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Literature
june 17th, 2008
i remember lying on my back, feeling the roughness of the couch
and the clicking time all around me, counting off the seconds until
the evening (night?) (day?) would come to  an end, and i, i would embark
on a new journey, giving up on what had come before.
and as we slept, all of us, except me i guess (when did i ever sleep?)
i listened to the music, and the repetition surged through me, as if
i could take it and squeeze it into a tube of toothpaste, making my teeth
all shiny and every glance a lightning-struck instant of unadulterated
emotion. that music, and the sleepwalking, and the ticking, and waking up
before anyone else to go outside and breathe the air; the enormity of the photograph
on the wall, the way that all transcendence comes from every angle to eat you up
and spit you out (are you chastened? are you glad? are you new & improved?).
and should I have said something different? should i have gone inside, woken him up,
and poured my heart out? the dream says yes,
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Literature
If there is such a thing.
the contemporary ages
& what was once in tune
no longer sounds so true.
your realities are corrupted,
your desires unheralded,
your feelings somehow
out of touch.
to need love is to need that
certain kind of pain,
and to transcend importance
is to make a smaller incision;
my own training allows for some hesitation,
but you wait, my name on the tip
of your tongue,
my love something locked up and hidden
with precision.
our connection is tenous and uncertain,
our skin is in shambles,
undone by whatever it is that cuts up
these small moments,
and puts them in a box labeled
"untrue".
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Literature
university.
Since I was a fool,
and I could be even more than what I am pretending now -
this punctuality getting a little old,
but I'm late to death (it's a class I'm taking),
or life (or maybe both,
I'm failing), and that last semester,
how did I screw it up? That's right,
there was no paying attention,
I was too busy writing about life,
but this isn't a class you can fail,
except I'm doing it now, I've always
been doing it, always will,
and now as I stare at your hand, God,
truth seems so fragile and useless,
but you, blithe and laughing,
hoping to be something you're not,
or was that me, once again I confuse the two,
don't get me wrong - egotistical is
not an adjective that applies, but when there
is no you, you have to put something in place of it,
and my first person, well you should see it just to get an idea
of what I'm accomplishing; I'll tell you right now
exactly what it is that I'm doing, because God and me,
we're friends, and even though I'm failing his class,
it's ok,
because we all
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Literature
Death
Sometimes when I am alone in my bedroom
the window opens of its own accord,
allowing wondrous winds to blow through,
teaching me of hope and the lack thereof.
I know that when I whisper, there is a chance
you will not hear me, but risks are always
the best way to go - no matter how far you have
to travel, love is just ten feet behind. And if I
could be so close, I would, but I am not as
fortunate, I am not what you want me to be,
even as I write these words, this vapid dream
takes place again. Even as I wake up, as the stars
string themselves back together, back in time, back in truth,
except now it is acceptance, I fade away; we believe we are honest,
we believe that our kindness is all encompassing, and yet
our self-aggrandizement is starting to seem a little old,
and yet I still write, I still try and explain what is happening
around me, because you are near, and you are not love -
this strange phenomenon seems to hold in its clutches
something close to me; it is strange, beautiful,
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Literature
No star can hold this.
I try to refrain from asking unimportant questions, but life goes on and I lie down to catch myself before I fall asleep. Don't try and give me the comeuppance speech - every time I laugh, you're in the mirror. A reflection does no better, and here's no great matter: love, in a (recalci)trance, is no different. I suppose you are when I insert myself into your paranoia, your transient era of truth and the lack of truth. Where am I in this vortex? Where am I in this perpeptual incubus? Alone, with longing; and you, with hope.
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Literature
writings fantastic
he leapt in car that went too fast but i speed
and you are jumping up and hopping down and sun's
too close to winter and i leap. up down all around the drink
is feeling lonely too much, too often, and oh it looks
so nice it won't mind. you won't make a difference if i ignore the second call just dial phone forget and again it won't happen tomorrow i already forgot
Remember what they said?
On the phone inside your head,
there is a well-spring delight
that makes men bold and women weep
behind the wheel of the car
or while you sleep
it trickles, tickles, tick-tocks inside.
Where do you go when it's time to hide,
beyond graves and between valleys
or in the pastures on mountain alleys
twixt the tween, making a scene en vogue
round the rockets do do ramble
betwixt the thights the mice do scramble
ready, not - say on say alot
it depends on what words you use
to beckon those who speak not.
there are bits and pieces of you i keep rescuing from the curb that borders these open roads.
i've never
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Literature
THE NIGHT
i.
a family takes a safety pill
for you can never be too sure
who's coming around the corner, late at night,
when the streetlights turn off,
and your faces are hidden
in velvet darkness.
ii.
the horses ride out to midnight
that lonesome place where
phone calls draw landscapes
