leoraigarath's avatar
Omri J. Luzon
249 Watchers96.6K Page Views376 Deviations
I
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting. Dust some yellow sand covers, here uncover bare bedding. ...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes, under incidentally quilted blanket wet as arid curves, as sounds. ...in a persistent pavement, in a solemn unsuited promise, some written words erase some letters drip and soak unto a perfuse miracle, a dislocated split, a letting go of...
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10
A
A Letter
A Letter This letter will never be sent there’s no resending nor ascending from the sands in which it drowns scent soiled sheet in the soft desert sips down its folded throat down its written tongue won’t swallow dry as winds slur over puff numb with its ink drawn eies and sluing grains and motes of dust for all things that crumble grit.
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0
I
I Do Not Love
I do not love. I do not love. I do not love these things which love I ought For love, in love, despaired my thoughts And colored them unwise, and since Descends my sense and bends to faults Against the rhythm of my waltz, So salts my pine an endless wince And simmers so 's a sinner-wits This sinner's soul-essence That love in love un-ends.
5
1
T
Toast and Coffee
I forget our little important things, like the way you like your toast     (butter on one side, sugar sprinkled) the way you like your coffee     (black, strong, half-filled cup, a drop of sweetener) or the way you like your sex     (as hard as love, as sweet as figs). I forget little unimportant things, such as the movie we saw last night     (the one with DiCaprio and the cops) the meeting we had with the doctor     (and you hate the doctors, in their white robes) the dinner we had by the shore     (fat steaks grilled on a burning fire). Maybe I forget them little things, but, you know, when things are gone they pass
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8
New ID, new Omri???
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2
A
A String of Thought
From time to time, as my sightless eyes witness (I fall) and remember - I remember my me. There's no-here-point, nor a true false-salvation as a self-persuasion of an identity, as from this grace grave- yard of eternal worship rises an I, an I now is me. No-long-pride (lost its magic), nor a sane self-redemption. To the endless thoughts of an endless nothing, to the eternal bursting of the finality of death:     This, is home.
3
2
I
I Am Lost for a While
I am lost for a while, spread as butter over starlit night, shying in the coal mine, where the charcoal paints my face black. I wonder if the melting color defines my slouching thoughts, or the frightened low crouching behind the stern masking self.
7
2
C
Chicken, Chicken
Chicken, chicken, in the loo How I wish to have a clue As to what in there you do, Chicken, chicken, in the loo. Came a morning with wet dew Giddy wind the curtains blew, In my ear it whispered – "Wake!" Such a splendid way to take A sleepy boy out of his dream, With shining glitters of sunny gleams, And carried it the roses scent From the garden down the bent. The coffee brewed by its own wish, The toast, the butter – already dished; The jam spread thin, the eggs cooked fine - What morning can be more divine? Wiped my lids of sleepy dust I noticed of my bladder's thrusts And knew it's time to set it free Before
10
2
E
Everland
bleak is my mind, as the coffee warms atop the stove.     let me fly, he sighs, holding tight his umbrella, to the everland. he praises the motherearth and the fatherdeath.     to the everland and the worshipped sun and the moon and all the holy things which the bible prescribed as a cure for the flu and the terrible moods. I am angry with the headaches, such a turmoil they stir     in the cup. he refuses to dine and refrains in such abstinence, almost a father which has read all hail merries in the world     about a thousand times over again and the lord did not lend not a careful ear. it is the storm, the probable storm, whi
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See all
I
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting. Dust some yellow sand covers, here uncover bare bedding. ...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes, under incidentally quilted blanket wet as arid curves, as sounds. ...in a persistent pavement, in a solemn unsuited promise, some written words erase some letters drip and soak unto a perfuse miracle, a dislocated split, a letting go of...
3
10
A
A Letter
A Letter This letter will never be sent there’s no resending nor ascending from the sands in which it drowns scent soiled sheet in the soft desert sips down its folded throat down its written tongue won’t swallow dry as winds slur over puff numb with its ink drawn eies and sluing grains and motes of dust for all things that crumble grit.
3
0
I
I Do Not Love
I do not love. I do not love. I do not love these things which love I ought For love, in love, despaired my thoughts And colored them unwise, and since Descends my sense and bends to faults Against the rhythm of my waltz, So salts my pine an endless wince And simmers so 's a sinner-wits This sinner's soul-essence That love in love un-ends.
5
1
T
Toast and Coffee
I forget our little important things, like the way you like your toast     (butter on one side, sugar sprinkled) the way you like your coffee     (black, strong, half-filled cup, a drop of sweetener) or the way you like your sex     (as hard as love, as sweet as figs). I forget little unimportant things, such as the movie we saw last night     (the one with DiCaprio and the cops) the meeting we had with the doctor     (and you hate the doctors, in their white robes) the dinner we had by the shore     (fat steaks grilled on a burning fire). Maybe I forget them little things, but, you know, when things are gone they pass
7
8
New ID, new Omri???
11
2
A
A String of Thought
From time to time, as my sightless eyes witness (I fall) and remember - I remember my me. There's no-here-point, nor a true false-salvation as a self-persuasion of an identity, as from this grace grave- yard of eternal worship rises an I, an I now is me. No-long-pride (lost its magic), nor a sane self-redemption. To the endless thoughts of an endless nothing, to the eternal bursting of the finality of death:     This, is home.
3
2
I
I Am Lost for a While
I am lost for a while, spread as butter over starlit night, shying in the coal mine, where the charcoal paints my face black. I wonder if the melting color defines my slouching thoughts, or the frightened low crouching behind the stern masking self.
7
2
C
Chicken, Chicken
Chicken, chicken, in the loo How I wish to have a clue As to what in there you do, Chicken, chicken, in the loo. Came a morning with wet dew Giddy wind the curtains blew, In my ear it whispered – "Wake!" Such a splendid way to take A sleepy boy out of his dream, With shining glitters of sunny gleams, And carried it the roses scent From the garden down the bent. The coffee brewed by its own wish, The toast, the butter – already dished; The jam spread thin, the eggs cooked fine - What morning can be more divine? Wiped my lids of sleepy dust I noticed of my bladder's thrusts And knew it's time to set it free Before
10
2
E
Everland
bleak is my mind, as the coffee warms atop the stove.     let me fly, he sighs, holding tight his umbrella, to the everland. he praises the motherearth and the fatherdeath.     to the everland and the worshipped sun and the moon and all the holy things which the bible prescribed as a cure for the flu and the terrible moods. I am angry with the headaches, such a turmoil they stir     in the cup. he refuses to dine and refrains in such abstinence, almost a father which has read all hail merries in the world     about a thousand times over again and the lord did not lend not a careful ear. it is the storm, the probable storm, whi
4
5
T
Too Inept To Say
The sunset is all the words I have beneath a spill, a fancying forgoing form to remain a fancy; aphasia in the swelled clouds of ink meeting tea-stains of endless corners where the eyes fall to rest as they take in what is too large a vision to hold; how the light that emanates from what is seen is offset by its emerging storms, or what will someday eschew its form yet is somehow still worthy of a word that leaves me pining over words until the day is dark and bruised with the memory of ink running ren in streaks where trains once ran, and long before anything ever ran that provides me with a certainty that there is a word for that whi
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Lavellan
21
237
S
Some Bulbul
my bulbul had flown a wide ways all Grace-full as The Magpie, but my, isn't she an odd bird? her do all up and front-ways with those red cat-staches. She is all about the tractable frisson, moves the worm to get the earth. The whole weald makes marvel 'look at this here scofflaw!' a claque looking to lapidate something but their bellweather ain't nothing but torchwood and my bulbul, she's got brio! best let her do her thing.
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22
May 16, 1982
Israel
Deviant for 15 years
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Comments1.3K

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LadyLincoln's avatar
LadyLincoln|Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, dearheart. :heart:
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leoraigarath's avatar
leoraigarath|Professional Writer
Thank you :) 
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LadyLincoln's avatar
LadyLincoln|Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome, love. :hug:
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PennedinWhite's avatar
Happy Birthday! :cake: 
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leoraigarath's avatar
leoraigarath|Professional Writer
Thank you :woot:
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LiliWrites's avatar
Happy birthday, Omri! :) 
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leoraigarath's avatar
leoraigarath|Professional Writer
Thank you :) 
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