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About Literature / Professional Senior Member GrandpaMale/United States Groups :iconsuturehq: SutureHQ
Stitching 'em up since 2003
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Deviant for 16 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Random from DD's I Featured

Lilith makes me wonder
What if Adam just plain lied
     And  Eve
        with apple juice
           Running down her chin
Just     let    it    slide
Is the whole story  a hoax
A different mother
                    than Mary
                        No father
:iconathenarules:athenaRules 441 333
Rogue Emotion
Peals of my heart infused words into ripe coffee,
Thoughts lag behind two eclectic smiles,
Trapezing back and forth
With the man in the corner, Rounding into a plum
Quiescent ink dispersed into my pen's shadow,
Audacious whiskers from the arch of time
Adorns two sets of stoic eyes, immersed with  
Two Hundred-fold of sight,
Raw upon wood, envisioning that sheath of skin,
A tremor of wind nudged a shying page, his grin,
Cobblestone fingers tapping to memories tune,
Like fair palms of cream, I'm sure, once performed,
As Adolescent scrawls, reached Puberty, leathered
Lips whetted with poised confectionary,
Multicultured ants scattered forth to days when even
Imagination, succumbed to effusions of City Light
Outside leaves canter, mollifying stray words  
A blemish lingers, straddled upon a surface of blue lines,
Urban eyes twinkle, much like the stars,
The one's conceived by pure ink from Two Hearts.
:iconnashua:nashua 55 58
Mature content
finding symbolism in sunsets. :icondriftwood:driftwood 72 48
a pick-pocket cigarette, first of the day, meets my lips
   with the shock of the afternoon-daybreak sun.
a single chance of impression, careless as the blurs
   passing by, lands amongst the first to jump at it
and when one's clever enough to see above the rest,
   the maddening roar of everyone else
is just enough to drown any incidental gleam,
   dreams of what they should have been.
now I sink in unseen corners, shroud myself
   behind imaginary one-way mirrors, scribbling
as fast as possible, capturing it all, save for
   when I am far too lost in it; myself a victim.
are these to be encyclopedic rolls of the tongue
   like soft-blip, rhetorical representations with just
enough candor to be passed off as an epic catalog
   or am I dribbling a false self-titled endowment?
:iconthenakedlunch:thenakedlunch 102 54
while my hands drifted.
escrevo para te dizer que
nasci torto no crescendo do céu
químico, obsoleto
pútrido como a manga do teu espaço
escrevo para te dizer que sei de mim
que sou dos dias e dos matagais
das sombras frescas e dos sismos
escrevo para te dizer que soçobro da cafeína
para te dizer que te escolho
dos rios, da calçada
dos gritos dos taipais
da sombra dos edifícios.
i write to tell you that
i was born crooked in the crescendo of the sky
chemic, obsolete
putrid as the sleeve of your space
i write to tell you that i know from me
that i am from the days and woods
unsullied precincts and typhoons
i write to tell you that i am
the rest of caffeine
to tell that i choose you
from the rivers, the pavement
from the screams of blind venetians
from the silhouette of the buildings.
:iconbeascissor:beascissor 65 53
Summer Nights
Summer Nights
We slam our shotglasses into the low wooden table,
Ties loose about our necks,
Shirts drenched with sweat
And the floral scent of the dancer
Writhing around on our loose change
And currency bills that have zero value;
Work cut deep into our energies,
Turning our brains to bread
Our legs to butter
Sharpening stakes and spears
Tightening our leather boots
And rushing through the yellow grass
At the bounding elk;
We slam our shotglasses into the low wooden table,
Slapping each others' backs
Like we are part of the same business family, yeah
Our cubicles are as wide as grazing plains
Our fax machines shimmer with smoke
From pyres on hilltops and crags
Our laptop presentations
In the entrails of hyenas,
Or the broken eggs of old birds
Our staff lounge
A pit of fire
The boss
Is the sky
Sometimes he rages, wants us to go
Strikes us with lightning and bores down with rain;
Work cut deep into our energies,
Stumbling through freezing streams
And bleeding into ice
For dinner to brin
:iconciaran:ciaran 28 23
Your Poem
On the twentieth day of July 69,
For the first time in history,
The moon landed on a man.
The first time such move had been attempted by a celestial body,
A great feat of precision,
Didn't crush the man at all.
You see, we see things from our eyes,
And everyone knows our eyes see upside down.
Or is that the right way up?
I could tell you about walking through deserts,
The beauty of running water, of rain,
You'd be thinking of TV shows.
When was the last time you were challenged,
Walked away from a conversation stunned.
Who are you listening to, me or yourself?
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Is meaning in the eye of the reader?
More importantly, are you reading this upside down?
Every word you read is yours,
Make your own sentences,
Take your own morals.
And even though I wouldn't dream of telling you what to do,
Look within other people,
You'll see yourself.
Find out what you are,
Where you are headed.
Find your own moon and land on it.
:iconsilveroxide:silveroxide 179 80
She's aphasic. She doesn't
cough mustard gas
from rice paper lungs.
Her armies have learned
it's habit to fight,
fall back,
lose a black mud trench
and retake it
five hours later.
For one million casualties,
one hundred yards were gained.

Each yard
is ten thousand men down,
and she crawls
over their bodies,
fingers and toes
with dirt, blood,
and blue flesh.
She says,
Sometimes I'm so hungry
that I feel full,
sick and clenched.
And sometimes
my empty hands feel
like they're holding something
and solid.
:iconthimbleisland:ThimbleIsland 52 39
in apartment b16
I throw you as I hear the widow cry
beneath us. I imagine
her to  have  a veil of make-up running
down her face, or maybe she is bent
in the shadow
of a crucifix or a sun catcher,
starving for some light.
I heard she once went bicycling
over the dry dirt
roads of Italy, and chased the man
she loved into a private
Then in Boston, or New Haven,
she would laugh,  throwing
her stockings to the wind
as she watched them parachute
down where the children
They would smile ,
and life would begin.
But, really, as we drag and pull, she
is gone. She has moved past Amber
Street, and has taken
to baking breads,
and holding them
in her arms
as she once held
her children.
:iconxtape:xtape 47 46
the sea salty sweet with
birdcry (the sea salty sweet with)
the sea was his womb;
the salt the waves the sea
the boy, he counted waves:
three, three-hundred
and said: I'll live to be that--
-- old man drowning & crow-
birds cawing &
                             let's pretend he is deaf:
        and the waves have number but not
        the sound of rushing past quickly. the
        old man doesn't stop drowning, though
        a croak, silent & open-mouthed desperation,
        carries him under.
:iconbeestung:beestung 70 74
Love Poem
last night I made a man
out of pillows and forgotten
fragments of clothes
we'd pushed into my drawers.
I held my pillow-man's hand
and made sure he wasn't too warm
because it is summer;
I'm on the second floor;
and that was always your
biggest complaint.
this morning I tried to shower
but would turn off the water and run
like a soapy dog, complete with
loyal tail wagging, to the door
thinking you'd come knocking.
You hadn't.
tomorrow will taste like
the food of a week ago
and I'll wear sunglasses,
which, if you know me,
(and you do)
will seem out of context
and like a little girl
playing dress up.
I know there are supposed to be
thunderstorms, perfect
radio love songs, movies with Meg
Ryan and wondering when we'll meet
but God
doesn't budge on the details.
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 1,907 501
8th April, 1973
Avignon knows that April has arrived;
a week has passed, and perfection closed -
who has seen the crazy life inside?
The Man recants, his life deformed, perhaps,
should shelter become intensified
and an easier existence found for tortured Art.
When War came, and open flowed expense,
can curling pleasure hurt the Earth
now that pain is documented?
In Heart's true strength the burden passed
into quiet ceasing moments; years;
fragrant pastures blaze in golden light.
She is softness, your Renaissance, old man;
ninety famous stretches, fulsome workaholic -
pretty Jacqueline, clothed at last; your love.
:iconjahg:jahg 78 160
i want to read your body
like neruda poem
written in braille,
my fingers searching
the pages of your skin,
gently brushing away
the hair that falls  
like a silken bookmark
across your face.
i will work my way
down the page, hands
trembling with excitement,
anticipating which words
will follow.
fingers will linger
in some areas, reread,
so that on lonely nights
like this one I will
be able to recite
the subtle nuances of
your neck or the mystery
surrounding your navel.
I would try to interpret
the verse for others,  
but there is no translation
for your lungs breathing
into the palm of my hand,
or your heart, beating
its ancient tribal rhythms
in correspondence with mine.
:icondreamsnhazel:dreamsnhazel 273 115
Mature content
About Her (Adoration) :iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 117 82
A Not-Love Poem
[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.]
This is not a love poem,
                       not-love, a not-love poem.
Falling waist deep into February
            stomping the signatures of lost years
            in footprints on the pristine present-
            this, not-night has become electric
            with memories smashing through
            the thin ice of teenage alchemy,
                   charged, with the possibility of
            or even                         a complete skeleton
                                                   of our separate childhoods
                                                   frozen underneath.
            we, are the miners of nostalgia, now.
But in this not-night,
            with the subtle city lights,
:iconjustaphase:justaphase 749 174
A collection of some of the DD's I featured during my 2 1/2 years as Tier Admin/Gallery Director. It's depressing to see how many DD's have been deleted, either because the author quit the site or was banned during the Great Purge of 2005. I've counted 38 such poems that are lost to us. What a shame.