and television drowns you,
where radios start stuttering,
calling out names that don't exist
except in those minds who end their
dreaming with a click
iii.
my name is no longer
in its entirety existing,
like a machine doll
i am in hurting mode
please turn the lamplight
to a minimum amount.
iv.
this is a dark tower
the rain pouring like
it's still summer, but
we know better
than to turn off the lights,
we know better
than to turn on
that record player
v.
my computer is
singing your song
and i am listening
a little too closely
to choruses strung
out on optic fibers
glowing with an unlight
that is somehow all
a part of this
vi.
life is an accident
waiting to happen
a burst of sound
that envelops all
and humbles
no on
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Lago by Dark0Dark Lago :icondark0dark:Dark0Dark 1 9 Down by Dark0Dark Down :icondark0dark:Dark0Dark 1 9 Where The Alps Begin by Dark0Dark Where The Alps Begin :icondark0dark:Dark0Dark 0 5 Locarno by Dark0Dark Locarno :icondark0dark:Dark0Dark 0 5
Literature
socialite
We sit outside as morning breaks,
a supple sunrise cracking our backs,
worn leather like in motorcycle fashion.
Run away, why don't you,
and sing songs of what is left to fear:
summer as a literary device
("The change of seasons
is like my emotional state,")
"a cliché" my professor
says.
No one can say no to my university look,
strung out on whispered breezes
autumn in new england, our fathers paid the way;
Snobbery in a beautiful
and transient
sense of the word,
as in:
we love you but not enough to cry
as in:
we smile but want to see you high.
My poems rhyme with such a socialite fashion,
populist writer that I am,
maybe I'll make it in the Big Apple,
become strung out on Broadway kicks,
crying for the audience - adorned
as a cashmere sweater:
no more evenings as a lover at martha's vineyard,
drinking coffee even under the circumstances.
Don't try to forget me while you write your screenplay,
Hollywood as a plot device:
you left me, a cliché.
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Literature
allen
so as I am sitting here
wondering about
walt whitman and sickness
and the way the future was like a hand,
I want to know
that some things
are still beautiful,
some people
still try and not give up
it's hard
but we don't.
no one seems like you,
to capture the rage
and set the spirit free--
over now,
never again
i won't sit around here
waiting for something to happen
but i'll still wait for you
the only thing i'm good at anymore--
every poem i write seems to fail.
and good riddance towards it all
we can't try any further
you did it all.
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Literature
anxious laughter people
i
an anxious laugh:
parasite wanderer,
weighted by false dreams
less is more the creep and
no one is more terrible & enormous
than you. now's not the time
to romance with the hanged,
the blinded dead
innocence proclaimed for no glories
family threshold release me, release
me. and in some ways some day I
will overcome it, this disease afflicting
neither past nor present, nor future
unless the time is every meaning
that is not a meaning without a meaning without meaning to i meant it;
without trying to I am in cambodia
learning buddhist ritual pocket-picking
every last londoner, coming upwards
the east the east o powerful east
rising above
no this is not it yet but it can't be it yet and this has turned into the typical stream
of consciousness above everything
and no one;
crumble like your happiness formulaic divine people power truth like the trees after dawn
rising up trying to kill the sun as it comes like morning glory negative affliction I am cannot
be anymore by this than before
an
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Literature
primal and simple and absolute
the primal nature shuts down
and my fangs pull out
a wolf in human clothing:
no one can tell the difference:
the more dangerous?
everything is a lie
and the human mind
is a kind
of machine cruel reality blitz stupor towards
a realization that if this is untitled
then if anything is without a name
it won't click
in my mind
my beautiful terrible mind
and if i can think these thoughts
then who knows what could come next?
i don't want to think about these words
for as i write them they need to disappear
it will only reveal itself in due time
if i force it
if we force ourselves to learn to understand
as if it would ever work anyway
but especially now
it couldn't
we have to transcend something at least
we have to learn that the symbol
is the reality
and then when that happens
we have to accept it
if we don't learn that everything is as it seems
that everything is as deep as you want it to be
the search will never end
something good sometimes
but now it becomes
a search for nothing
our dreams
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Literature
feels like love
I want your little bones—
Spread out in a circle of sacrifice unmade,
I want you to realize what they've done—
When you become the past,
What happens to the future?
And this is of course exactly what you did,
What they did,
A crackle of pain and a sunset drop
Time machine blow up this class is a waste of time
And then I say
And then I Saw
The light:
A passing futuristic tendril sneaking its
Way onto highways left alone
As we come up to something more
And this is not what it seems
This is not what it means
And I don't mean it to be any more
Because your face that night
And your actions and the
Actions of others and the sneaking profiles
It all comes together in a rush of understanding,
A toothache never ending
That makes you want to go to the dentist
But not so fast
Because he could be in on it too
I just realized
People lie
And you're a person—
I guess
Sometimes
I am too
So in passing
I love you
I love you
My mother
My father
They come towards me wondering what the problem is and I do
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Favourites

Literature
On Love
Last semester I had a frat boy for a roommate.
His name was Jason.
Almost every other night, it seemed, Jason would
stumble into our room with a brand new
girl and have sex with her on our futon.
Most of the times I would still be wide awake,
writing a paper or just sitting on my computer,
though that never stopped him.
I began to observe that the girls he brought
into our room were always at least twice his size,
and so drunk they could barely string together
enough syllables to tell me their name, which really
didn't matter, because I knew that neither I nor Jason
would ever speak to them again.
But one afternoon, out of concern for all parties
involved, I brought my observations up to Jason.
He was shocked, and responded condescendingly,
"It's not always about looks, Sonny. It's about
what's on the inside."
It's been six months since he said this, and
I'm still trying to figure out just what, exactly,
he meant.
:iconrailroadearth6:railroadearth6
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BLEED JUST TO KNOW YOURE ALIVE by frail BLEED JUST TO KNOW YOURE ALIVE :iconfrail:frail 51 25
Literature
Five Two-Line Poems
Biosophistry
Your muscles are the lies
your bones believe.
Abandonment
Hold yourself close
Like a preschool juicebox
Bob Dylan
Your name should be a verb
no one uses correctly.
Self-Destruction
My hand twitches
now, and I can't paint.
Old Habits
The flapping, torn edge
on the hang-glider of time.
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several big bangs by saintvitus several big bangs :iconsaintvitus:saintvitus 3 4 Untitled 22 by moosekleenex Untitled 22 :iconmoosekleenex:moosekleenex 101 40
Literature
A Part
Without her, I spend my days.
From one look at her,
I vanished in the haze.
And now I am gone from who I was,
Gone from who I now am, knowing
That she is gone too.
I spend lifetimes falling
In love with the me who I was
That can no longer be.
I spend my time, falling in love
With a part of myself
That never will return.
:iconjustb:justb
:iconjustb:justb 1 22
parana sunset viejaaa by kiw parana sunset viejaaa :iconkiw:kiw 3 3 Debris Of Past by bestfuture Debris Of Past :iconbestfuture:bestfuture 18 86 Misunderstanding by SteavieLea Misunderstanding :iconsteavielea:SteavieLea 37 50 TempleCon Logo by XimonDunedain TempleCon Logo :iconximondunedain:XimonDunedain 1 4
Literature
untitled: tenement
I do not wait up the hours, listening;
The neighbors downstairs
have their TV growling all day and night.
Expletives crawl along my floors,
I fear they will dig under my skin.
The windows rattle in the wind. Last night
it was twenty degrees outside, not much warmer inside
either. I check the thermometer:
Thirty-seven.
Bills are due tomorrow,
I think they multiply in secret. I have lost
my pen again; I write my letter out in crayon.
Dear mom, I know I told you the same thing last
week but can you lend me some more money?
I promise I'll pay it back, you know I
always do. Love, Shannon.

Finished, I wad it up and throw it away.
             My mother died when I was five.
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Activity


deviantID

Dark0Dark
is being woken.
United States
Current Residence: metro detroit
Favourite genre of music: indie rock
MP3 player of choice: iPod (I conform to nonconform)
Personal Quote: all good things must come to an end / the bad ones just go on forever
Interests
  • Listening to: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
  • Reading: V. \ Thomas Pynchon
  • Watching: Freaks and Geeks
I miss you guys. Love is such a tender thing sometimes, and I just feel...

Never mind. I was lazy; I pretended life was somehow going to get better. Poetry became a pastime. Hint: it's not.

So here I am once again, letting everyone sneak a peek into the mind of a pretentious, angsty teenager who tries to overachieve way too often.

Love?
yeah



New York calling
at the bottom of the ocean city gritting its teeth
but there's no telling
from the telepathic Mrs. Crying on live TV
Whoah the misanthropic topical arrangement
that is met with a shark bite by the terminal patient
That's me
Am I late?

That's the state of my story
and it may be one day something complete
At the end of the quarry
I have dug a hole for all the world to see
A cannonball as big as the ocean could come from the sky
and slap us all on the feet
but there's always more unless I'm mistaken
Tell me when do mouths close
and people gracefully retreat?

Comments


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:iconcrystalful:
Crystalful Featured By Owner Oct 22, 2008
Are you still alive, Chronicle?
Reply
:iconmdog02:
mdog02 Featured By Owner Jul 22, 2008   Writer
:wave:
Reply
:iconlayre-creator:
Layre-creator Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2008   Writer
Wow, you really can write! Your poems are beautiful!
Reply
:iconzeppelinbeatle52:
zeppelinbeatle52 Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2007
your my favorite cheerleader ever!
Reply
:iconzeppelinbeatle52:
zeppelinbeatle52 Featured By Owner Sep 30, 2006
football game!whooohoooo.so much fun.
Reply
:iconskycrasher:
skycrasher Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2006
I am praying you'll be online sometime today so you get this message. I can't email you because I'm on a different computer and yahoo is blocked on this one.


I'm just telling you thank you and I'll eventually tell you why, but right now isn't the best time since I'm a little lightheaded.
Reply
:iconskycrasher:
skycrasher Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2006
sDOFIHSDf. oMG.
sO MY CAPS LOCK IS ON.
aND i JUST WANTED TO TELL YOU
THAT YOU NEED TO WRITE MORE POETRY
BECAUSE i CAN'T BELIEVE
THAT YOU CAN GO THAT LONG
WITHOUT WRITING any.


Eww. Okay. XD Caps lock off.


Actually, I'm just really bored right now. And I already submit all my old poetry just now so I have nothing else to do but bother you. =D



Steph:

[link]


Whoohoo.
Reply
:iconnyroeon:
Nyroeon Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2006
"Friends are very rare jewels, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share words of praise and they always want to open their hearts to us."

Show your friends how much you care. Send this

to everyone you consider a FRIEND, even if
it means sending it back to the person who sent it to you. If it comes back to you, then you'll know you have a circle of friends.

YOU ARE MY FRIEND AND I AM HONORED!
:heart:
Reply
:iconskycrasher:
skycrasher Featured By Owner Jul 3, 2006
Of all of my poetry you could have posted, it just HAD to be that one, right?

I forgive you. =)
Reply
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