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About Deviant Artist Gabriel NeilMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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It had started very subtly. Jane’s friends would occasionally forget she was there – be apparently unaware when she passed them in the street. Often she would have to ask a question several times before she could get people’s attention.
   To begin with, this did not unsettle Jane too much. In general she had always been a bit of a wallflower and she was used to her small voice being overlooked, but in recent years she had began to turn this around. She had hired a voice coach, she’d joined an amateur dramatics club, began going out with workmates more often; she’d even managed to ask a couple of guys out (one stood her up and the other turned out to be married, but she kept an optimistic outlook).
   She had finally begun to come out of her shell, when suddenly, through no fault of her own, she seemed to have gone under the radar again. When she went shopping, the assistants kept on serving the people behind her first. Wai
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On Writing
When we are introduced to the world
We all have our reactions
Our own world
Constructed on the real.
For some of us, this turns to poetry
To others, paint
Some of us are drawn to write
Others to sing.
And so
We introduce
The new world
To the real
And we wait for a response
To the effort
The soul
The passion we put in.
Then we discover with horror
And pain
That it has all been done before
And better.
The beauty
The sheer power
Of other worlds
Is too much.
The crumpled paper on the floor
The finger
Constantly on "backspace"
The pulling of hair
The exhaustion
The shame of jealousy
The inward scream
The illusion of incompleteness
Breaks me.
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An Instinct
An Instinct
For a moment the hand froze on the alarm clock. Not daring to move lest it disturb the cosy silence that followed. A pair of bleary eyes poked out from the cover, crowned by a large forehead and the sorry looking remains of what were once proud, golden locks, now looking more like a skin condition.
   A low groan came out from beneath the sheets the man rubbed his eyes and began to sit up, cracking almost every joint simultaneously. Then, as he rested on his elbows, a thought came to him: what’s the bloody point anyway? Why should I? They can’t make me. And he lay back down, savouring the passive recklessness of it all, a lazy revolution. He slowly began to slip back into the sleepy feeling. Ha! He thought with the strange logic of the half asleep, I’ve won, I’m going to stay here all  day and nothing’s going to stop me.
  However, this
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The Garden
The Garden
Blue…yellow…green…red…blue again, the shimmering colours merged and swirled about on the thin water’s surface. This tranquil pattern broken only by the occasional frog that appeared here and there. An onlooker would be able to see the small group of ducklings dogging their mother across the water, and the heron that jerked its head about, searching for the elusive frogs. As it happened, there was an onlooker there already, lying on the grass, soaking up the last of the summer’s sunshine.
   It is, however, incorrect to refer to this man as an onlooker, as he wasn’t really looking at anything at all. This is understandable, one would think, the soft, fluffy, warm feeling you get on days like this tends to make the mind wander. But this particular visitor to the tranquil pond was not labouring under any feeling of warmth or comfort; he wasn’t feeling anything at all in fact. The reason being that this man was uncons
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The Explorer
The Explorer
I feel like an impostor here; a spy. I am the secretive alien interloper in the mysterious world of the working lunch. The suits walk in ones and twos and threes, they buy their American T.V series’ food and drink, they discretely walk around me, throwing glances, to get the best seats by the window and pretend they are separate from the world outside. Their spray-on holiday and unconvincing roots, their fashionable pale ties and footballer’s hair – the uniforms of their pinstripe little army. They look at me from time to time; politely though, only once or twice per person.
   And why shouldn’t they? Here I sit, with my tap water and my paranoia. I’m not the self-confident, reasonable person one expects around here – the middle management proletariat, and the ones who will grow up to be them, who come to worship at the Most Holy Temple of the Immaculate Mocha Latte. The inevitable light jazz drifts nonchalantly pa
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Here the shingle meets the shore
Here I stand to see
The waves that come to my feet
The sky spread like a tree.
Gray birds against a gray sky
A great endless space
I smell the salt in the air
The sea breeze on my face.
Here I stand untroubled
Merely waiting on the sand
Nothing here is muddled
Here I can understand.
But it cannot last, I know
The world will find me
But until they do
I will stand and grow.
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I gush and flow,
Yet am not a river
I can be fickle and blind,
Yet am not love
I can make a man mad,
Yet am not rage
I can be as light as a feather,
Yet heavy as stone
You cannot see me,
You cannot feel me,
You cannot hear me,
You cannot taste me,
You cannot smell me,
Yet I can change the world
I can ensnare you
Or free you
I can inspire
And be inspired
I am not a resource
But am in short supply
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On the Tube in Glasgow
On The Tube in Glasgow
The intense metropolis
Holds a gray retreat,
For a spirituality of commerce.
The incensed city’s air
Yields to a sluggish
Confessional humour.
The man behind the booth,
Who mediates with a holy ticket
The gates,
Seems a blurred ghost – illuminated
Dimly by ethereal lights.
There are no shadows here,
Only gloom.
An oppressive slime coats
The regimented tiling –
It is always twilight in this place.
My fellow pilgrims rise and
Fade in the fog of grey.
A murmur of piety
Permeates this world;
Drives me onward.
Drives me to the rattling demon
That haunts these caves
And draws the true believers
To worship at their budget alter.
The silence is solemn as we wait
For our time
To re-enter reality,
Breathe the free air,
And forget our meditations.
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A Life Dedicated
A Life Dedicated
Once, a man came to
My door.
He was old and tired.
And had eyes,
Eyes that had seen a
Lifetime, or more.
His frame was bent and
And his head, gown
Tired of life in the
Had migrated south.
But he carried a notebook
And pen,
And he smiled a toothless
And looked at me with
Clever eyes, for he knew,
No one was happier than him.
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Gabriel Neil
United Kingdom
Current Residence: Dundee, Scotland, The Matrix
deviantWEAR sizing preference: Medium?
Print preference: What's a one of those?
Favourite genre of music: Prog Rock
Favourite photographer: Photographers have names?
Favourite style of art: Strange psychoficton which makes people worry about my state of mind.
Operating System: Windows XP, I'm so goddammed l33t...
MP3 player of choice: One that works, dammit!
Shell of choice: The kind that protects me from mana attacks.
Wallpaper of choice: Whatever I think looks nice at the time.
Skin of choice: My own, unless I'm dead, then I don't care who has it.
Favourite cartoon character: Toki Wartooth from Metalocalypse
Personal Quote: The best way to do philosophy is to not try and be a philosopher.
Just submitted a new very short story. It's not much, but it's kinda weird and I like it.

The reason it's there is really to suggest to other writers what i saw suggested on another site - see what you can come up with just by using the title "Changes".

It's quite cool seeing where your thoughts take you when you have a little "launchpad" like a word or a picture.
  • Listening to: No Quarter - Led Zeppelin
  • Reading: Ressurection Men - Ian Rankin
  • Watching: For any signs of life in the used bown on my desk.
  • Playing: Battleships with death
  • Eating: My own face... again!
  • Drinking: I dunno... water?


Add a Comment:
skellious Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2009
Muwahahahaha I ownzored your comments page!
annanias Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2008
YOU REMIND ME OF A AIDS-RIDDEN MONKEY!!!! also...first comment!