Random Favourites

Mature content
Blood Red Blood Blue Bluegrass :iconchesterfield:chesterfield 32 28
Mature content
memoirs of a whore :iconphoenixtx:phoenixtx 868 363
And it all came together with a crash
an expanding singularity creating
pure noise
         Monumental foam rising in a desert sea
    of waking
The monsters and the carnivores of the soon
and the twisting never
The cancers and the throbbing monads
The green megaliths and groping
The plush sentients
       All at once.
Ascending mightily a broad expanse of unbounded
Surely not.
But all the same expelling passionately
the voidless form of before
to sum up into waves of sonic being all that
   would pass for passing
all that would crash and scream and pass.
        and indolent proportions
of waving wind spun across new fields
making bread, eating it
:iconsuckmysobriquet:suckmysobriquet 57 41
I am the tree-in-winter man
bough bent with wintry woes
seeking spring.
Inside, below the gnarled and ravelled rind,
inscribed by glacial ink in cruel seasons,
exigencies and crises lie curled
concentrically in seized circles
from heartwood to the bark.
Inside, again, sap congealed and gelid
trapped static in harsh-hardened tracheids,
sits still pooled and sorrow chilled
in serried cellular ranks
from yesterday's roots to tomorrow's twig.
Yes, I am the tree-in-winter man
waiting for spring's demulcent peach-pink
breath to melt and liquefy
from frigid core to icebound bole
and tempt the sap to surge and rise.
And then these soft green buds
I harboured in the long dark days
will plump and swell;
and blossoms white as snow
will ecstatically burst the knotted bark
to be strewn and scattered on the ground
finding spring.
:iconmeic2:meic2 27 28
Coffee Mugs
It's a man's world,
you can tell
from the dirty coffee mugs,
huddled together on the table.
The lone water bottle stands above them,
imposing, clear and tall, as its owner,
Her pregnant belly precedes her like a shield:
a neon sign flashing "here I am".
In the elevator, two people dare a smile
while they talk of things they know
no-one else cares about.
They wear glasses and awkward clothes.
In this place time hangs like tepid air,
which no fresh wind can ever disperse.
:iconsarcastig:Sarcastig 22 40
He Thinks By Fire
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Rocky cobblestone.
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
us something
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
Sighs, speaks:
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!

He breathes.
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
:iconaltruisticlies:altruisticlies 14 21
Issues With Eight A.M.
A white van skids past,
spins slush inward, then rattles down Ninth.
Leaves shiver in little pendulum arcs,
bled dry and brittle.
Afraid to leap, they opt
to stare down spans of barren ground
as I walk to work.
The briefcase man turns green
and I grimace, plod the last block.
Wednesday might as well be Monday
as the door clicks closed.
:iconterov:terov 9 40
Listen to the sea by Bobrova Listen to the sea :iconbobrova:Bobrova 49 15 M X Y by AshenCreative M X Y :iconashencreative:AshenCreative 75 19
Deviants in Print: E. Kristin Anderson
Welcome once again to Deviants in Print, where we chat with members of the deviantART Literature community who have been published by traditional or nontraditional means, and pick their brains about how they did it, lessons learned, and life in general.
Today, poet, blogger and Young Adult novelist E. Kristin Anderson, known to many of us as PinkyMcCoversong, takes a few minutes from the writer's life to talk to us about getting published the hard traditional way, a writer's (gasp) social life, Bigfoot conventions, and cake.

First of all, how is the new place working out?
Oooooh I love it! I have so much counter space which is important, as any of my friends will tell you, I have a silly amount of kitchen appliances and bake constantly. Plus, lots of room for bookshelves so my home library will look less like piles of books in the corner and more like, well, a library. I do wish I didn't have to play human
:iconmemnalar:Memnalar 46 60
Bomber by tat2pooch Bomber :icontat2pooch:tat2pooch 82 8
Devious Minds: KneelingGlory
Discovering what makes us devious.
KneelingGlory :eager: :iconkneelingglory:
How did you first discover deviantART?
:eager: sweet-lyrical (who now goes by this-epiphany) mentioned on her LiveJournal that she was moving over here. I moved, too, so I could continue following her delicious writings. :) Haven't looked back since!
What was it about dA that made you want to stay?
:eager: The people. In my first year, I met so many incredibly talented and friendly writers and artists - it was a total mind trip. In real life, hardly anyone I know is the same kind of creative as me. I have mechanic friends, culinary friends, computer nerd friends - but no writer friends, no artist friends. So coming here, and discovering this huge network of people who just...get it...was incredible. If dA ever closes (heaven forbid :fingerscrossed:) they'll be kicking me out very last, with my fingers leaving claw marks on the door. :P
What is the story b
:iconpurpelblur:PurpelBlur 71 55
I Am Outraged About Something!
... while all the drama is going on (rightly or wrongly) I thought I'd throw this out there:
Visual Artists Read And Write, Too.
Well duh, Sal, you may say (and some smartarse will, now I've said it) - but the fact is, they do.
So why is there this imaginary line drawn between the art and literature galleries? Argue away that there isn't one - but there darned well is, and I find it annoying. You might even say - outrageous!
There's tens of thousands of multi-talented people on this site. And I'd really like to see more folks who are usually identified as visual artists:
:bulletred:  have a go at writing, and post a link here.
:bulletred: put their hands up as multi-talented artists here by linking a piece of their literature if they already do write.
This issue came to my attention during Flash-Fic-Month, when a bunch of folks who signed up and participated said things like, "I am a visual artist, I've never posted my written work here before Flash Fiction Mo
:iconsalshep:salshep 124 383
An Audience with Margaret Atwood


The Transcript of the event can be found here

One of Canada's best-known writers, Margaret Atwood is an internationally famous novelist, poet, and critic.

Throughout her writing career, Margaret Atwood has received numerous awards and honourary degrees. She is the author of more than thirty-five volumes of poetry, children's literature, fiction, and non-fiction and is perhaps best known for her novels, which include  The Edible Woman (1970),  The Handmaid's Tale (1983),  The Robber Bride (1994),  Alias Grace (1996), and The Blind Assassin, which won the prestigious Booker Prize in 2000.
:icontachy-on:Tachy-on 538 1,045
Daily Literature Deviations - July 2, 2010
Daily Lit Deviations for July 2nd, 2010
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
Please show your support by :+fav:ing this News Article
Don't hesitate to comment or :+fav: the artists for their hard work!
:star: For all of the featured artists: If you receive a DD for one of your pieces featured by DLD please note us. We will include you and your piece in a special recognition news article. :star:
Featured by RoxasWannabe

The West Coast by Drunken-Splice
This piece strikes the reader
with its impression of longing
and heartbreak. Truly a soft,
dysphoric piece.
Featured by the-photographicpoet

See I, never Know I by IJustShrugged
An ambiguous poem with excellent
use of narrative and tones
:icondailylitdeviations:DailyLitDeviations 52 1



Wheaton Prospectus The Irregular Sound Slotted Pig




I was watching a basketball game on television and during a commercial break, there he was! Starkist Charlie. I said, "Oh jeez, not this knob again." My son, home from college on break, said, "Whaaaat.....??"

Charlie was before my son's time, and that led me to wax rhapsodic about how some of the most successful ad campaigns of the 1970's played upon the worst aspects of human nature. Worse, most were aimed at children. When I had finished foaming at the mouth about it all, my son advised me to write it down. Rgr that.

Low Self-Esteem:

Starkist Charlie, the bespectacled, beret-wearing tuna whose greatest desire, and seemingly only goal in life, was to be murdered, hacked up, canned, consumed, and shat out by humans. Why? Merely to prove he was as good as the other tuna who got murdered, hacked, canned, eaten, and shat. But he didn't measure up to Starkist standards. I'm sure they suspected mercury poisoning, albino brain chiggers, or some other nefarious reason for his mental illness. There is probably a multitude of liability issues that would stem from selling psychotic tuna for consumption. And imagine if this dipshit was your son. "Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?" "I want to be murdered, canned and shat, papa!" That's when you point to your wife and say, "He gets that from YOUR side of the family!"


Sonny the Cuckoo Bird was a mentally unstable avian whose psychotic episodes were triggered by the proximity of Cocoa Puffs cereal. Despite trying a variety of activities and strategies to prevent himself from going apeshit, such as bowling, dancing, watching television, and even padlocking himself into a booth, a couple of shitty kids would show up with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and trigger him into completely flipping his lid. Just to watch him do it. These are the kinds of kids you can imagine pulling the wings off flies and setting cats on fire. But hey, young serial killers in training have to eat too, right? Might as well sell them some crap for breakfast.


The Trix Rabbit. All this guy wants is one lousy bowl of some wretched cereal and the kids won't give him any. Actually, even though the kids are being blatantly selfish, it's hard to blame them on this one. The rabbit is such an obnoxious putz. Imagine every time you sat down to eat a bowl of cereal, some idiot showed up and tried to scam you out of your food. Seriously, the rabbit has nothing better to do? Evidently he's got enough money to buy costumes and props, so why the hell doesn't he trundle his fluffy white ass down to the market and buy his own damned box of Trix? He's a grifter. A swindler. And he gets his jollies from bilking people. He ought to be in prison for his repeated attempts at theft and extortion. Let him eat prison food for 3 to 5. Maybe that'll put some sense into his head.

Willful Destruction of Property:

The kids are in the back yard or the park playing and getting all sweaty. One decides he/she is thirsty and needs another sugar bump. The other says, "Great idea!" They shout, "Hey Kool-Aid!" and this giant, pitcher-shaped clown busts through a wall or fence, singing an obnoxious song in a voice like Wolfman Jack. Who pays for the damage? The homeowner? Taxpayers? Certainly not the Kool-Aid creature, who loads the kids up with a neuron-popping sugar dose and shambles off on his red, stove-pipe legs. Seriously, this idiot looks like he should be leading cheers in a bush-league ball park. And even then, in my mind's eye, I can see all 1500 fans howling in rage and pelting him with beer bottles as he bursts through the bullpen wall. I wouldn't drink anything proffered by this twat. He's probably got a crawlspace somewhere stuffed to capacity with children's corpses. Remember what Jim Jones was swizzling with cyanide? That's right. You know where he got it? That's right.

Assault and Battery:

Hawaiian Punch used a couple of dickweeds to sell their beverage. One, a malevolent misanthrope named Punchy and the other, a borderline Downs Syndrome-type named Opie. Punchy would ask Opie if he wanted a nice Hawaiian punch. When Opie would inevitably say yes, Punchy would curl up a fist and blast him right in the fucking face. On second thought, maybe Opie doesn't have Downs, but brain damage from the accumulation of bolo-punches to the teeth. Gosh. Watching someone Pearl Harbor his buddy with a vicious haymaker sure makes me thirsty!

Edit: Gee, I just noticed that after Punchy whacks Opie in the chops, he freakin' tramples him. Lookit!
  • Listening to: Andrew Bird


ndifference's Profile Picture
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Memphis
Favourite cartoon character: David Lee Roth
Personal Quote: Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it.


:iconbarnaby: :icontroxxxi: :iconmenix11: :iconafterloon: :iconschluntz:


Add a Comment:
nonculture Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2018
I miss shootin' the shit with ya sometimes.  I'm sure once life allows, at some point we'll fiind a half baked notion to annoy people together again.  I still have that damned song/riff of yours I wanted to work on too.
ndifference Featured By Owner Jul 23, 2018  Professional Writer
I have no memory of a damned song riff.  Is it any good?
nonculture Featured By Owner 5 days ago
yeah, very.  I'll gmail it...if I forget remind me.
aaaaaaaahhhh Featured By Owner Jul 16, 2018
I have had my troubles, and I'm sure yours are suffered still; but friend, I'm glad you were a part of my life.
salshep Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2018
write things
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