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BLOOM: Chapter 3. Teeth.
    There's an art to a good steak that I've never mastered. Who cares, right? It's one of those things I figured out early on in college. I'm just not a grilling kind of guy. I don't drink IPAs in the evenings, I don't ‘hit the gym’ at six every Saturday, I have no idea what happened in ‘the game’. I'm not that kind of guy. I like cider. I only did the hundred meter dash to pay for college. I'm an academic, okay? I can buy a nice steak at a restaurant.
    Will, though. I don't know who taught the scientist to grill with such confidence– J109 can't cook, and Claude mostly eats out of cans. He must have taught himself. It's nice to watch a person do something that they're good at; look at how comfortable he is with the fire, how firm his hands are on the well seasoned cast-iron skillet. It's quiet in the garden for now, but that won’t last. You know how flesh spits and rages in face of the extraordinary.
:iconphilologie:philologie 1 0
Anything to think anything different.
I know the question has been asked before by every poet + I know
the answer:
I’m never going to "write your name
out of my bones”. You're not a virus
and I'm not immune, anyways. Look,
I dump you out + you coat my hands
like chalk. I never had the luxury
of forgetting and I never had
the luxury of apathy. I can build you
out of paper. I can put the words back into your mouth. I know who you are.
It isn't interesting.
You're not interesting.
But homunculus, mysteries
are prions and they are my bread.
My solutions are never wrong but god help me
if I let them unravel
their riddles
:iconphilologie:philologie 4 0
BLOOM: Chapter 2
The mirrored surfaces of a pomegranate seed glint and blind
When Will walks in
to the last class of the semester
he takes up the whole room.
The five hundred seats?
Those are his. He needs the space.
The dim lights, the stage lights?
They're nothing in his wake.
    I don't even think he's entirely conscious of it, of the way the students who catch sight of his face turn to look again, caught by his inexorable gravity. Even Syb, folded up at the back of the classroom as he is, finds himself taking a second glance. And who could blame them? I can feel his pull beating at the soft, vital places of my gut even now, devastating even in memory. Will, dressed as himself for the first time all semester; in his binder, the evening and morning star. He might've filled in his brows and darkened the shadows below his cheekbones and jaw, but in this moment he is nothing less than the beautiful youth of myth, the Tempter of Psyche. He comes with an uncon
:iconphilologie:philologie 1 0
Mature content
BLOOM. Chapter 1. Snake. :iconphilologie:philologie 1 0
zero acquaintance
thank fuckin god i cant sleep
n thank god i only know
about that 1 secret necklace u wear everyday
n thank god i only know how its
blue+grey+black beads
lie across ur clavicle + mustve gotten
caught in ur hair back when u wore it long + not more
n thank god i only know u have a thing for ponytails + chokers + pretty girls
cursing like its no thing + not more n thank god i only know 1 version of
u in a t-shirt + not more n thank god I only saw you
the one time and when you did, thank god you only took me with you
for a couple of minutes n thank god u left me intact enough that
i could still fold myself back up when u were
done with me n thank god
u unfolded me too
n thank GOD i make u too nervous to make eye contact anymore
like somehow now that im closer in body im closer in mind n thank god i can pretend that ur only so tense cause i frighten u + not cause neither of us is sleeping 4 the sheer fucking terrifying cliff face of 30 seconds a week of awkward face time n thank fucki
:iconphilologie:philologie 4 0
BLOOM: A Prologue. Ashes || Humus
Author's note: Trigger warnings at the bottom, as per the usual
    Eucalyptus (1). The sea breeze is strong here just before dawn, and it carries with it a shower of stiff, dead, clattering leaves and the queer pungent odor of their still-green siblings. The ground around the stump on which my Will is standing is carpeted with these leaves; when he takes a step down the scent of them will rise up around him in ecstatic fanfare. It will rise up to permeate his clothes, tangle itself around his blunt fingers, wreathe his curls in an enigmatic crown. He will be clear-eyed.
    Eucalyptus is not the only scent that swirls across the old, disused parking lot behind us. There is also the scent of fire, and the scent of smoke, and the scent of salt, and together they are almost overwhelming. In front of Will, to the east, a beach is bracketed by the ancient trees, a profusion of darkly blushing ice plants (2) giving way to tired grassy hillocks
:iconphilologie:philologie 1 3
Tao Be: Chapter 6. What we cannot eat
    Even though Wil’s hand is gloved, and even though the glove is well-made– densely knit to combat the thick mountainous cold that beleaguers this landscape for so much of the year– and even though our scientist is driven forward by an icy fury that rivals the forest around her in barbarity and numbs just the same– even so, the grip my Wil has on that blackberry vine has got to hurt. The noise is catastrophic when the runner wrenches her arm to her side; the vine snaps, but not before pulling a part of the canopy down with it. Wil leaves the mangled bramble in the snow to freeze and thaw and rot away, here, alone in the woods. Its thorns leave her glove riven, but she is alive and it has died by her hand.
    The moon is out and full and directly overhead, and nothing else in this atavistic woods is moving; each shattering impact can be traced to our boxer. Will's very passage is calamitous, his shoulders snapping twigs
:iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
Tao Be: Chapter 5. Quotidian Violence
A/N: Hi. So one, I'm not at all sure how to trigger warn for this - so here's a nebulous warning that the people in this are, by and large, being shitty. Beyond that, I think I'd get too far into 'author says' territory. If you need more, feel free to PM me and I'll elaborate. Two, I retconned Will's hair - oops, didn't mean to make him blond before. You're not going crazy if you remember that happening. Three, I'm honestly having a really hard time with the use of Wil/she. Legit this was such a hard chapter to write - did you notice that I spent like 85% of the last four chapters avoiding Will's name/pronouns? I couldn't do that here, and honestly I think I shouldn't anyways. 
