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About Literature / Hobbyist NathanMale/United States Groups :iconword-smiths: Word-Smiths
 
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Deviant for 15 Years
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Literature
watchman artifice
owls shift
bluish in pale might,
stretched along thin windows
waking from time, and human
imperfection
watching thread ends fray
and labor in connecting
soul to body, mind to matter
heart to heartbeat (love to lover)
and the window keeps its portion
of light within the glass,
a seeing tax exacted;
time takes a toll
even once transcended
threads are only fibers
intertwined, imagined
by imperfect human avatars
love is stretched, pale
bluish and thin
and wrapped, fraying,
around the might of matter
disconnected from soul
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 5 0
Literature
portraits
today he is open
paperback
novel, pages swept to
and fro
words weighed thick
in brushstroke,
measured
(as an artist would) only
at armslength
kept for spectacle
hung from nail, crooked
on a hallway wall, somewhere
connecting
adjacent to living rooms
left unfinished
held, occasionally,
by the glance of people passing
between moments on the way
to more meaningful space
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 16 4
Literature
counting days
Tar steam swept, stream left
into sane star peeling
sun burst into brackets
and tactless tactile regret
of unfocused fingers and frets
wailing on the neck;
bleeding blue bruises fused
to fatherless muses glued
to a sleek new repudiated truth:
that you are only youth
wasted on a baseless brainstem.
waving chem lights in nightsweats
chasing liquor with quicker
ways of working up a haze
in the mind of the mindless,
you run timeless still, having wept
the kind of cautionless fire
that feels around with a tongue
forked and feathered, silver slivers
streaking your cheeks
like a river of runoff
emotions. And the erosion has left
lines rooted in the years
you have and haven’t lived,
the ones you counted on calendars,
flicking red exes with a wrist
snap and a slash, like some harsh act
of leaving
as if your presence was felt
as if
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 8 7
Literature
notches on a line mean schism
I’m hanging an artifice
from the back-clawed track
home vacancy, spots mildewed in
an old face forgot
to shake the dust and shivers
from lock and spine; an old book
bleaker than the first
time I read you
time, I read you
it’s past time I read you,
I know,
but I’ve been holding out for dawn
to come and wash out all the color
from stories I’ve been drifting in the night
sky, all smokestacks and loose facts
and if the creases in your face line up
into a scowl, I don’t know if I can take
another change in my interpretation
it’s why I ghosted you after
first sign of any damage
and I’ve been hiding illusory
  ever since
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 7 2
Literature
watering hole
fermented sugar
high on the locomotion
from one point to another
in transit.ionsmokeflowingfrom
red ears, whitenecks lacking
in compassion, out of fashion
I guess
was this boatstream always only
bubbles and lonely rambling ripples
on the surface of a purposeless position?
sea-foaming at the mouth- is this what we're about,
weeds stuck in our teeth
eyes mangled on the meager portions that we keep
of love
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 7 5
Literature
in quiet space, kept open
i've left you on
toes of high dancer, fleet
 fawn and wicker baskets
grazing forest ground
for wild walnuts and hickory.
here, the thickness of time slows
down like molasses; we sway
 along to moonsilver slivers
slipping through the canopy
and our fingers fix themselves
around the other. and every moment
is a new monument, an ocean
 a breath of pine
and longleaf shivers
beneath the cover of cold
callous and fear,
 instead alive.
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 6 4
Literature
Moments and Monuments
I am alive and olive
green ghosts are leaving salt piles
on kitchen tiles, to mark where they have gone
and left
and the heft of their going. These days are lacking;
the rays are spent and no longer
sun-white,
like the light's decaying
breaking down to smaller particles and dawn
is wax dripping upward
into a new revenant- one alive, alike
but unlike the downward sloping
hopeful kind of coping mechanism,
this one exists in vicious country
on fire and cooling
magma into stone, displacing
empty spaces
with a solid-state formation-
and the wreckage of creation
knows
my
name
and the ether passes on
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 8 8
Literature
unseen wound
ship comes in to harbor
  with sails pinned to sudden
gusts
fast, and splendid
  she breaks an ocean into waves
to layers in the cloth
  warp and weft, in tessellate
squares
  and there are those she mended
and those left
  to wind
 
