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Literature
sweet june
do not teeter on the edge of the sea
she is not a willing host,
and will reach up to scratch you
if you wait long enough to jump into her arms.
may death embrace you kindly, may
sweet june fester in your fetid presence
and may the ocean sweat under your summer
side eye
you monster
you tarot card fool,
you black moon low tide
barely breaching the horizon
i have never wept for you on sunday mornings,
with the sand nearly up to my knees,
without breath,
may the water take you and leave
i don't cry when my arms can stretch
to either side of the bed
without hitting your dark banks.
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Literature
growing lengthwise
i don’t think I grew up --
rather, I grew lengthwise,
against the many colors thrown into
stark patterns on the bedsheets:
for I am a dreamer,
and it is the visions in the quivering heat
that speak to me bedside
and tell me
to misremember the blossoming
pain of the night when I awake.
i grew lengthwise, tracing waves
into crisp velvet blankets
and dreaming of sinking ships
and glass breaking like liquid
into geometric flashes of temporal
foam;
the air conditioner is broken
and for this reason
I can only sleep in fragments,
in chips
of chandeliers and dark caves,
in pieces of black and wild fiction,
you can send peter pan home,
kick his shadow out of the corner
babe, I can be the paradigm
for never growing old
in an ancient, aging world.
i grew lengthwise, forgetting
that the addition of a precipice
or a mountain peak gives
you motion: something to move towards
while a dreamer spreading vast
across a flat plain
can only ever spill, aimless
and in a constant sleep he lives;
never f
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Dianthus by Serentic Dianthus :iconserentic:Serentic 4 0 a return by Serentic a return :iconserentic:Serentic 5 3
Literature
chinatown
the street below sags and gasps
in the strange heat of the late spring.
i rub my hands with white chalk
and hold them up
to the warm window.
I let them hang there,
lanterns on black background, and
feel the odd grit of limestone
between flesh and glass.
i do not move as noise pushes softly
at my back:
from outside, I must
look like some unholy, unmoving specter.
i recall my past
in the terms of trees;
branches clawing windowpane,
repeating their stark call:
be brave, be brave.
i will my veins to pump,
and fill my lungs with sticky morning
air
once again.
you close the door, soundlessly
and I
exhale.
the heat rising from the pavement
casts tragic patterns in the space
that hangs between us.
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Literature
home
melancholy
it wraps its tongue
around my name;
licks its fingers
and drags them cold
down the center of my back,
feeling the vertebrae
of my spine
beating endlessly
against its untrimmed nails,
waves, incisions.
i wrap my legs around its
hips, dangle from
the only love i have ever
known.
how beautiful, the word ‘loss.’
my stomach lurches
and i
am home, am home, am home.
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Literature
Antlers
i grabbed you by the antlers,
and you--
you took off, charging,
lurching darkly over
forest after forest,
the shadow of an idea,
lunging ever onwards
without a lick of care for
consequence.
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Literature
Sirtalis
The snakes lived –
under the magnolia tree,
Tangled among oaky roots and
frail white blossoms,
they made their quiet home.
They left me no more fraught with fear
than I was of my sister,
or father –
For they had been there longer,
and their eyes were mine:
They knew the necessity of shedding skin
and they too ran from floods,
and from drought –
in our symmetry
there was balance.
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Literature
How We Forget
The world is so packed
to the brim –
I do not know
How such a full sea
Has not yet been displaced
By the weight of the teeming wild beneath it:
Surely only the mountains
Are safe from the precarious below.
We live on ships but do not sail.
And how we miss the land we
can’t return to:
I await the day the last canyons are filled
with tapwater,
And we forget.
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Literature
tiny little wounds
So you get the diagnosis:
Start noticing small things wrong with your body,
You cut your hair,
Dye it an ugly color,
Pray for the quiet days,
But get sick of lukewarm baths
To take your temperature down
And instead sit by the window
Of the room you rent,
On the ground floor,
Half-naked and staring out across
The traffic.
You notice the strange cut of your pelvis
First, when you look down
And the way your stomach is concave,
Its corners bending forwards, apart.
Your arms get thinner.
You lose the baby fat in your cheeks,
And now your eyes are sunken so deep you can
Catch pools of water in them
When it's raining.
You can see your heart beating through the split in your ribs. You feel like a rabbit,
Fragile,
One more scare away from vital organs jumping out of your body
And into a pile on the floor beside the operating table.
You would tie your hair back and run
If you had hair long enough to tie back or anywhere to go.
You are Samson, post-Delilah.
You feel like an inner city,
Pickpocket
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Literature
Lantern Moon
Should you look, child,
you’ll find me.
Up above the eaves,
and the stucco house with the patterned
bedroom,
you’ll find me.
Should you look, child,
with eyes wide and wonderful,
you’ll find me.
Up above the alleyways and the green green grass,
and the street corners and the thin lamplight,
up above the sleeping flash of cities all aglow,
you’ll find me.
Should you look, child,
with hands made for holding
and a heart full of myth,
you’ll find me.
Up above the lantern moon,
swinging in the dark blue sky,
up above the sweet and sycophantic sunrise,
and up above the gentle hills that greet the mountains high.
Should you look, child,
you’ll find me.
And may you never have to say goodbye.
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Mature content
Untitled :iconserentic:Serentic 0 3
Literature
anti-imperial
If I could slit my wrists
The way Europeans split
The land,
Into jagged slices that mixed heart with liver
And spleen with flesh,
I would have been dead years ago.
Between both and belonging to neither,
No, I am not white.
No, skin color runs…
Just about as deep as skin.
Paper can be too thin to stitch together,
Something borrowed,
Something gained, weight lost.
Belong nowhere.
Cast yourself needlessly upon other objects,
Like a color to a colorblind man.
Find yourself stark raving mad
In the bed of a rapist,
And yet India still
loves the queen.
A necessity for Stockholm,
and stop home long enough
To regain a little consciousness,
But not long enough to keep it.
My bones are brittle glass and I break
fast as the ash crosses your forehead.
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Literature
indigo
come, love,
lay your hands on me,
and place the charcoal
beads above
the mantel,
so they can rest up in the eaves.
take the coronary threads beneath your husk
and drape them around me;
do not retreat into the gloomy distant trees,
come love, come, love,
if only to appease,
throw blank tears onto fine china
and we will slowly count the cracks
until we cannot measure distance
by the violets in our blood
but by the pain of things we caused and lacked;
for you and I are water,
and far wetter than the sea
and more brilliant than the stormy sky
that burns behind our backs,
so lay your hands upon me
and do not wish for forget-me-not floods,
but take your arms and find my faults
come, love; come, love.
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Literature
scopolamine
said the mourning dove: you ask too many questions;
and you do not need to know why the bandage so graciously takes the red of your blood:
because you have a mouth good for sipping milk and spitting out seawater.
I do not feel you are behind me;
No, instead I sit three stories down
Contemplating the structural integrity
of the bridge we passed on the way home.
The gray dove's feathers consumed do nothing to quell my hunger for purple and yellow cornflower vines;
I pick the quills out of my gums and they form fragile trusses where I throw them on the ground.
Can a ghost be eaten?
Hush, and do not listen to the sideswipe whispers that form his explanation.
He runs rivulets of monkshood spittle down your neck, hoping to find cracks where the toxins can fester.
No, you cannot consume memories more than once: they taste far more bile-bitter coming up than they did going down.
And you cannot kill a thing more than once: I took the bird and left its frail anatomy thrown on the ground in crook
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Literature
I Wish You Could Love Me More
Setting the table
Hoping everyone will come and sit
But that no one will notice
That the food is plastic playthings;
And the wine is nothing more
Than artificial coloring;
Spilling patterns through stains
On the cheap wooden floor;
And how could you ask for more?
How much of love must be made from scratch;
How much can be sold in a store?
I’m not sure I know what we do this for;
I wish you could love me more.
Ooh, ooh
End of the party,
And the cork cracks open the
Last of the champagne
Last of all the games
We play to draw each other
Near and turn away.
Up way past midnight;
Sweeping up the cracked crystal
And dousing the firelight;
Like it’s day falling quickly into dusk.
How much of love cannot be lost?
How much is retained at the end;
When do we start playing pretend?
I wish you would love me again.
Forget the fallen silverware;
Forget the chipped paint lies we tell ourselves so we can sleep;
Forget to show the guests to the door,
I wish you could love me,
I wish you cou
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Activity