    At the airport, a can of soda is $3.25 and a turkey sandwich with lettuce (1) and cheese is $7.75. Wil sits down in one of the ancient vinyl chairs at baggage claim and puts mayonnaise and mustard on the wilting lettuce, her bare arms chilled by the cy
:iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
a natural fucking [set of gams/woman]
There are edges you just didn't grow to.
Seams you'll never sew up.
And because of this
u hot bb.
I can see u got power in u.
suck my dick
:iconphilologie:philologie 1 0
Tao Be: Chapter 4. D.A.R.V.O.
A/N: Ok girls, guys, and otherwise. I'm putting the trigger warnings at the top of this one cause it's a fucking minefield. Herein there are discussions of 
- Drug abuse, overdoses
- Domestic violence
- Sexual assault/rape
- Emotional/psychological abuse
- The systematic destruction of a person
- Character death
- Toxic masculinity
- Mental illness
- Frankly a billion terrible people
- Blame games
- Overuse of the word 'fuck'
All in under 1400 words! Jesus. I do like to throw the book at you, don't I?
    “Uh, hi. I’m uh, looking for Wil Helmar. If this is the right number, call me back. Oh, uh. This is Marc. Mika’s… Mika’s Marc.”
    “Hi again. I looked it up, so I’m pretty sure this is your number. I uh. I need to talk.”
    “I think, uh. I think I’m just gonna talk here. You can delete this if you want. I just need someone to talk to, and I figure
:iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
Tao Be: Chapter 3. I do.
Author's note: Trigger warnings at the bottom, as per the usual
16 November, 9:13 AM
    The seat across from Wil is shaking. It judders against the metal of the bus, not quite secured after the woman in the wheelchair got off at the last stop. Verdigris and plastic and mechanized and loud, it makes the scientist think of glaciers: how, at its end, the noise of their calving will hit onlookers in an unforgiving wall of sound and shiver through a bloodstream like a song or an electromagnetic pulse. Perhaps this is because she is shaking too. Deep cracks striate the road on which they are traveling and the bus hasn’t slowed down in the slightest. The student’s heart riots in her chest.
    Perhaps we carry things like a glacier’s birth and death with us forever; the heart still riots when they come to a halt at the next stop. And when the woman rises to follow the nurses in their pink and blue scrubs. And when s
:iconphilologie:philologie 1 1
Tao Be: Ch. 2. by philologie Tao Be: Ch. 2. :iconphilologie:philologie 3 0
Tao Be: Article II. Hello, oxygen
    Light flows like water and it flows like wine. Like victimhood. Light’s got power. When light strikes an object, it is forced to reveal what it truly is. To wit: when light strikes, it strikes. The unlucky molecule in its path deforms to conform to the blow. Energy and matter are the same; we spit back out what we cannot eat. Light’s never really reflected– we always taste it first.
    Light’s got power. Lightning struck, physicists in sunless labs ponder sailing ships on photic power, paint calculary pictures of spaceflight under sylphy foils. It’ll push you around.
    In the beginning, archaea coiled restless on the Siderian sea. In the dark they preyed on each other without teeth, without eyes, with purity–
    – purity of intent. In the dark and in the beginning, creatures were buil
:iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
Tao Be: Chapter 1. The Pit.
A/N: Click for trigger warnings at the bottom of the page. Discussion of those in the author's comments. Also: my pen name (for this, at least) is Gabriel Baird... so the name Gabriel would be on the cover of the novel if someone were to have this in print.
    With the wind in his face and the sun in his hair, Will listens to the ocean. Today, the surf is placid, peaceful, plodding, and in it you can hear the earth’s great heart beating.  In the surge and pull of the Pacific, slender thalli find themselves repeatedly exposed, their peculiar air-filled fingers caught in continuous salutation, translucent green on the glaucous sea (1). The tide is going out.
    The beach we’re on is new, geologically speaking. There’s no sand. The ocean has sorted the lithic shore, though. First, we walk on pebbles, then stones, rocks, boulders. It’s a perilous spit of land. You can still see the seaspum
:iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
A/N: This text might be triggering. However, I am not convinced that I can add warnings without being a bit too on the nose. With that in mind, please feel free to note me if you want the warnings before proceeding.
Level One: Physiological Needs
    A text: it’s two thirty on a Friday morning, and the man’s phone has been going off every ten to fifteen minutes. The last gap was thirteen minutes, and it was almost enough time for the student to fall asleep. He’s exhausted; yesterday Cal had sent him a picture of herself, nude and artfully arranged, at 11:45 PM, just after he’d settled into bed. You can’t ignore your girlfriend’s nudes, especially when she knows that you’ve just turned off the lights. The night before, our student stayed over at Cal’s. The fight they’d had that night had stretched into the early hours of the morni
:iconphilologie:philologie 3 1
Tao Be: A Prologue. Transference or transposition
A/N: Click for trigger warnings at the bottom of the page.
    Let’s talk about Abraham Maslow. I’m sure you remember this from our time at university, but I think it bears repeating. It’s a nice frame, you know. Easier to point out what went wrong when you know what would have been right. Why else study anything?
    So: Maslow. At the bottom of his hierarchy, there lie our basic needs. Food, sleep, air. Sex. Animal needs that inform everything loftier we aspire to. We’re not any better than chimps. You can’t really blame us. It’s basic biology.
    What do you think the best way to neutralize a threat would be? Not through anything as extreme as death, of course. But the best way to distract someone from what they might want to do to you. I’ll tell you, though we both know already. Attack them at their most basic, cut away their foundation. Make sure they can’t
:iconphilologie:philologie 3 6


Songbird and Statue
In days before the dawn of time, two gods struggled for control over all that was. One was named Order, who strove above all for stillness and perfection. The other was named Chaos, who strove above all for motion and change. When Order set the spheres upon their paths, Chaos sent out comets to knock them astray. When Order called land out from the water, Chaos tore it asunder. These gods fought ceaselessly, yet they had formed from the void as twins and each was as strong as the other.
     “This battle is futile,” said Order one day, after countless aeons of struggle. “We must settle our differences by some other means.”
    “For once we are in agreement,” Chaos conceded. “But what do you propose?”
    Ten millennia passed while Order considered its challenge.
    “We should each of us set a great work upon the mortal plane. To these works shall our fa
:icondamonwakes:DamonWakes 32 21
Heading South
I'm heading south
to meet the ocean.
swallowing miles
like a hungry dog
with blood under nails
pain in all teeth
with thunders in stomach
fingers in the sky
and hope
I'm heading south.
leaving sweet Aussie
locked in memories
of milky Tipperary
leaving friends
hanging laundry
on the lines
leaving all but hope
I'm heading south.
can't wait to hear seagulls scream
and waves rumble
like a second pulse
can't wait to feel the city live
torrents of energy
ecstatically rushing
through me
and the stake slowly slips out of my core
and my substance does not leak away
and I can breathe again
with no pain
and I'm still alive
so alive
so alive!
heading south
to embrace the ocean.
:iconulfrvandreren:ulfrvandreren 31 13
to the sea, dandelion. to the sea.
take me to the sea,
peel back the gelatinous night
& scrape dandelion seeds from my tongue;
gardens will not grow within me.
remove the risk,
trim chance so thin that anorexia sounds out,
pretty & darling in the light,
a compliment for the dying.
bury what will never be in the heart of a dune,
say words if you must but know that i,
i will not.
this choice has long been buried,
its resting place blatantly ignored.
:iconazuline-furcula:azuline-furcula 9 4
Containment and Bounds
Some people are too fearful and enraged at the prospect of being rejected that they can't take time to get to know another person and let that other person decide if they want to be there or not.
They press and then they curse, but never really open themselves to the process of truly communing with someone.
For them it's all or nothing. But the "all" is a complete illusion, because they never made space for anything significant from the other side to enter into their considerations in the first place. The system is closed. Manipulation secures needs, not openness and invitation. Being open with another person could mean rejection, so it is banned, shut away, carefully kept at bay. You never truly know someone you have not been open together with.
"All or nothing" mentality is a sign of inner chaos, the kind of black and white thinking that emerges out of panic and a sense of powerlessness. When we cannot manage our own boundaries and self, sometimes we let other people intrude on us in
:iconsquibblyquill:squibblyquill 4 2
Join the Waiting List for DeviantArt Eclipse

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:icondanlev:danlev 23,308 27,063
we talk in rivers. I have noticed
them flow in the midst of our
conversations – mine the thames,
serpentine slipping as a whisper
through the low meadows, quiet
and hissing. yours the five rivers
of the punjab, vying like brothers
in a tumult of froth and noise,
wrestling their way through
mangrove roots and mazes.
the rivers raised us, taught us their ways.
somewhere two oceans meet in a
place where there is no wind,
the doldrums silent and still
as two currents cancel out in
a moment of collision. as the
thames flows into the punjab
and halts, so too do we stand
together, silent, over-brimming
with restrained tidal waves,
our currents ceased and bridled
each time we kiss in a place
where even time stills its flow.
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 18 4
the dog-days have come
and hounded me with
curled tongues and wicked eyes.
they have lain on the ceilings of
humid rooms and sweated out a balm
of indecision, snarling at my faltering
steps, gnashing at my heels that dare demand
fresh air and space to decide
where they go from here.
the hounds of summer have come early
this year, pressing hot against my legs
as the city is plagued with heat and
restlessness. the museums stir with the
winds of desert climes, sarcophagi sighing
with the last breathes of locust swarms and
harsh sunlight. the parks lay flat and bleached,
grass and concrete singing in unison pleading
for rain. it is a constant chorus, the wish
for rainfall, so desperate that the city
would see softness in thunderstorms, grace
in the violence and tumult of a summer rainstorm.
but those dogs won’t let me be.
they howl through the night while
I seek coolness from open windows
and evening breezes. they bite at my hands
as I swat them away, pacing through walls of
stiff he
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 11 4
Mature content
FFM 2018 27: Tomatoes for Flowers :iconilyilaice:ilyilaice 13 38
six pieces of the sun
the pavement is cracked
a metaphor for chipped
coffee-stained teeth
and you’ll ask for any
distraction to shield yourself
from the scrutiny
even in this breaking
this entering
this sharpening of sound
you discover elements of self
that no periodic table
could ever chart
the doves speak gossip
ask you what you think
of the bruised apples
society deems you invalid
but you have never been
so present, so aware
within the bustle of
the shape-shifting station
you travel back to yourself
and find the sense of calm
you’d been chasing for ages
but could not grasp
pour light into the wound
pour yourself out
onto the sidewalk
let them never think
you shied away from
the hard things
the world couldn’t ask
for a better version
of you, or you it
your brightest self
steps before the window
and your mouth lifts
:iconharperq:HarperQ 37 17
They look quite like bits of dead, dried lavender, but when you plant them in rich soil, they grow two slim grey doves in a month. They sit on the bed post above your head, side by side. In most of your dreams, it rains now. When you are sad at night, a song like a soft blanket weaves itself through the room and rests over your shoulders; when you laugh, the birds startle and disappear.
The birdseed bush, looking like an enlarged lavender plant, will yield new ones from its purple blossoms within a week if needed.
:iconladybitterblue:LadyBitterblue 2 3
a mesopotamian poem
restless and simultaneous
he arched his wings and landed, god,
on the walls of the city, on the saffron bricks.
he who had seen the deep,
twittered and nested his head
on the curve of his neck.
and you when will you come, evening star?
and when will your sleep
burnish his song?
:iconordie:ordie 3 0
morning broke the spell
morning broke the spell
the mirror shattered, now
a galaxy filled with fluttering shards
dancing in air so still it's a wonder
anything could break at all.
softly, winter scars our lungs.
:iconraido-ehwaz:raido-ehwaz 35 19
Moral Letters to Lucilius
My dear Lucilius.
Once again I encourage you to ponder
The virtues of temperance
And tranquillity.
My dear Lucilius.
Long have I written to you incessantly,
And told you tales of brave souls
That you might copy them.
We are both making great progress.
My dear Lucilius.
Our friends tell me
That in your party nights you pass by my house
And sing just a bit lower
So as not to wake me up.
I have indeed a light sleep,
Though not from cares,
But from the light electric the gods
Planted inside me,
In my spirit,
And that keeps me up at night
While I write to you.
My dear Lucilius.
Tell me news. Some say
That every night you sing
Until your lips stiffen and numb.
I have trouble believing this.
You do not sing, you pray.
Always have you kept the two apart.
And be that as it may I do not think you could sing
Without me there to give you the tone.
This is true,
Is it not?
My dear Lucilius.
Once again I ask that you direct your body
To just deeds, that you conform your soul
To the super-celestial g
:iconordie:ordie 28 12
The Lady of the Mountain
Bright laughter wafted over the deep snow. Out of a little village nestled in the Kaetsu Mountains all the children ran to play, diving into the fresh whiteness.
They had snow for half the year, so it wasn't a novelty, but the fresh snows were always the softest.
One boy was particularly lively. A young child named Aito.
He was beautiful, with kohl-black hair and blue eyes. The villagers would often say Aito's eyes trapped the icy heart of a snowstorm in them.
Snowballs flew through the air for a while until someone suggested a game of hide and seek. Aito always found the best hiding spots.
One girl started counting and the rest of the children scampered off.
Aito ran into the forest uphill. He was determined to be the last one found.
The trees were sparse for the first hundred or so yards, but the boy quickly reach the brush. He weaved through the trees like a squirrel and dove under the branches of an ancient pine. It was dark and quiet underneath the tree and Aito laughed softly to
:iconjenlafayette:JenLaFayette 34 22
     We tore up the seedling grass you and I
     planted so
     We were outside watching it grow, we are
     little pure stalks in chocolate-
     pie earth
     But it is spring and we are young
     And the pastime of the nimble is
:iconinkatmidnight:InkatMidnight 19 25


