riding the wave of a tilde
riding the wave of a tilde
English was my strength, not yours-- you fumbled your clauses and paused, pen poised, ink drippings flowing instead of words floundering on the sea of white and I would dive in, toss apostrophes like flotation aids, pull sentences (their syllables and structures gasping for breath) into line between the flags. I was always the one who crafted prose into snorkels and air tanks, while you provided me the raw materials, you were the hull; you were *my* hull, but where I thought you held equations and answers-- a surfboard, an ocean buoy balanced on the palm of your outstretched hand-- there was only an emptiness, swelling, and the rip that tugged you, silently tumbled you over, and back again under, tossed you deeper and further than my small love could carry. I never could swim, but vocabulary and punctuation wove me a raft. Now, like a slack-jawed fish, riding the wave of a tilde, I gape, mute; in the pages of your story, I am torn away, an afterword, an unnecessary post-script
a dream of striplings
a dream of striplings
stripped back, raw; the bark peeling, scarred knots and whorls so deeply etched i run out of layers before they are gone; above, a final cluster of leaves shiver where they grasp; a spindly twig, a withering branch, a goodbye that goes unnoticed until too late; the wind blows again, a heavy gust, and remnants of the last fruit, drop-- its seeds spill across concrete, split and shatter; scatter over shallow soil. stark against this bruised sky, i mourn alone; a barren tree.
90 Percent History and 10 Percent Flesh
90 Percent History and 10 Percent Flesh
Elizabeth wouldn't admit it,
not there in the light--that
the nicest thing someone ever said
to her was Mary's pronouncement--
no more drinking whiskey
from silver cups, the taste
tarnished with grief.
Thirty spans and two mothers
ululated, their bamboozled hearts
as barren as Yeshimon.
In another breath, all Zion wept,
thrashing, peeling layers
90 percent history and 10 percent
flesh-- two completely
different things, connected
by an exoskeleton of faith.
2 millennia later, this womb
betrays us both, and I am pouring
contamination into silver goblets--
Mary, motherhood was never meant to be
a love letter to an old flame.
Green grass and Funeral Blooms
Green grass and Funeral Blooms
A woman births
a tortoise,
all hard shell, and a hare,
long life, and steps all softness, and
s o s l o w. fast legs, and life
in fast-forward.
Nobody sees the others’ epitaphs, mother of a child
with disability; no
money for his care. with disability no
money eases.
Each writes on the other̵
recreation
recreation
i closed the gates
to this [mis]adventure park,
nailed boards solidly over three
shiny & carefully positioned
locks, and lamenting,
delivered twin ciphers
into the ocean. the third,
i carried home. traipsing
away, i vowed this was over, but
the consequence i kept
confined, encased in ice, called
my name too loudly. i de-boarded
the gates, unlocked the locks, slipped
back inside. later, i returned
the boards and re-fastened
the locks. i gave the key
to a passing magpie, then chased
it home to my freezer. i dug myself
a secret tunnel, and every
once in a while, i creep
along in the dark. if i must
allude to it, i call it my brief
sojourn, a l
Faerieland
Faerieland
At first the incursions were small. A couple of ears of corn here would go missing, or a small patch of potato wouldn't come to crop. Nobody worried overmuch - Mother Nature was always due her share of the harvest. Next, a lamb would go, or a calf. Still, nobody paid it much mind. Nature was ever a thief in the night.
Next, sheep and cows would disappear in the darkest hours. As the barrier weakened, They grew bolder and bolder. Night time disappearances turned to daytime thefts, and the people began to worry. They hustled the sheep in, they hustled the cows in, and they hustled each other inside. The old ways began to come back to them, as
The Perils of Parenthood
The Perils of Parenthood
When Eliyah and Marion were born, the first thing we did was to count their tiny fingers and toes. The second was to document, clearly, which twin was which -- a job which fell to me, the proud father. This was a more-than-usual necessity as the girls were identical mirror twins, and it struck me that it would not do for the new dad to be unable to confidently say, "this is Eliyah" or "you're holding Marion" when doting relatives questioned me.
Unfortunately, new dads are the second worst choice for such an important document (the worst, of course, being the mother, unrested and still in her delivery gown). The very first thing I did, post d
Soul Sale
Soul Sale
Xlitewqoafsns (pronounced "Bruce") squinted at me, thumb in maw.
"We're agreed then. In return for one pizza--"
"No, hold on," I interrupt. "You're not going to subvert this by giving me the wrong sort of pizza or something. I do know how this works, you know."
"Okay, okay." The demon looks lightly downcast and amends his speech. "In return for one Eagle Boys pizza of the variety, large, chicken hawaiian, you shall henceforth give your soul unto my keeping. Yes?"
I pause to consider loop holes before nodding my agreement. As soon as I do, Xlitewqoafsns whips out an iPad.
"Right. I just need to enter this, bear with me one mo-- oh, shit.
Spat Out
Spat Out
It's night. There's no movement in the desert air, nothing to suggest that this night is different from any other, and then it happens. The sand heaves. A moment later, all is still. There is no sign that anything has happened except the presence of a humanoid body that definitely wasn't there before.
It's a few moments before the thing sits up. It does so in a sudden movement, hands raised to protect its face. After a moment, the hands drop to the ground, which it scrabbles its fingers through. Sand pours through the digits while it watches and time passes.
Eventually, the thing tires of watching the endless fall of sand, and rises. It mov
Layers
Layers
She wore layers. I don't just mean her clothes, though she was well layered up in those. She'd come out in a hat, a backpack, an undershirt, an over-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and to cover it all, a giant flannelette top that wrapped around her like a hug; and then under all of that she hid the layers of her true self. When she talked, it was a whisper. When she laughed, her mouth quirked upwards and opened in a quiet huff of air.
Six months in, she was starting to thaw. A layer dropped -- her backpack fell from her shoulders and crumpled at her feet. At the same time, she started to talk. It wasn't much of a change, just a slight increase
See all
riding the wave of a tilde
riding the wave of a tilde
English was my strength, not yours-- you fumbled your clauses and paused, pen poised, ink drippings flowing instead of words floundering on the sea of white and I would dive in, toss apostrophes like flotation aids, pull sentences (their syllables and structures gasping for breath) into line between the flags. I was always the one who crafted prose into snorkels and air tanks, while you provided me the raw materials, you were the hull; you were *my* hull, but where I thought you held equations and answers-- a surfboard, an ocean buoy balanced on the palm of your outstretched hand-- there was only an emptiness, swelling, and the rip that tugged you, silently tumbled you over, and back again under, tossed you deeper and further than my small love could carry. I never could swim, but vocabulary and punctuation wove me a raft. Now, like a slack-jawed fish, riding the wave of a tilde, I gape, mute; in the pages of your story, I am torn away, an afterword, an unnecessary post-script
a dream of striplings
a dream of striplings
stripped back, raw; the bark peeling, scarred knots and whorls so deeply etched i run out of layers before they are gone; above, a final cluster of leaves shiver where they grasp; a spindly twig, a withering branch, a goodbye that goes unnoticed until too late; the wind blows again, a heavy gust, and remnants of the last fruit, drop-- its seeds spill across concrete, split and shatter; scatter over shallow soil. stark against this bruised sky, i mourn alone; a barren tree.
recreation
recreation
i closed the gates
to this [mis]adventure park,
nailed boards solidly over three
shiny & carefully positioned
locks, and lamenting,
delivered twin ciphers
into the ocean. the third,
i carried home. traipsing
away, i vowed this was over, but
the consequence i kept
confined, encased in ice, called
my name too loudly. i de-boarded
the gates, unlocked the locks, slipped
back inside. later, i returned
the boards and re-fastened
the locks. i gave the key
to a passing magpie, then chased
it home to my freezer. i dug myself
a secret tunnel, and every
once in a while, i creep
along in the dark. if i must
allude to it, i call it my brief
sojourn, a l
Green grass and Funeral Blooms
Green grass and Funeral Blooms
A woman births
a tortoise,
all hard shell, and a hare,
long life, and steps all softness, and
s o s l o w. fast legs, and life
in fast-forward.
Nobody sees the others’ epitaphs, mother of a child
with disability; no
money for his care. with disability no
money eases.
Each writes on the other̵
Artistry
Artistry
It was almost perfect. One or two more strokes were all that it would take, and as he finished preparing, the young King sighed with contentment and fatigue. He'd been at it for almost 12 hours this time, and his muscles were straining in protest, but he knew in his bones that it was worth it. Art, after all, was a skill that took time to master, and the King was determined to cultivate it in himself until he was the best in all the lands.
He stretched, his bones crackling along his spine and arms, then grasped the picture box provided by his Mage. "Hold still," he admonished his squirming models before giving the box its appropriate command
Clockwork Bond
Clockwork Bond
The large silver serving platter functioned nicely as a makeshift shield. She was wielding it thoughtfully, a rolling pin in the other hand as she imagined herself fighting off hordes of villainous gizmos, when Cook re-entered the room. "Isabelle!" The paunch woman, voice raised over the hissing steam and pounding pistons of the kitchen, was not happy. "Get on with your work, girl."
The stern admonishment loosened Isabelle's grip, and the platter crashed to the floor, spinning across its expanse like a giant coin. The rolling pin followed, slipping into the shadows and knocking into a tiny figure that quickly moved away. Isabelle flushed and
Makki
Makki
In a house across town, an old man sits on the sofa. He is on leave, and though he used to love his job, this time, he hasn't even noticed its absence. The paper bag beside him spills a dark stain across the faded fabric and he doesn't notice that, either. His eyes stare into last week even as the stain grows larger, threatening the trousers he hasn't taken off since Sunday twice gone. Echoes of a german shepherd's bark catch his attention, momentarily, and a smile lights up his face, only to slide away again immediately. The kennel in the corner mocks the man -- a tain in the wood reminds him of the bullet, and the emptiness is a heartbreak
devotion
devotion
we don't play board games or
date, we simply rest, pressed
close, a back arched
softly into a stomach,
an inverted comma promising
compromise, company
always, she sleeps early,
my head rests, pressed
to the pillow; i breathe
everything she is, promising
compromise, company
small prices-- her hair
rests, pressed to the sheets,
my arms a circle she still
misunderstands, the flick
of her feet; promising
compromise, company
in his absence, the most devoted
lover; in his presence, the most
gracious friend, banished
to the edge of the bed; her head
still rests, pressed to us, promising
compromise, company.
it takes a village
it takes a village
hathi struggles, the shaft
draws at her skin, swelling
with rainwater and sticky with mud.
hathi breathes, paddling
and scrambling, and nobody says
Darwinism, nobody says no.
we see only an infant.
we don't speak, we just move.
hathi tires and we are fist deep,
tunneling a new path,
an arrow to the jungle.
hathi breathes, heaves
herself aground, and nobody says
anything. we watch her leave.
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Quarantine
Quarantine
Leaves flood storm drains and gutters like former lovers retreating to the sea, leaves crowning every street crossing like crinkled blindfolds, former lovers retreating to see themselves as they were, once, eyes closed scattered along the landscape like storms my grandfather died last week appearing nonchalant, leaves in drains supplanting rain retreating to the sea, landscape scattered, storms of barren trees bearing air and isolation but what do trees know of grief, leaves flood sidewalks like strangers who know better than to be out this year, disposable masks scattered along the landscape as the viewing is today storms send pedestrians scrambling inside, shoes scraping against leaves like strangers searching for good news in their own reflections for lack of places to look amateur reporters sorting through the same four stories to share the most palatable the funeral is tomorrow words they can find among the trees, but what do trees know about grief except that more leaves
A Tiny Highland Coo
A Tiny Highland Coo
A tiny Highland Coo
did not know how to moo
he tried and tried
with all of his might
but all he could manage was “oo”
mother's day cards
mother's day cards
i hide regrets
in a bouquet of roses
sugar-sweet poetry pressed
between pages
written
by someone
who is not your daughter.
today you wished me a Happy Mother's Day
and i [ wished ] you one too
i wished that
i knew how to wish for you
that i knew how
to understand the black and white
it's how you see the world
and it's how
i see you
gray was never your color.
today is a good day
happiness is wished for and
achieved, i suppose
in some
small way
and i wish
that i could open my arms
and gather you in
take your pain and all the things
you've never told
anyone
but the truth is
i'm broken
and you're broken
and we don't know
how to be
bro
Space Man
Space Man
I am tracing all
your constellations
with galaxies tied
to my finger tips.