deviantID

Serentic
Alexander Danieli
Artist | Student | Varied
United States
Amateur photographer, musician, and poet. Singer/songwriter under the moniker The Sixth Ocean.

--

i'm fairly certain
that if i held on any tighter
to the piece of coal in my hand,
it would turn into a diamond.

[ Gallery ][ Watch Me ]
Interests
Hey guys! It's been a long time since I've plugged my own music here, because the Deviantart site isn't terribly kind to musicians.

However, I'm deep in the midst of recording an album right now, and I would love to share what I have so far with you.

This album has been in the works for something like three years, and it's seen quite a fair bit of editing -- in fact, as far as I can see only two of the songs originally on the album made the final cut. This is because as I've grown as an artist and person I've changed the album to reflect that.

The song I'm releasing tonight to iTunes and Bandcamp is called 'Something Here Where Nothing Used to Live,' and it's in my opinion one of the best songs I've ever recorded. I'm not one to explain lyrics because I think that decreases their value for the listener, so I'll leave you with a typed copy of them and leave it at that.

The song can be streamed (but not yet downloaded) at www.thesixthocean.bandcamp.com. I hope you like it /love it/ signal boost it to your friends and family because I'm a poor, starving artist who wants to eat! I would LOVE to hear your thoughts. At the very least, you'll get to hear me stumble through a violin improv towards the end of the song.

xo Alex


Lyrics:

he's circling the willow tree, 
listening, prancing about the silver leaves 
i'm old enough to regret these new thoughts, 
placing weight upon a broken knee 

something here where nothing used to live 
you're a hex and i start feeling you 

i'm something like a rotary, 
i turn, i circulate and then repeat 
can't articulate just what i mean 
and so i'm forced to do it quietly 

he abandons me late in the eve, 
reminds me what it's like to be in constant need 
still dancing with the willow tree, 
taking his sweet time while i regret these 

something here where nothing used to live 
you're a hex and i start feeling you 

something here where nothing used to live 
you're a curse, so i start dreading you

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:iconviidith22:
Viidith22 Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! :party:
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:iconladybitterblue:
LadyBitterblue Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Your writing is just stunning. Thank you for sharing it.
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:iconserentic:
Serentic Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2015  Student General Artist
Awww, thank you for reading! I really appreciate that. <3
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:iconrainboxys:
rainboxys Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! c:
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