Shop Forum More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Student KaeFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 46 Deviations 95 Comments 2,701 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

The Violence
The Violence
an excerpt from the first chapter of
St. Cecilia’s School for Wayward Youths
Justine Abilene, where were you, that night I knocked so long at your door? I had never been one for intrusive mysticism, but I needed a seer—I needed you. I was a lonely drunk with delusions of sainthood,  warbling cat sounds at each and every one of your windows. You never answered. Neither did God. I needed something more than faith. I wanted the expiration date. Oh, I was stupid for it, I know, but I was young, and that meant I had everything to be stupid about.
I was also drunk. I'd been wandering Main Street since earlier in the evening, drinking, putting off phone calls, and dealing with stress headaches. I was that fucked up kind of miserable, that masochistic kind, where “hope” seemed a word in the language of the angels. It was something I just couldn't touch.
I would not have recognized my own mother and father, I was so gone, although I was still certain I
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 1 0
Solstice Candle in Blue by rockstreetpoet Solstice Candle in Blue :iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0 Solstice Candle in Purple by rockstreetpoet Solstice Candle in Purple :iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 1 2
Guilt is Like This
I am screaming under a highway overpass, my
shoes in the mud, my throat raw with iron taste.
It will be dealt with  - The uncashed checks, the strange silence, the books on the floor, the empty suitcases,
all of them will be filled, swept up, signed.
The Hondas will stop speeding  
so that they can clean the blood off of the road.
I know it the way I know that I am tired
of crouching here, peeling at the stone, tagging
feminist code words over street names, the loopy signatures of
some imitation Banksy. Over my head, the work rush rumbles
and I feel it, the echo of productivity. it breaks back my ribs,
stuffs something strange inside. I wish I were a stone so hard I nearly choke and
not for the first time, I picture a car,
slim as an credit card, falling past the barriers,
crushing metal, a bloated man decaying in the front seat,
“he just lost control” and “who knew ” and
“no one was supposed to be down there” -
it doesn’t matter - ho
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0
fog sulks over the still of you – a black mirror lake.
I fear little more than your immortality;  than
the unbelievable loneliness I have given you
in exchange for what? my defense?
my safety.
when finally I learn
the ways you are iced over,
I push harder than I’ve ever pushed
against your unending purpose.
I fearlessly give so that you may see
the movement of summer.
The shadows of our childhood
hang heavy over us, still –
leaves me hollow as the bones
I cast into the water.
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0
The sky brews a color you don't recognize, but
You can guess at what that shade of green signifies –
a tornado is coming.
You’ll give in, you decide, and
your shadow unwinds, twists itself into a cellular fire
that burns black as the ash of extinguished desire
as it comes to life.
Dead wrong and deadlocked, but somehow surviving,
your brother was driving, got smaller and smaller
until he was gone - but it was you, not the brawler,
who slammed shut that door, swore you’d never go back.
Your brother was driving as always, hard driving.
Put on the miles, wore them on his face. He brought you up
on the road, no reliance on faith.
He loved you, betrayed you,
For twenty years, raised you
And you’d say that he gave
as good as he got.
“If you walk out that door
don’t you ever come back!”
Got smaller and smaller until he was gone
leaving just petrichor in the wake of the storm.
While in front of a road sign you don’t recognize,
you learn what a sc
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0
Snapshot of a Healing Crusade
Snapshot of a Healing Crusade
Sunday at 11am
They move through the tent with electric unease  
in worn out coats; stiff as stones,
they mark their graves. Gray lounge chairs
stand empty where there once was
    more refrain of "I Shall Be Released,"
    one more patient in his final weeks  
    who saw with clarity his life on loan,
    and knew he’d  die alone.
They chain-smoke inside, looking down at their feet
Lips cracked and dry, the haze singeing eyes.
Its fog-tongue grays that long white tent  
like a wet sock clinging on a laundry line.
The pattern of rain drums the pale shawl when
the preacher walks in. He raises his hands and
the storm brings the wind, the folds of the tent
flapping taut like stretched skin.
Years ago now, Preacher woke up stone blind,
without any warning of the cancer to come.  
Second sight blessed when the sickness was gone.
Thinks he knows what it means to be chosen by God.
Sensitive to shifting tension, subtle energy
changes in his planchett
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0
The Wildness Baby
Voices rose to shouting when I emerged, highlighting the
restlessness in a home where I was raised ashamed of myself,
and fear was generally packed up.
Tonight carries the momentum, the place,
the wildness baby.
her eyes filled up my mind,
lily-pale against me and she's gone.
I flunked peace in favor of war.
All I ever wanted was to learn how to live inside a flame,
and still feel like a completely good girl.
I was a teenaged crank radio, rock 'n' roll shadow
steady with my fingers of faith, visions of gender ambiguous.
after they 'reformed' me with conversations, laugher, groups,
a silver tray of coffee,
I gave up trying to be worthy of all this.
Vagrants, surprised
blowing through their curly hair as coverings, brushing,
held my wrist, lost and found in their expressions and obsessions.