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 4 7
Literature
scutellum on heteropteran
the shape of you keeps shifting
into new spaces and now
you're a decahedron, now
a scutoid and you're everywhere
apparently, unphased by my lack of entanglement
with the mechanics of comprehension.
I find you in my morning
cereal bowl, in strings of alphabet incoherent;
in the fastenings on my ikea furniture,
the backs of beetles
crawling in the shed beneath
years of dirt and neglect
and you keep
changing
like you'd rather not be known
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 11 13
Literature
again aging
another august drifts
like beacon ship
to nigh stars and saltwaves,
blinking as the light
makes ghoulish skin
and there is nothing in the coffers,
no tin or silver
no rustle of papers and sepia
photographs, small talk forgotten
in the pearlescent fog of years
washing over years
poured into cloud socket
eyes an empty, thumping electric
signal of loss- and I am losing
still staring up in wonder
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 13 12
Literature
fever dream buffering
I watch the bright star, red and dashing
to moonlike Elvis
hustling his jamjar strings
and velvet coiffed purple jacket
I am perplexed
by the things you say; knowing
known unknowns and no going back
from the goings on of light
in gathering ghostgalaxies
near and far- as imagined- as we take turns
looking through my Tasco telescope
and I realize that this is not a moment
that is happening; not in the way that you or I
or anyone alive can understand time
this is a placeholder frame,
a real-time rendering of objects clanging together
in frozen oceans of dark matter
and I switch myself on, off
you flicker and surge, remembering your suede,
your haircut and the expression you were wearing
we continue our conversation as if nothing
ever
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 13 20
Literature
yardclear memoir
my reasons wither
in love and thick trees,
wind waking wasps to flight;
I fight another fancy
  dream about a girl I knew
climbing up to nest
in paper honey catacombs,
she smelled like summer
bees and blank verse and our worst
conversations covered contemplations
of the way we often wander
through our lives like living longer
isn't even worth the weight
of carrying our bodies back
to shore,
and I'm sure
one day she drowned in a flat tomorrow
sunrise sneaking through clouded morning mist,
but maybe I should have stayed
or told her how her neckbones
made a perfect v
or how all I could think about
was lingering past midnight
in the patio moon,
casting shadows while we danced slow
to cicada tunes
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 14 2
Literature
wanting artist wanting
gaze up at sky drooping, syrup
stars leaky in damp pools
of light. salvador, won’t you
paint me another?
weary eyes same, cascading
down skinny wax-me
jaunty and desperate
infatuated, maybe
I am, but there are worse
things to be than lies on a canvas
or the liars that told them,
still hold them dearly.
nearly never can I clearly
see what carvings at the center
you left in calligraphy.
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 32 22
Literature
summer nights, drinking blue ribbons on the porch
i hear the carbonation
ticking at aluminum
sides of the can,
liquid reaching out
for oxygen
she is a universe away.
4 percent alcohol is not enough
for a good time,
not when wraiths haunt
our mulberry trees,
spines shivering out leaves
and i know, then
a grim moon
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 12 11
Literature
ted koppel topples the night line
the horizon is a tele-prompter
stuffed to burst with sandbags, drenched
in mascara and torrential rains
and hillfolk dancing in a landslide,
playing bluegrass fiddle
thick earth gripping at their sides
and middles.
i can’t slip the fog
creeping into vision
like a dark spot on black background;
i read the news in old states
of oracle,
fussing at the spaces lines escape
the pre-fit, blueprint formations
of thought.
nothing can change the way
we can, and yet our heels dig
into mud,
as mountains tumble down
around our shoulders.
and we laugh a hearty laugh,
pause for effect
and listen to tomorrow coming
like a new wave.
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 9 28
Literature
procedural decay
you’re too soon warmth
and cascading color changes
down the data line;
it’s an architectural problem
too many neurons firing,
rehashed address
vacant containers in abject space
white on white on white on white on
nothing
fumes leaking through
gaps in the netting,
collapse,
collapse on haptic ghosts,
rangeless feedback frames
in stuck loop, starving
for time to make themselves appear, reasons for failure,
for content
undefined.
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 9 4

Random Favourites

Literature
New Love
In the sea of lovers without ships,
I can't decide if I'll let you save my life or if I'll drown,
but I must learn trust.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 13 21
Literature
Rain Hits
wind up the mill
the bones in this
metronome and i
just want to catch you
singing, sleeping
thinking you own
this rest of your life
rust speaks softly
rain hits scissors
an untried truth
walks the
waking dream block
on strings of hypnosis
to the heart
of a mileful city
it pulses at the center
of the nerve-net
i listen for voices
rain hits paper
and, oh life
you're back
to the land of the lying
where the mill grinds
the death of the world
down into something
far less manageable
i know better, there are
no voices
rain hits rock
:iconBlackBowfin:BlackBowfin
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 12 17
Literature
living documents
glib and given
to the blunt edge of a sword
techno-
pathic static toothache genius
    i taught myself all
           of the colors to conquer
and all of the the wrong words to whisper
:iconthesquareroot:thesquareroot
:iconthesquareroot:thesquareroot 6 4
Literature
do you even hear yourself?
he declares himself a feminist
"in the purest sense of the word"
and expects every woman to prove that 
    (to him, specifically)
she is worthy of equal respect
:iconhypermagical:hypermagical
:iconhypermagical:hypermagical 211 100
Literature
the world doesn't need beauty sleep
mother earth is pregnant;
her curves yawn -
molasses stretches of dark,
dank night freckled with
streetlights sparkling.
i yearn to rest in the cradle
that the small of her back
has become.
the roads untangle like
veins unto her skin
after being held so long
in the fist of pre-dawn.
drunk in slumber, red-eyed,
beautiful - morning will
come yet, the small child
born in the rafters of
catastrophe, aching;
but before her date,
mother earth shifts in her sleep,
love settling in the wing
of her hip -
exhaustion dilutes her blood,
consciousness touches her golden
shoulder on his way out the door.
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks 217 79
Mature content
looting :iconcristinewakesuphappy:cristinewakesuphappy 10 21
Literature
Of Memory
new blood suspends
in nearly comical swipes
the scene hovers
just bodies, not lovers
ridiculously hang
falling, but never move
we live a million
scenes like this
in our museum
of memory
always somebody else
holding the torch
pike and whip
never us
these dioramas
pay out as fact
evidence currency
from this memory bank
its tellers tell her
that if she'd only join
that frozen scene
she just might avoid
dropping that
promotional toaster
into her lap
at bathtime
a posable truth
hangs in clear gel
each of us curators
acrobats of the
mid-impossible
pawning our blood
as fact evidence currency
in nearly comical swipes
:iconBlackBowfin:BlackBowfin
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 13 5
Literature
if i hadn't had the drunk luck to meet you
i’d have married every bedside witch from here to east dallas
i’d have glistened like a worm to their mescaline psalms
i’d have mired in sinuous wineskin, repentant spectra
i’d Om along in cooing groups, babble with freethinkers
all my endeavors would be gas station derelicts
all of my wrongs would be quasi-continuous
even the over-sought moon would protest
and i wouldn’t recognize one half of the universe
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 147 84
Literature
Lolita
Greenleaves in spades:
your shades.
Sated and weighed,
latent, our behavior, "Hey..."
We reach the beach,
the breach, once more,
the waves encore,
the aqua unawkward.
Turning. Fractal water curling
at sixes and sevens,
all minutes in heaven.
*
all the tea in china
the red party
your lips
parting
high fives
blushing young
and alive
*
At the end
begin again,
all dark
and Old English.
Capital.
Bully.
Jolly.
What.
:iconFritoB:FritoB
:iconfritob:FritoB 1 0
Literature
spectrum
you are no garden;
without one to keep you
by shears and a vision,
you grow in sun streams
and the chance
of rain.
:iconmuscularteeth:muscularteeth
:iconmuscularteeth:muscularteeth 11 6
Literature
Ghost in the Machine
There were days
Melissa measured
her happiness in brightness,
when she would hold
her hands over her eyes
and the cracks of sunlight,
like old paint on drywall,
would shine through
to let her know exactly
who it was that held her.
Who is it?
And at that moment of recognition
Melissa felt…
...she felt okay.
More than photons
reflecting off of totem shells,
humanity is conch-cradled
in her dusk where light perception
is limited to the moon, where blind
is a swear word and an oath
dependent on a circadian
arcade: she is blind
and going blinder.
Lingering,
she allows herself a curfew
to blow out the lantern
and sing without color
for the first time.
Melissa,
you rely on a perfect balance—
trusting the sunshine to smile
on your bare arms at eight a.m.,
two p.m., half-past six and ticking on,
letting the moon comfort you
as patchwork clouds shawl over
midnight's studded shoulders,
leaving behind aspects of life:
natural, mundane, mechanical,
and self-made doubts.
Don't fo
:iconNichrysalis:Nichrysalis
:iconnichrysalis:Nichrysalis 48 38
Literature
Ghost in the Machine
There were days
Melissa measured
her happiness in brightness,
when she would hold
her hands over her eyes
and the cracks of sunlight,
like old paint on drywall,
would shine through
to let her know exactly
who it was that held her.
Who is it?
And at that moment of recognition
Melissa felt…
...she felt okay.
More than photons
reflecting off of totem shells,
humanity is conch-cradled
in her dusk where light perception
is limited to the moon, where blind
is a swear word and an oath
dependent on a circadian
arcade: she is blind
and going blinder.
Lingering,
she allows herself a curfew
to blow out the lantern
and sing without color
for the first time.
Melissa,
you rely on a perfect balance—
trusting the sunshine to smile
on your bare arms at eight a.m.,
two p.m., half-past six and ticking on,
letting the moon comfort you
as patchwork clouds shawl over
midnight's studded shoulders,
leaving behind aspects of life:
natural, mundane, mechanical,
and self-made doubts.
Don't fo
:iconlion-essrampant:lion-essrampant
:iconlion-essrampant:lion-essrampant 22 12
Literature
masquerade
I am a chameleon
of flawless facade,
lost amongst the masquerade. 
:iconTheBareSheet:TheBareSheet
:iconthebaresheet:TheBareSheet 13 8
Literature
Widow Starving, Man Still Thinking
salted tongue, head aches
the widow starves
Love's economy crumbles
like bread loaves
never given -- just discussed. 


:iconTristanCody:TristanCody
:icontristancody:TristanCody 8 11
Literature
speechless
no one ever gets a word from me
because i save them all
for you
well,
you were always the charitable type
and i think
it's time you start sharing
:iconMatieuCanadaWilliams:MatieuCanadaWilliams
:iconmatieucanadawilliams:MatieuCanadaWilliams 9 0

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nawkaman
Nathan
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
We were dried, salted
slit sideways and spilled
no insides out.

And then I knew
we were such empty shells.

**

I am genuinely grateful for any fave that I get, so if I don't thank you individually it is because I hate the feeling that I'm just replying cookie cutter thanks. But know that I do appreciate the support very much.
Interests
I'm feeling like doing some in depth poetry critique. WHO WANTS???

Link me one piece of poetry or short prose, let me know what kind of feedback you are looking for, let me know if you prefer via comment or more privately via note. I am going to be honest with you if there are things I think can be improved, but I think I do a pretty good job of keeping any more critical elements from being soul-crushing or insulting. Also, know that I'm not an expert and I don't think I am the arbiter of what is good in poetry/literature. Just a longtime reader/writer of poetry offering my opinions, should anyone want them. 

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
This is super late but thank you so much for the fave! It really means a lot :dalove:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconcurls-and-yelling:
curls-and-yelling Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
I hold every fave from you in special reverence. They make me feel like I don't write garbage. 

Many thanks and much love. 
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconiyraemm:
IyraEMM Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2018
how rude am i! :noes: HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY! :tighthug:
you are so special and beautiful, and i hope you realise that!
thank you for being a wonderful friend :heart:

FAXING YOU PUMPKIN FRITTERS! 
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconnullibicity:
Nullibicity Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
I saw it was your birthday! Just wanted to swing by to say that I hope it's a truly great one! Warm and best wishes to you :happy birthday: 
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconbrennennn:
brennennn Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2018
Happy birthday, Nathan :D
Reply
(1 Reply)
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