Hey Fam (USAmerican and otherwise),

I've been real quiet the past few weeks, mainly because of my hand issues. But I figure it's time we had a talk. 

The United States is a cluster fuck right now. It is. Tomorrow is election day, as you probably already know. I know there are a lot of people who ‘don't like politics’, and who ‘don't want to argue’. I used to be one of you. But the thing is, that is a position of such incredible privilege: being able to avoid politics means that the way the United States is right now doesn't affect you at all, or at least not enough that you feel compelled to react. And that's not a bad thing! I wish everyone could say “I prefer to avoid politics”! That's like the ideal world.

But this is not the ideal world, and to behave as if it is is a disservice to those who cannot avoid politics. To those whose very selves have been politicized. If the time dilation of 45*’s administration hasn’t fucked with me too much, it was just two weeks ago that it was announced that trans people would be defined out of existence in governmental matters. To understate things, this is a problem: no acknowledgment of trans people means no healthcare (no transition, no therapy), no acknowledgment of hate crimes. Erasing the existence of people on paper makes it easier to erase their existence in reality. Trans people are already the targets of so much incoherent hate. This will make it easier to get away with.

It's not just trans people who are threatened by this administration, of course. There are also POC, women, LGB individuals, immigrants, non-Christians, I could go on. Fucking farmers? My housemate is a birthright citizen– they can't actually take that away via executive order, no matter what 45* says, but the very proposal is problematic. It's a threat. It's a symptom. 

My point is not to go on a political rant on an art website. My point is that if you think that anything that I have written is worth reading, then 

you need to go vote 

for people who will make it safe for me to keep writing. I won't say ‘keep’ it safe, because in the United States it's never really been safe to be trans or queer. If you are on the fence about voting, let this be the impetus to do so.

Yours always,



philologie's Profile Picture
United States
I'm a nomad, I’m a scientist, I’m a bad singer. I started to lead a very strange life in 2010, and it's only getting weirder.

Writing is not in my blood. I don’t sound like a poet (though maybe I look like one). My work trains me to write rationalism. My work trains me to see wonder in the small things and to translate that wonder into dense, mundane manuscripts.

So here I am: this is my growth mindset put to task.



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LadyPleiades Featured By Owner Sep 18, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Appreciate the fave. :heart:
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Thanks for the fave! Really appreciate your support :)
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xlntwtch Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2018   Writer
Thanks again! :iconrainbowsparklesplz:
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Thank you for the support, I appreciate it.
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