Intrusion destroyed form, making my shoulders drop.
A quick sweep of the eyes.
I reached over this great battle,
and touched.
Nothin' could make you feel so much like something.
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 1
Color+blackandwhite by rockstreetpoet Color+blackandwhite :iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 1 1 Rock 'n' Roll Martyrdom by rockstreetpoet Rock 'n' Roll Martyrdom :iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 4 0
The Loss of Serenity Valley
Soldiers counted the spaceships
swooping from the black.
They knew their angels had come
but could not land for the heat.
Serenity, proven Hell.
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0
I don’t even wanna think about tomorrow tonight. My shadow is spilling while I
am raising the thread to light;
worth less than the estimates up close. And on further examination, I found
something to see, and then sacrifice — an ugly black smear.  
I don’t trust my name in her mouth, don’t want it filling the spaces where they
speak each other’s futures.
Only a sliver of light sneaks in through the cracks of the blinds. The lion that
lies on my sofa-bed stretches.
I pray that I
am lucky, that my eyes are
worth the cost of their exams, and that
something in them finds light.
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 1 1
Unwritten by rockstreetpoet Unwritten :iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 1 0
to old friends
"Because you were the first. The first face this face saw. And you were seared onto my hearts...You always will be. I'm running to you...before you fade from me."
- The Doctor
it's true that the end of life is not the end of love.
and you'd understand,
if only you could've seen the things she'd seen.
spread across the atoms of everything
she lived
part of the greatest story ever told.
she'd do it all again
in the time it takes
for both his hearts to beat,
no questions and no regrets.
they exist --
she's seen them
people made of smoke, having
cups of tea at the end of time
trips around the world and then beyond
to cities made of song
rivers are dreaming, and
the last centurion
is spending 'two thousand years lonely
on the promise
that at the moment of awakening
the girl who waited
would shine on him again
as though she'd never slept.
somewhere, there are whales
riding the great black tide
of space, and
whole planets
that consume creatures built
entirely of ti
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 0
Exercises in Freewriting and Clarity
exercise in clarity #1
I try to do like Jack said and sketch what I already see. Get a clearer picture and don't make stuff up.
Everything light up in bright sunlight, seventies home movie, sepia-toned mohawk walking down the beach in denim shorts. In one hand an ice cream cone, melting vanilla soft serve, and the other hand gently holding onto her toddler. Quenepas, sweet flavor that words fail to describe. Bitter tart and sweet and juicy all at once, salty. Peel back the skin and suck them out, roll the core about in your mouth and spit it out. Clear, clear water. A hike up to a waterfall, exhaustion gnawing at my legs. God's coldest water pouring down on my head, the pressure against the rolling muscles of my back. Shoulder slope cut by the current. A heat hanging in the air that reminds me of clothes drying in the wind.
The wild dogs everywhere that would kill each other for a scrap of food but who have sad beggar's eyes, stolen from people. The houses that line the street,
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 1
Beyond the Eye
Beyond the Eye
"Don't be afraid of the dark? What, are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there…"
- D. Winchester
On the scent of something dark
the hunter rides on.
road opens up like a miracle
the highway within snuffs out all light.
wanderer moon paves the wayfaring night and
carries the world on it's wing.
wanted by heaven or hell
dead men imply tales
or otherwise rise, play at being
alive ---
on base instinct, they prey.
hungry for flesh, for bone, for blood,
like bedtime spooks, or campfire jokes
the truth is there's much that you don't know — lonely
wolf howls when there's no moon up
my instinct is sharp as angel blade - that
peace will come when work is done.
of graveyard dirt and lines of salt, my
mind is filled, and rested not. We will make our stand,
wayward soldiers at the side of the righteous
son of man.
:iconrockstreetpoet:rockstreetpoet 0 2



rockstreetpoet's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
Shit happens, and there's no space too small, too dark and airless and fucking hopeless, for people to crawl into.
If art hinges on emotional and mental health, you must protect and heal yourself so that you can be the best artist you can be. Sleep. Eat. Get out of bed. Notice things are beautiful. Love silence.

Find people that validate you when you are scared.

Find people you can talk to about how you perceive the world - that weird way you experience life that pushes you to create art. The way that you think.

Find people you can tell about the shadows on the tree bark in the morning who will not think you are crazy or wasting your time.

They're out there.
  • Listening to: Are You Satisfied? - Marina and the Diamonds


Add a Comment:
abcartattack Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2013  Professional Traditional Artist
Awesome, thanks for watching my page :hug:
Sklarlight Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2013  Hobbyist Filmographer
Thanks for the :+fav: :la:
iarejude Featured By Owner May 6, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
thanks so much for the comment and fave.means a lot
gogocherryrose Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2012
hi!! thank you so much for the fave and for watching me :heart:
haijinik Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2012  Student Writer
the appreciation is appreciated!
Add a Comment: