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About Literature / Hobbyist Carly TaylorFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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Statistics 1,648 Deviations 11,140 Comments 31,836 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Writing About Loss...
Exquisite the open
of it when
without much gone. Make it
in the other. Kiss
but the kaleidoscope, because
in the way, in the way
wrapped, fingers because
you. Your. That
if without, there
use. Your if, is, your because
something for it, like that
but still, but still
wrapped, sorry, sorry,
because and plans, sorry—
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friday night$ by fizzleout friday night$ :iconfizzleout:fizzleout 1 0
Exploring the Possible
I wanted to write Pepsi summers, fireflylit
mountains—but there are no fireflies in the Rockies,
drinking caffeine isn’t my thing. Doesn’t count
unless it’s addiction. Remembering comes
from the collarbones, from blisters, from break.
Dwelling becomes habit, shakable
on every other Thursday in therapy
when how are you doing trumps don’t talk about it;
an hour becomes one maybe-year of coffee shops,
a garden you might grow, books that will read
words that do not mean “him.”
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But if fall
and shake harder
is just as bad.
And years from now, wish
different but it won’t become
any so forward, here
is the option. Here.
might look like
else again, again
from an absent vantage
it might be clear.
To talk in circles,
make room for months
of don’t know but
there’s not, that’s not,
it’s only
as easy as
probably you love me
probably I don’t have energy
to carry it. It’s out loud
or it isn’t at all, hear it,
next time. Being tired lasts
long alone.
We could keep repeating
ourselves, keep saying
we used to, how we
did. Unlearn every
word if it would
help. It doesn’t, I don’t, I
bide time and walk other
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Removed - based on Twice Removed by Ralph Angel
Slick sidewalks at too-early (but at too-soon-to-leave-you).
Or watching flurries scatter the ground and wind blowing, blackness
    swallowing, the car parked that looks like her ex-boyfriend’s,
her throat playing in your laugh, her jeans torn and
tomatoes the only thing in her house to eat, you eat when you get there.
This ease. This difficulty. This heart that’s going so many ways at once. This
pretty girl (although not-quite-found, she’s been drinking an awful lot,
you’ve been hosting some of those parties
you’d know what she looks like).
Nothing spoken. Nothing told
but when she tells you she misses somebody you miss her without ever having
    had her except in almosts.
A song you used to dance to, a whole record she can’t hear these days.
You, the one she’d step over. You, whom she cares for
and wants to lie to, doesn’t want to, either, so that the mess that brought you
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Decalogue II - Minnesota Summers
It began with bats as
sometimes, it does.
Bat claws scratching. Bat voices
chirping. Bat families
squeezed between the stairs
and the attic door.
Evening walk down
only street, Crow River, dust clouds,
tall browning grass,
weeds in the irrigation ditch.
The pheasant that
burst up, scared the shit
out of the dog.
Bat thwap landing
on my mother’s bare thigh.
Midnight. Hot sticky summer.
Bat. Thwap. Thwap.
Swimming in a t-shirt,
river overflowing, afternoon downpour
everything green
everything grey.
The screened in front-porch,
my grandfather’s glass
powder-made lemonade. The game,
dummy-rummy, Swedish and
Norwegian flags flapping
in rain kick-back wind.
Bat hunters—
mother, grandmother, grandfather.
Bat hunting—
tennis racket, frying pan, broom.
Elusive bats. Multitude of bats.
Bats on bats on bats.
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Decalogue I - Strange Marriage
There’s fog, tumbling. He brushes back hair
from his face, checks how many steps
up more.
The next summer we climb this rock
there is no fog, tumbling. We find
beer cans emptied
Tibetan prayer flags
certainly not left by monks.
In the restaurant we joke
how it would be
if he proposed. We’d each have lovers
we’d leave each other for
but our house would be
beautiful, another man’s kids
and my husband’s boyfriends.
When I fell in love
(each time)
he still took me on dates. We lived together
during a breakup,
he slept in my room, drank whiskey, packed boxes.
Took care of the cats.
There’s a loop trail, it rains at altitude
the foxes play hide and seek
the evergreens weep. We run.
I ask about living forever
like forever is tangible like
there’s something other than
twisted ankles tree root doorstops
the way children know to meditate. This place
we were born into
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This is “I’m sorry”
      for being a girl you could have married
      but for being a girl you fell in love with
because loving someone and telling them are not
for being a young man who doesn’t pronounce words
like they’ve been kind to him. This isn’t “I’m sorry” for
the almost of it. This isn’t “I love you” because loving someone
has much to do with having known him
      and I doubt very much whether you’ve done that, either.
Open-mouthed mirror-gazing with still-damp hair
       and I get why I was the girl you fell in love with
       but for being the girl whose hipbones carved canyons
in your sheets; you’re probably not tossing or turning
like the way I have to when it’s not a good night but
      opting out of the not a good nights
      was probably a good call. I didn
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Write dancer poems, write when there are more bruises than bones,
if I ask again—
                        and it won’t change anything—
                                                                            I still fell. He pours
wine—it’s pink—into the mug my grandmother gave us (Christmas)
but I still fell. The sprinklers; the softball field; raining. I still fell. I
turned on the television. I went back to the hotel. I left you, drinking
in a train station.
                          Write no more love poems. Write when dying. Do
not write drunk, write when very drunk, if I ask again—
:iconfizzleout:fizzleout 2 0
Perpetual Angel (after Keith Ratzlaff)
Because the floor –
coming, so solid –
because go.
My shoulder, the floor, the
opening between
because pain
because different. God knows
and lately,
(because the space between
fuck you and maybe)
God could ask around
my knees and –
because full
find the floor
behind before. God’s upside down-
ness on
(because my belly on the floor)
the yesterday. God’s rightside up-
ness on
(because my feet on the floor)
the music.
:iconfizzleout:fizzleout 0 0
Here's the thing; the script is shit we're going off;
The strips of film unravelling out of you;
You're laughing
Your triangular eyebrows on my pad of sticky notes
And I wrote them down,
how dare you be so fucking attractive? But I want to tear that smirk off your face,
That look when you said
"Introverts should all get over themselves,
You're not creative
You're just fucking selfish"
Aren't you? Aren't you, too?
Aren't you, too, that
Way you get when I stand in your spotlight and you're trying to frame the shot just so
And you tell me
You're not hitting on me. No,
No, you're just fucking selfish—
Your hands felt good
On my throat, we couldn't look at each other
Or not I at you
You'd said my breasts were perfect
You'd said you're not hitting on me
You'd said "somebody's girlfriend"
Like that mattered the last ten times
You fucked somebody. You said "action." You said
"Scream at me and mean it"
You said you needed a blond
You said "you look pretty"
You said
You hadn'
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On unusual friendships.
I never found him handsome exactly so
what is it to say his hair
had a nice curl to it, mid-50's charm curl
could've sworn he smoked cigarettes
threw back the PBR like it was water
and he told me once his daddy liked to drink
too much on Sundays. I never found him funny
exactly so what were we doing
in the grocery store on a weeknight well
I drove my boyfriend's car and
he warned me there was a cop watching
when I almost made the illegal turn. I never found him
kind exactly but he talked me off my sofa
and back to a party one night
so we stumbled on down the bricks
in slow motion talking about why our
families messed us up talking about why
his sister was in a car wreck talking about
why my mother needed more space talking
about anything but my boyfriend
talking about anything but the girl
I knew wasn't going to change her mind and love him back
talking about why our friends
smoked so many cigarettes and drank too much on Sundays.
It was my birthday when I found out he knew my name
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you did you
If I had really loved you
it would hurt to tell
       the story of the way your
       hands always felt just a little wrong
       on my ribs.
If I had any sense at all
back then I'd have
       run, probably, run
because you never really loved me. Did you? Did
       you ever really love more than fucking me
       you did
       did you
Because my boss gave me candy that afternoon
and a boy called me on the phone to talk it out
       and I felt obligated
       to cry even though I didn't want to
       so I cried for being far away from home
instead. I cried for how nobody ever screamed at me like that
       no body ever
       weighed on me like that
       nobody no
       nobody no body
:iconfizzleout:fizzleout 1 3
Summer Drive
 Lovely; the sunlight off the asphalt
  without a passenger
to hear you sing at the top of your lungs.
      An off-key flock of crows.
 Their beady-eyed examination
of your license and registration, blue and red
and the sunlight off the asphalt. Your readiness
    to hit the pedal, take off, run away.
:iconfizzleout:fizzleout 0 0
The first time I heard the song I was alone in an empty room. Blue light, blue walls; a mural across one, scrawled across it by some previous occupant. An almost-second-home, now, after months of parties and conversations and bong hits.
And it was a party now. Outside the door and beneath the din of the song I could still hear it, shouts and laughter, a hundred people I knew in varying degrees of closeness, drinking, stoned, celebrating a birthday. I had been somewhere else earlier, and now I was here, alone in this room, and this song was turned up too loud and I was drunk. I turned it down. I sat on the bed.
Hey, you alright?
Jamie opened the door. He wasn’t sober enough to be aloof like usual; I wasn’t sober enough to be able to tell which way was up.
This song makes me sad.
Me, too,
he said. Want me to turn it off?

We sat quietly for a while, he nestled in the armchair, I still perched on the bed. A cello started up, a second vocal added harmony
:iconfizzleout:fizzleout 2 0
almost a poem.
but what's crazy
if not laying awake
knowing you're
awake, too, wondering
about me.
what's crazy if not wishing
for the separation of the gap.
wishing to remove precious, desperate time. wishing
because what's crazy if not
denying yourself
what makes you
feel alive?
:iconfizzleout:fizzleout 1 0

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Carly Taylor
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Yepp. The mastermind herself. :heart: fizzleout
...or at least that's the hope. Here's, in theory, to ten weeks of total incapacitation by coursework and dance and writing.



Add a Comment:
Kaefullness Featured By Owner May 6, 2014  Hobbyist Artist
Thank you for the favourite :)
not-an-emo-girl942 Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the :+fav:!
fizzleout Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :hug:
serpergirl Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2012
Thanks for the favorites, buddy!
Adrianna-Grezak Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2012
Thank you for fav-ing my drawing! Feel free to follow me on Facebook [link] by clicking the "Like" button! 
fizzleout Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Of course!
Life-Is-Oppurtunity Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2012  Student Writer
Thanks for the favorite!
fizzleout Featured By Owner Nov 25, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime! :hug:
zephyrskies Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012
Carly I just want you to know that all of your pieces inspire me so much ;_; I can't stop reading them xD.. in a non-creepy way..
fizzleout Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
That's not creepy! It rocks!! Thank you m'dear :] how have you been???
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