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Warped Sense of Time by darkdescartes Warped Sense of Time :icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 0 1
Roommates Are Wonderful But...
I already understand
          too well the beauty of wrought iron in the night -
    the ache of running one's
    hand down one rail like
    so many raindrops,
                                         looking up the hill at
                                         light in the great, wide window,
          is as dull glazing over my soul as the stratus clouds somehow reflected in its interfaces.
I lean my head against the b
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 0 1
Hey you... I Have A Secret.
Hey you. Yes, you with the black hair sticking up in the back. Yes, I'll give you a moment to fix that hair. Then I want you to stop shoving papers and dirty clothes and everything else into drawers and under the bed and come here and listen closely to me.
I'm going to tell you a secret. It's one of women's best-kept secrets. I don't know very many feminine secrets myself. I tend to miss a lot of memos. Maybe it's because if I knew, I wouldn't be able to keep myself from telling you. Anyways, I see my experiences all the same, relatively. I shouldn't have anything I need to hide. So here is the secret.
You know that beautiful girl that's coming over later today? Right now she is in the shower. She is about to shave her legs. But at this moment, she's looking at the friendly, calm, kind, understanding razor in her hand...
Maybe, she thinks, I could just end it now instead.
Not so fast. I understand your need to leap to your feet and get to your phone and call her, and tell
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 2 7
When Happy Birthday Isn't...
How do you wish a happy birthday
to someone you don't even know?
How do you guess their age,
and, more importantly, their feelings
about getting older?
How do you pick an adjective
when "happy" may not be enough
to stave off grief
or augment joy?
I wish you the best of luck -
but you can tell I don't really
when I sound like a fancy Hallmark card.
Enjoy the cake.
Your family might be too poor to buy cake.
It may be that Aunt Emily
refused to let your parents
buy a perfect, forever user-friendly
refrigerated confection with lukewarm sentiments
and instead baked you a warm spiced fruit
atrocity filled with love.
Or you may be one of those people
who will have a very large cake
but will refuse to take a bite.
(I sympathize.)
Whoever you are,
on your birthday,
may your feet not fall asleep
without the rest of you.
That's the best I could do.
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 7 11
Weak and Weary
It's four in the morning, and all the passion
I should retain is lost in a stomachache
from so little food and so much caffeine.
My wrists cry uncle numbly; my eyes are red
and the perspective coming through seems stupid.
Let me just finish this paper, and then I can die.
It's times like these when faith slowly dies
so you don't at first feel the buildup of passion
until you start screaming about how stupid
society and God make your stomach ache
with pseudoenergetic hatred, vision glazed red,
and ringing in your ears is the caffeine
of which you forgot you drank so much. Caffeine
floats your leaky rocking boat away from death
upon the precipices of nicely warm red
slumber. The storm of night desires with a passion
to pull you under. A seasick stomachache
longs for land, and insists you're being stupid.
And you start to think most trivial things are stupid
if you're able to step back from your caffeine-
fueled obsessions and nervous stomachache
enough to watch your sanity die.
You laugh
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 2 3
Straight To Your Thighs by darkdescartes Straight To Your Thighs :icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 0 2
The Statue of Stockholm
I ordered a large pizza, because I planned to call some people and tell them to watch it with me, and then maybe afterwards we could fight with Nerds Rope as flails. But as I opened the door of the mini-fridge for the half-empty cardboard pack of Mountain Dew, I started wondering what she would say. I started wondering if I'd need some time and space to react. I tried not to, but I remembered her face. I stood there, staring at my hand as it held open the refrigerator door, letting the tips of my hair get cold, losing time.
I walked downstairs to the lounge, less empty than I would have liked, and chose a dark blue and heavily stained sofa right beneath the TV. I sat down and leaned back, one ankle tucked behind the other, raised the remote and brought to grazing anarchists a window into Stockholm with a crackle. Coverage had already started, with loopy gold letters gliding across the screen and sponsor after sponsor, commentator after opening speaker, droned about the future, the grou
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 1 15
Modern Haiku Thing
Auburn mineral dust
Cracked canyon marks the bridesmaid
Never the bride
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 1 3
Plans Turn Back Into Goals
The barricades are in the final
Stage of their decay
The cracks turn into fissures
And the fissures melt away
The rubble isn't ruin
For the sun comes shining through
My pathways are illuminated
(As are yours for you).
The freedom I've been waiting for
Is close enough to taste
(I hope my taste buds waken
So it will not go to waste)
For every hour I've spent at home
Defacto deaf and dumb
I'll speak when I am better
(If better I ever become)...
I'm almost free to sit outside
Cross-legged in the night
My back against a sandstone wall
And work by laptop light
Adjacent to my future
I will rot from people's sight
And never know the fear
That what I'm doing isn't right.
I see myself in India
And once in Singapore
Convincing those who hurt me
That they really made me soar
I'll make myself a Heaven
As mobile as my Hell
And take back up God's workload
(If I ever do get well)
I see myself in Moscow
And in Prague and in Ukraine
And though I'll throw away most things
I'll only stand to gain
I'll be
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 4 5
To Tamper With Truth
The sales pitch was not easy. The company's lobbyist flipped through chart after chart of the latest research in neuroscience on the way the brain decides to lie. The panel members listened closely, searching for their next opportunity to grill him on ethics. Ninety percent accuracy, said the lobbyist. What about the other ten percent, a member wanted to know. Ten-year warranty, said the lobbyist. But don't some start to break at eight or nine years? Is there any way to tell that the machine is no longer capable of telling the truth? Perhaps by internal inspection, for some visible sign? Yes, but only a trained company engineer could spot it. We'd be happy to inspect and recertify every machine you buy as often as you'd like. Won't this machine, in cases where capital punishment is considered, be responsible for putting innocent people to death? Then the lobbyist, the salesman in disguise, brought in the purchase: It will condemn a lower percentage of innocent lives than human error
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 1 3
Addicted to Self-Righteousness
James Hairston is clean, and don’t you forget it. He gotta drive us all over everywhere, just to prove he can. Orders his coffee caffeine-free, ain’t never had a drink or a smoke in his life. His damn station wagon has so many bumper stickers on it. Proud to be smoke-free. See Dick drink, see Dick drive, see Dick die, don’t be a Dick. National Alliance Against Drug Use. Even D.A.R.E. He’s like a health teacher, back in junior high. “That marijuana’s bad for you, Bill. I care about your safety, and it’s going to kill you. I can help you quit.” Shut up, man! Why’s he even hang out with us? I heard his fiancé, Paula, is a smoker. What’s he doing marrying a smoker?
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 79 70
Story of a Bruise
Some of my brothers call themselves Twinkies:
Yellow out, white within.
So I made a yellow cake
in May, for a birthday in November
and covered it in frosting
from a red and yellow canister,
$1.79 for a cup and a half at the Giant.
No one came.
Except some yellow bullies
to batter the banana
and test the thickness of its peel.
So I had to eat the whole cake by myself.
It tasted yellow
like the iodine
they rub on your skin
with a white cotton ball
before they stick the needle in.
My yellow linings cried in yellow agony.
My social life is doomed to be forevermore
a spinning sea of liver failure.
I never gained acceptance.
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 0 0
Licorice Tears
Aunt Shirley loved sugary treats. She was a perfectly respectable, even sane adult to pass on the streets or to work alongside in the textile factory making pair after pair of blue jeans, but when you brought her to a candy story she transformed into a five-year-old Mr. Hyde. He eyes bugged out, her grip on your arm tightened, and her tongue lolled to allow a pool of saliva exposure to the cherry and licorice scented air. She was in agony and in ecstasy, at once in a magical kingdom a thousand miles away and right at home. We couldn't drag her away, because we didn't want to make a scene, so we always bought her a licorice rope. She could play with it for hours, getting black wax and sugar all over her face as the candy came apart on her wet tongue.
Aunt Shirley had a rare but not impossible absence of facial characteristics to match her developmental delay, so the diagnosis of fetal alcohol syndrome was slow in coming. When it did come, she was pulled out of the first grade, where she
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 3 6
The Future Gets Brighter
cherry blossoms come
daylight's inhibitions go
new hopes coincide
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 1 1
The Heavens' True Tune
Frank Schaffer didn't mind that it rained, even though the awning under which he waited for a taxi wasn't quite wide enough to keep its runoff from dripping heavily on his curly dark brown hair. He held his briefcase loosely in front of him with both hands and shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he whistled an aimless tune. The clouds in the sky bestowed a gray twilight glow upon the world, ultraviolet in color but with the gentle subtlety of an infrared lamp, even though the natural twilight hour had passed. Small, muddy, and polluted rivers separated the streets from the sidewalks. It was one of these that the tires of a cab finally interrupted, and Frank, still cheerful, eager to enjoy dinner with his wife and a friend from college, climbed into the back seat and gave the driver his address. He closed his eyes, placed his briefcase beside him on the seat, and leaned back trustingly and contentedly, continuing to whistle. Though his tune lacked any formal grounding in key
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 1 3
The End of Tonight
Recall this is a vigil, not a fight
A quiet hand demands a quiet mind
Don't think about tomorrow; you'll be right.
Protect my puzzling soul and keep it white
For under judgement it would fall apart
Recall this is a vigil, not a fight
I'm sure that if you look back on this night
Your sightless messangers will see a waste
Don't think about tomorrow; you'll be right.
Devotion of my spirit's at its height
(I told you I was bad at proving love)
Recall this is a vigil, not a fight
And leaving you is not a callous flight
But longing separates - I've seen it done.
Don't think about tomorrow; you'll be right.
In torturous empathy, I know your plight
I know the sadness tembling in this calm
Recall this is a vigil, not a fight
I'm called away to flourish as I might
I will come back if you forget I'm gone
Don't think about tomorrow; you'll be right.
Excitement for the sunrise is not spite,
But hopes for all my mind I may ignite
Recall this is a vigil, not a fight
Don't think about tomorrow; you'll
:icondarkdescartes:darkdescartes 5 14

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Santa e-mail
Subject:  Re: last-minute questions
Attachment(s): routemap.jpg (75 KB)
11/23/05    09:33 AM
">" indicates quoted text.
--------------begin message------------------
Let's get this over with.
>hi boss,
>just have a few questions
(that should have been dealt with two weeks ago)
>about some last-minute stuff. first, are the nose-light
>batteries AA or AAA? i can never remember and rudolph is telling
>me D which I know is wrong
They're AA. Keep two battery packs and three backup bulbs in the sleigh, he goes through 'em like you wouldn't believe.
>second, demand for Santa stand-ins at malls has quadrupled in the
>past three days, and we're having some trouble filling the
>demand. do you want me to dip into the snowy-day fund
>or should I just nab some of the salvation army santas as "volunteers"?
Call Tim Allen for me and remind him he owes me a favor in a big way after what Santa Clause 2 did t
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is a calcoholic
United States
Current Residence: Somewhere
Favourite genre of music: Metal or Celtic (different but both awesome!)
Personal Quote: "We're all of us insane, just some more than others."
Undiscovered Interview #1: :iconjessamar:

Gallery samples:      Refridgerator poem 1 by JessaMar

1) With work, cherry picking, reading, and dancing, you seem like a pretty busy person. Do you set aside a specific time to write, and if not, how do you know when to write?

I don't set aside a specific time to write, and a lot of times I don't end up writing as much as I'd like to.  Actually I've been giving thought lately to setting aside a specific time each week to work on my novel because I've been neglecting it far too much lately.  It's mostly the novel that I have trouble getting around to working on; poetry I usually just write as I think of it, and I work on short stories a lot while I'm online doing stuff.  As for how I know when to write, two things generally tell me... if I'm feeling inspired, and if I have something that needs to be written by a certain date.  It's definitely not the most professional system and maybe not the most productive either, but I feel like I can't really prioritize writing and treat it as a career until I have some idea if it can be one for me.

2) You call yourself an “art devotee.” Could you define what you think characterizes an “art devotee”?

I think an art devotee is someone who centers their life around art.  Someone who not only enjoys art but can look at anything as art.  Someone who sees beauty in everything, tries to live artistically, and appreciates a rusty car for its artistic merits.  People who make decisions in their life based on what would be the most artistic as a whole - those are art devotees.

3) You are quite an avid reader. Can you recommend a book for fellow writers who want to see prose done extremely well?

I could recommend a lot - I always get caught up on that when asked to recommend a book, I just have too many books that I loved.  Ideal before I recommended a book to a fellow writer I would find out what kind of writing they're interested in, but since I can't do that here... I think I would recommend Bernard Cornwell's Harlequin, published in the U.S. as The Archer's Tale.  Bernard Cornwell has a lot of talent and I think that book was representative of it, in terms of plot and style and characterization and just about anything else you can think of.  I wouldn't recommend it if the writer were particularly young, though.

4) Can you recommend the most relaxing, easy-going book you know for beach reading or for reading when you have flu and can’t really think straight?

That's tough.  Most of the books I read are far from relaxing and easy-going.  I would recommend any book that's divided into short bits, something that will catch your interest but not necessarily demand it.  Books like Why do men have nipples by Mark Leyner and Billy Goldberg or Bruce Felton and Mark Fowler's Best, worst, and most unusual.  But I suppose my top recommendation for that sort of reading would be Lynne Truss's Eats, shoots and leaves.

5) Now for a personal question. We’ve all heard that being in a less-than-desirable mental state gives writers and artists new insights and enhances the creativity and quality of their work. Can it also act as a hindrance to producing good work?

Definitely.  A less-than-desirable mental state is often closely connected to a lack of motivation, and when I'm not motivated I can't create - or at least, can't create anything very good.  Not to mention I can get really depressed sometimes and even if I have written something I won't think it's any good, which just discourages me.  So although bad stuff can lead to inspiration, I usually can't do much about the inspiration until I've moved on from the bad stuff (whether the bad stuff is internal or external).  A balance is important, which makes me think of something I read in a very interesting book called The Midnight Disease.  It was all about writing and the various psychological and neurological things that can have a strong effect on a writer.  Unfortunately I can no longer remember many of the specifics shared in the book, but I think it said something like 10% of writers and 40% of poets have bipolar disorder.  That's compared to I think 1% in the general population.  It's more common in artists of any kind but particularly writers and poets.  The theory is that it's actually helpful, because during the "manic" stages a person is usually very creative and productive, and then during the "depressive" stages they can work as their own editor and clean up some of the more wild and incoherent things they had created while they were manic.  Even non-bipolar poets and writers can have the benefit of some of those symptoms, particularly if they have a relative who's bipolar.  I don't think that I'm bipolar - I think I'm just a teenager - but I definitely have the stages thing going on with writing.  And I think my father might be bipolar so maybe that has something to do with it.

Want to get interviewed? It's as easy as…

It doesn't matter what kind of art you do, just what you have to say!


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ricewrites Featured By Owner May 12, 2009
I miss your work
maslowmassacre Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2008   Writer
Graveyard-Keeper Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2008  Hobbyist General Artist
*poke*? :(
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