Stars behind your
blue eyes shimmer
like space dust
on a distant planet.
And you shoot by;
reaching for the
marbled black holes
in my soul.
Your space dust
mixes with my
star dust;
filling my
black holes
with glittering
gold.
the whiskey sagas
the whiskey sagas
He is a forest fire this time.
The earth rumbles in his wake
& I catch mother crying in the bathtub,
a hazy vision I don’t believe
exists outside of my dreams.
Her blues
& blacks
are all over.
We hold the dogs in our arms
& make the stake on our own bodies,
the very skins we wear,
the cosmetics in our suitcases,
hastily thrown together -
you don’t make a go bag
for going to grandmas &
he is a man.
He is a man.
.
He is a summer storm this time.
A child plays in this Arizona mud house
& we shore up the roof;
we know what’s coming.
But the rain is so gentle -
it is not like before.
I cup it in my palms,
noting the saltines
black sheep - napo day 25
black sheep - napo day 25
i. childhood
i am ten & think
i am too old for pretend
till you hop my fence
& demand my name--
you don’t give a shit that
it isn’t your yard.
my mother never knows your
name, but you speak hers
in reverence as you light a candle for her, for
(me)etings and departures
you are a wise and strange eleven,
maybe turning one
thousand and one, with a light
in your eyes i can’t
trust; sparks are always precursors
to fires. i am ten & i know enough
not to play with
matches.
(i do it anyways)
you throw yourself down
to stare in the doghouse,
where the fairies
braid mutt hair with shrieks
of laughter;
i can only see the
Spotlight
Artist // Hobbyist // Varied
- Jan 13
- Australia
- Deviant for 14 years
- dialecticdichotomy.blogspot.com.au/
- She / Her
Badges
My Bio
I've written this several times, apparently writing about myself is difficult. I caved and asked my partner to help.
30s -- female -- Aussie (Caboolture, Queensland) -- single -- diagnosed with mental illness -- mother to 2 butterfly children (angel babies), a furbaby (woof variety), and a finbaby (angel variety) -- weird/unique -- cheerful -- loving -- cheeky -- friendly.
I believe in a llama for a llama, but I don't watch people simply because they're watching me & I don't do fav-for-fav trades. Please don't feel obliged to fav my work or watch me just because I gave you a random llama/fav/comment/whatnot. Fav or watch me because you like my work by all means, though!
PS, a million, billion thank-yous to the wonderful SilverInkblot who made the pretty boxes for me.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
The Whitlams, Manic Street Preachers
Favourite Writers
Terry Pratchett
Other Interests
photography, writing, animals, children
2015 FFM Feature: Days 4 + 5
2015 FFM Feature: Days 4 + 5
Time for another FFM feature! :)
Day 4:
Day 5:
2015 FFM Feature: Days 1-3
2015 FFM Feature: Days 1-3
You guessed it, folks, it's FFM again! Apologies for my continued lack of presence here on dA except for this past week (which will extend into the rest of this month, but still be mainly limited to FFM related activities). I am well and reasonably happy most of the time, but I've started studying towards a Diploma of Counselling, and it takes up a lot of my energy. I'm thoroughly enjoying it, though, and finally making some local friends.
Anyway, onto the first of my FFM features for the year! I know there's a lot of works in here, but I do recommend you read as many as you can as these are the best of the best for each day.
Day 1:
Day 2:
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Happy birthday!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!
Thank you very much for your Llama!!
Thank you for watching me, I appreciate your support! 
Thanks for the llama! Here's one for you
Thank you for the fave! :)