Piishii-isdzan's avatar
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C
Cold at Four
Is there a technical term for a harp maker? If there isn't, it's you, as a body, that canine slithering. Your name doesn't ring right but it's what you do with it that counts: I tumbled around it and never said it at the correct second, like the cuboid-skulled choirgirl a note behind, loud and disgusting. A faulty reanimation. A blind semibreve. The banal usurping of my bookish tongue came on quick. I'm very sorry. Everything scratched backwards and now my spine streams from my throat, cursive handwriting. Scored in your scalp: the clicking of toes, falling asleep in the hands of metal men, forgotten criminality, barbed wire
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4Favourites
T
The Maritodespotic Path
I am naked beneath my coat of armour. I woke and thought it was the sickness I'd had before - my lips had never burned so smugly. The ghost of your dog came to me last night, while I dreamed; it burst into grey dust and told me my bulimic piano solos were beautiful. Dancing under the pregnant sky, a waning gibbous belly crowned with violet cloth, I converse with the moon - deep, dark French. I love to speak to hunted rabbits and unlit trees.
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3Favourites
W
Witch
My belletrist, little hunched cardigan-drenched finch, he says, Mess, blooded with French shores and burned cakes, don't you come to my hand anymore, crying poppies from sallow ducts, my tiny soil-saviour? Towel-lipped mare - he touches his own ass-ears with his spiked teeth and pets me 'til I'm salmon, sunset - Sleep in my bed, stocky moth, cease your painting, beetle queen, queenly slut, turned frizzy in the process of sharpening the sea, mouth your watercolours and hose down the wall - I am ill of him, his eating makes me a murderer - Newborn kettle-coffee throws a kiss and our son climbs my sullen thighs; I doubt we will f
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3Favourites
T
Tango
Burnished head consecrating tarnished thighs in the hot tongues of unborn sighs – candle-fingered, the light is bleeding into bed. Prince of stares in the semi-seeing night, when you are certain as arrows – you will never catch me.
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6Favourites
T
The Woods
They were shaped like humans, humans with rat-tail hair or weeping willow spines or long hungry feet, and they danced around her, carried on her fearful imagination. She could taste their wicked delight and she cried, paralysed as they fed upon the chilled currents of winter walks. The little wolves spun up her ankles and took on her thighs; nothing left unexplored for them or her, a vicious loving in the trees. She met the thick loam with her knees and stayed upright, her hollowed body becoming the only memory anyone might ever have of her. These are the woods where the children come to die. These are the shadows where grey-faced sleep wait
0Comments
3Favourites
2Comments
5Favourites
V
Vulva Song
The curtains are never drawn in the spare room. Why aren't you coming, why aren't you sitting on the edge of the bath keeping watch right through me? I feel the carpet and soak up every silent look, store them under my toenails, and I miss you. You exploded, the bees in the lavender bush are all that's left of you.
6Comments
3Favourites
A
Articulated Points
One year after I met you - Ill, stricken, your chocolate orange lies castling across my joints, I break – concave dandelion, seeds splashing under my gambling shoes. One year, one month - They may lay their hides over your favourite city garden walks, might leave hopeful lip prints on the glass in your sturdy museum holidays, spit love-letter typefaces down their ankles or hum in the grey cold to stay awake for surgery, and I will coagulate with my dresses, not collectible.
1Comments
3Favourites
A
Air
We waltz through the happy grass, whittling kisses, lips berry-bright, and safe in one another; our song of breath and loose hair, of cheesecloth, cardboard boxes, earthworms, quiet as our eyes.
4Comments
3Favourites
I
In Amongst the Weeping Grass
Sirs, you are the only ones who think you have the right to crouch amongst chalk and broken stems, and recite seven heavy syllables to the swell of the iron sea. You alone possess the arrogance with which to bruise the grass that frosts the brows of hills, so that you might stand and talk to stone walls, coaxing well-combed, honey-tongued men from within with warnings not to become like you. You do not swallow clouds of lime-scent coiling from the peel of fruits, close your eyes against the perfume, connect. You resent and fester. You organise your wars, requesting only that we give you soldiers, and you paint flowers several shades too br
2Comments
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C
Cold at Four
Is there a technical term for a harp maker? If there isn't, it's you, as a body, that canine slithering. Your name doesn't ring right but it's what you do with it that counts: I tumbled around it and never said it at the correct second, like the cuboid-skulled choirgirl a note behind, loud and disgusting. A faulty reanimation. A blind semibreve. The banal usurping of my bookish tongue came on quick. I'm very sorry. Everything scratched backwards and now my spine streams from my throat, cursive handwriting. Scored in your scalp: the clicking of toes, falling asleep in the hands of metal men, forgotten criminality, barbed wire
0Comments
4Favourites
T
The Maritodespotic Path
I am naked beneath my coat of armour. I woke and thought it was the sickness I'd had before - my lips had never burned so smugly. The ghost of your dog came to me last night, while I dreamed; it burst into grey dust and told me my bulimic piano solos were beautiful. Dancing under the pregnant sky, a waning gibbous belly crowned with violet cloth, I converse with the moon - deep, dark French. I love to speak to hunted rabbits and unlit trees.
0Comments
3Favourites
W
Witch
My belletrist, little hunched cardigan-drenched finch, he says, Mess, blooded with French shores and burned cakes, don't you come to my hand anymore, crying poppies from sallow ducts, my tiny soil-saviour? Towel-lipped mare - he touches his own ass-ears with his spiked teeth and pets me 'til I'm salmon, sunset - Sleep in my bed, stocky moth, cease your painting, beetle queen, queenly slut, turned frizzy in the process of sharpening the sea, mouth your watercolours and hose down the wall - I am ill of him, his eating makes me a murderer - Newborn kettle-coffee throws a kiss and our son climbs my sullen thighs; I doubt we will f
0Comments
3Favourites
T
Tango
Burnished head consecrating tarnished thighs in the hot tongues of unborn sighs – candle-fingered, the light is bleeding into bed. Prince of stares in the semi-seeing night, when you are certain as arrows – you will never catch me.
0Comments
6Favourites
T
The Woods
They were shaped like humans, humans with rat-tail hair or weeping willow spines or long hungry feet, and they danced around her, carried on her fearful imagination. She could taste their wicked delight and she cried, paralysed as they fed upon the chilled currents of winter walks. The little wolves spun up her ankles and took on her thighs; nothing left unexplored for them or her, a vicious loving in the trees. She met the thick loam with her knees and stayed upright, her hollowed body becoming the only memory anyone might ever have of her. These are the woods where the children come to die. These are the shadows where grey-faced sleep wait
0Comments
3Favourites
2Comments
5Favourites
V
Vulva Song
The curtains are never drawn in the spare room. Why aren't you coming, why aren't you sitting on the edge of the bath keeping watch right through me? I feel the carpet and soak up every silent look, store them under my toenails, and I miss you. You exploded, the bees in the lavender bush are all that's left of you.
6Comments
3Favourites
A
Articulated Points
One year after I met you - Ill, stricken, your chocolate orange lies castling across my joints, I break – concave dandelion, seeds splashing under my gambling shoes. One year, one month - They may lay their hides over your favourite city garden walks, might leave hopeful lip prints on the glass in your sturdy museum holidays, spit love-letter typefaces down their ankles or hum in the grey cold to stay awake for surgery, and I will coagulate with my dresses, not collectible.
1Comments
3Favourites
A
Air
We waltz through the happy grass, whittling kisses, lips berry-bright, and safe in one another; our song of breath and loose hair, of cheesecloth, cardboard boxes, earthworms, quiet as our eyes.
4Comments
3Favourites
I
In Amongst the Weeping Grass
Sirs, you are the only ones who think you have the right to crouch amongst chalk and broken stems, and recite seven heavy syllables to the swell of the iron sea. You alone possess the arrogance with which to bruise the grass that frosts the brows of hills, so that you might stand and talk to stone walls, coaxing well-combed, honey-tongued men from within with warnings not to become like you. You do not swallow clouds of lime-scent coiling from the peel of fruits, close your eyes against the perfume, connect. You resent and fester. You organise your wars, requesting only that we give you soldiers, and you paint flowers several shades too br
2Comments
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3Comments
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Lady of Chaos
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Knife Edge
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Maggot's Speciality
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Venice Carnival 2009 - 3
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Alice In Wonderland V
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Love Bird
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Emilie Autum
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Marauder Shoes COMPLETE
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Harp Room
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  • United Kingdom
  • Deviant for 14 years
  • She / Her
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My Bio
Current Residence: INACTIVE ACCOUNT
Follow me hither
Hello new watchers and kind souls, I see I received a DLD on BDSM - thank you, thank you :) I don't use this account any longer - if you wish to find me nowadays, I'm over at ~SymphonyInWilde (https://www.deviantart.com/symphonyinwilde)
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Shiny cleanclean
Slowly moving the worthwhile poems to ~SymphonyInWilde (https://www.deviantart.com/symphonyinwilde) which will be my account from now on.
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Inertia
Work is insurmountable and so I have stopped moving for this one Saturday... What did I do when I wasn't here, well I changed some things around, saw Regina Spektor on tour, did tasks well, did tasks acceptably, hated someone I thought I would never, ever hate, had a part of me burned away and killed entirely, spent a while in the summer in a sort of personal headlocked hell, patched up the walls and learned, most importantly, that I prefer brevity to permanence. There is a tub of moths in the living room... they were wax worms, blind, soft, helpless, and then a few days granted them horrible, furry torsos and awful staring eyes and wings t
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Popcorn-DramaStudent Photographer
You coming back anytime soon?
Popcorn-DramaStudent Photographer
Hey I'm back from hospital and eager to role play so hopefully speak soon. xxx
Popcorn-DramaStudent Photographer
You coming back?
I took a look through your gallery and on the first page are pieces about Robert Smith and bdsm and the practicalities of Rapunzel, and everything is written in this lovely evocative style with the literal interpretations and the unusual details and metaphors. I love it. Just thought I'd drop a little explanation of the watch.
Thank you so much, for both the watch and this helpful, kind comment - I didn't know my writing was evocative, but I am thrilled you find it to be so. I hope you enjoy my future work as much.
jonathoncomfortreedStudent Photographer
Sorry for the lateness of this message, but I'd like to thank you for your interest in :iconthewrittenrevolution:, we're delighted to have you with us!
Welcome to the revolution. :salute:

And if you haven't already, check out our news article for the chance to be featured.
:thumbsup:
Very happy to be aboard :salute: