have in my possession all the clues to illuminate this mystery!" Agni declared with relish. His wife Chanda heaved a sigh and moved forward to restrain her husband. "My dear, there is no mystery. Surana has chosen--." An imperious hand silenced the woman. "Allow me to explain." With a flourish, Agni spread the letter on the kitchen table. Surana, with apologetic looks to her companions, m
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R
Ruminations on a Fallen Star, Not Yet Fallen
     A priori: Though I am not in love yet, I will be. I remember how our eyes will meet; you will see the green stars in my eyes for what they are. I am afraid. 1. I am star-crossed, tattooed and traversed; my clumsy limbs build a bridge of my belly for the constellations to write their paths onto my pounding heart. Some days these star charts are a chain link fence across my body and on others—I can trace your name in the lines between my stars, not the name you bear now but the true one I have always known, the one that is for me. 2. Nostalgia is always poetic, but the blood memories are harder to pinpoint; they do not catch like b
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D
Dead Bird Heart
I never noticed the way ash looks like feathers. I become aware of the shores where my body folds to meet itself, doubles over so that my hair seems to grow like roots into the ground keeping me from ever lifting my head again. Of all the things she told me, she missed this one: what to do with the ashes. Hers is a dead bird heart— grey-haired and grey-feathered. She is paler than she has any right to be, ashen— But her eyes are open, and she can see the sky where a roof once was.
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Sijo for the Snake I Am and the Mouse I Will Be
By noon, I’ve forgotten how to breathe; so to learn again I glide, bend but do not break grass blade backs to watch him work, feel my girlhood sloughed like a snakeskin in the reeds, see my womanhood like a mouse.
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Santa Fe de Bogota
Simón Bolívar found you como una Flor de Mayo. I know that in your swelling city heart you long por el mar, por la sal del mar, but instead you straddle the roads, hunker down over your landscape and breathe your car fumes, inspiras las fumas como sombras, espiras tranquilidad inquieta. Colombia, madre, you have become bloated in your old age, have grown your ankles, pálidos e inflamados; you should have been a sea lion, morena y rapida y a la cresta como la espuma. Mi alma, I will bring you the sea salt to run through your hair, diamonds with which to crown your mane.
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Totems and Godhood
i. As a child, confronting giants. I take the pine tree as my totem, learn to love the nakedness of its nether-regions and its northerly fibers stretched and waiting for the weft to its warp. Girlhood is still a part of me as the learning what I am. In the end, I haven't climbed a tree in a long time; I am small, and scared, and ringed round with walls, and I beg the moon to teach me to use my pine trees as a ladder. ii. In the way only young love can. You, sir— you are pine chips, and I carry you like a fetish in my mind. You are the first vampiric sweetness to suck the breath from my body: unknowing, the feeling of ye
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Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back
   1.  I say nothing I am thinking. For twelve years I have wanted to do exactly this, but suddenly pronouncing my own name calls up the question of who it belongs to in the same breath Like Solomon I was born a singer but in the wrong key and my chords will not carry me, will not summon the wolves to me only packs of hungry dogs stupid with domestication but nearly feral And like a hungry ghost I have learned not to speak against those who will give me food   2. A sketch of myself.                       He says I must have been born in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy, and sud
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I
I Have No Names for all My Teacup Babes
I feel always like I am starting over. As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow, bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me, to call the next dream-face forward—a picture painted in the tea leaves. But truth be told the start-again is never clean, is never gentle, and the sweat of all that labour is a fire on my skin, telling me I will never resist its wind-cry. The moon comes when I call, to help me; midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves like the babes they are, teaches them to fill long footsteps like hers. Truth be told, I tire of the destiny I was given once—I am a teacup
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Aphrodite's Dissertation
The sound of catamarans upon the foam, the march of cavalry and weary knights who lay their bodies down are coming home to linens drying like a hundred kites; if not for love, what force are sword and chain that they may honor empires with their call, if not for me, they all have died in vain and made of Troy the laughingstock for all. Indeed, your chamois shirts and littered socks, the tender cartilage of tambourines, unfinished wine, and little jew'llery box, and dual hemispheres of nectarines— belong to me alone in my design: the air you breathe, your everything, is mine.
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Van Gogh
Slip into the first vestige of morning, the blush of a summer's day already aglow along you— your silhouette glistens, an aureole of molten gold as sunflowers puddle at your feet.
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Lingerie
Every woman owns one garment that remains tucked away, saved for special occasions when it will be seen. It is almost always midnight black, or blood red, and covered in lace, or made of mesh, soft and delicate as the skin it covers. Such things should be hidden, lest the owner be labeled as something other than "lady." It has a power we can't control, one that transforms denim and cotton clad ragdolls into Barbies, perfectly proportioned plastic, smooth and flawless hourglasses that turn on command. We groan and flinch as satin strings pull us apart and together, and heartstrings are plucked as we scrutinize our reflection; we are not
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f
fumes
the  talk        of           my                            heart                                          unfurls,                                                        wisps                                                           of        smoke                                                    tangled in my          voice,                                                  strangled along your         chest;                                                    tonight we spend our seconds                                                        deliquescing our desires                                                            i
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O
On Ariadne
the loom of lust: In the heart of your ears, and till your outstretched feet the spinner of mad red has corrupted, her fingers like dragonflies threading bark and twined grass into your hair around your sure wrists, your angled feet 'this is love, my shining bride-to be,' you whisper, and disappear with her among billowing black sails. the abandonment of Ariadne: He wooed you in a labyrinth of spinners, and wed you in black sails, beneath jealous skies. 'Sleep and tomorrow you shall be Queen of Athens,' Ariadne, sleep, tomorrow the sun will shine, and the sea will ebb sympathetic away from these deserted sands. the death, or descent: Spin,
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Voices from Saginaw, MI: 1952-1974
                Dad would ask so many questions                            I hated interpreting for him                         hands stuck on refrain                   it wasn’t that my parents were deaf        but that other parents could hear                    I found that strange                        we had to move                        our bodies to speak                there was no yelling down the hall                   dinner table laughter                left Dad wondering                         we spent our time                   repairing words with our hands                    we were a family of mechanics          
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A
A Lake to Bloom like Tadpoles in June
that was the evening, I walked straight into the ocean, not for want of drowning, I just couldn't have told you where the horizon started or ended, I just couldn't have told you why I stood there searching, not for want of burning, the skyline dripping fire, I just couldn't have told you; you slept straight through the morning, I spilled myself like fire across the ocean, I lost myself and found the beginning of the horizon, ending; that was the morning, I walked straight into the ocean.
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arohanui, whaea
my mother is growing up; she left home a year ago, (bless her soul!) off on the ol’ o.e. she's trying to find herself in the big cities, a dream to live in, a new adventure - she's shucking off the links that shackled her to whanau. the chains, they left her welted but she’s gotta heal somehow. my mother is growing up; there were taniwha in her closet, lurking, just behind the picket fence she'd always thought she wanted, and there were hollows in the lover's eyes where once lay her ever-after. my mother made a plan to break the plans she'd realised, she left behind her all the aches and pains that home had well- disguise
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NaPoWriMo 2019 18: Begonia
You wake up exhausted on the couch not knowing what latest hurricane has stranded you there. A parade of dishes pulls you to alertness. Mushroom cream spaghettini. Fizzy water in goblets dipped with cherries. Lured to the kitchen by the spice scents, you park your boots up the counter for a quick cigarette. Punctuate the billowed clouds with scoops of affogato. When Uncle stops by for a drink, you flick the stick under the sink, smiling stiffly at the mirrored glimpse of two trashfires on his glasses. The first triggers your asthma and the smoke alarm. The second shares your name, wears your face.
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xvii. i think my second home's soon to be a clinic
i guess this is a good place to feel sick. my heart-rate is beating too fast and i know it, 112 bpm in the pit of my stomach and it won't stop there. they ask me questions and i lace lines with confessions void of lies, utter words strung together i never thought i'd confide to another soul. met with sympathy eyes and coaxed into making promises i'm not sure i can keep. (i will try). they hold you accountable for me and i don't like that. your eyes waver away but still you stay. i can't imagine the strength it takes to be strong enough for the both of us. (one day i will repay you for this but i'm not sure today can be that day).
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adrift
and perhaps both of my languages will forever taste foreign on my tongue. stubbornly, I have always refused to stop at either shore for more than one day and now, I am adrift on a temporary in-between land I crafted for myself. the ocean isn't always forgiving - but there are encounters that would not happen without the storm. (and perhaps I am not a person meant to have an anchor after all.)
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How to spend it
If we are able to choose how we spend eternity, I would pick that moment in autumn when you came to my apartment from the beach, the smell of wind on you as you ran in laughing and fell on your back, breathless across the carpet, asking me to come back out with you into all of it. This time I would go.
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the bard and the changeling princess
when i look at you sometimes i think of decay - not the carcass but the faerie fungi and bell flowers prismatic as cut amethysts, if eyes are windows to the soul yours must be devastating yet i thought i'd like to build a home in the forest from the salvage of our bones also growing labyrinths of poison ivy and oak trees, and always, we'll find each other there.
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(gotta) s l o w d o w n
you make me want to prove myself in a way that has me throwing myself into a pack of wolves daring them to tear me apart, while doing a great job of that myself (the things I can convince myself of you wouldn't believe)            I cannot have your lips                        or your hands                        or your stories not all to myself, and it makes me want to hunt down lips and hands and stories with brutal cruelty; I never collected trophies before, but suddenly I want to mount strangers on my wall (and I know; this is the disappointment, this is wanting to run away from what I feel from these wounds I'm tired of licki
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Spotlight

D
Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back
   1.  I say nothing I am thinking. For twelve years I have wanted to do exactly this, but suddenly pronouncing my own name calls up the question of who it belongs to in the same breath Like Solomon I was born a singer but in the wrong key and my chords will not carry me, will not summon the wolves to me only packs of hungry dogs stupid with domestication but nearly feral And like a hungry ghost I have learned not to speak against those who will give me food   2. A sketch of myself.                       He says I must have been born in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy, and sud
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xtcgm's avatar
Thank you for favouring "The Wreck".
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oviedomedina's avatar
Thank you for the favorite!
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Lissomer's avatar
Lissomer|Hobbyist Writer
Thank you <3
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AzizrianDaoXrak's avatar
You are welcome!
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Mike-the-dabbler's avatar
What type of fandoms do you like?
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AzizrianDaoXrak's avatar
Lots! I love LOTR, Harry Potter, lots of anime, Overwatch, Destiny 2...
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WindMeister8's avatar
thank you for the fav~ :glomp: I really appreciate it! :D

please do check out my other works (poetry, prose, stories) if you're interested! XD
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