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Keep your verse terse
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the daughter universe
Lonely men, I’ve noticed, will pay off their little houses
and live in them by themselves until they burn down
from a dead gas pilot and 80’s paperback philosophy.
In other words, out on one hundred highway north at dusk,
which is a daylight’s ride from the sack, the dunes simply
spill out on the road; the crazy thing being, nobody’s worried.
Keep driving until the damn thing just ends at the last rogue pier
on the island’s tip. There’s a dark night beach on the right
and if you wade into the waves, about 130 feet, east by northeast,
you’ll find a miraculous shoal where the salt from a trillion graves
will wash up on your thighs and the moon searches the dark pitch
of water like a frantic mother.  Pick any wave and follow it fondly
until you forget of me,
:iconspoems:spoems 85 30
Inside these walls, I wait past dark.
The shadows steep and over-brew
long before I move a bone;
I’ll never return to mother’s moon.
Star and night, my bench flakes off
cicada shells and sunflower wilt.
By Venus light, it’s a driftwood throne,
an old carob bullet firing straight for the sun.
The air like ink collects and cools:
it is the black throat where braying forms,
and where shady gardens melt and pool;
absorbing the ghosts of cigarette-waft.
These onyx planets swell and bloom,
and metabolise like sheer witchspells -
I turn these crystals to my core
And try unlearn this spiderweb gloom.
Former days contort through tremulous fisheyes
relapse at the bottom of two emptied mugs.
My disfigured mass quakes in its past,
crumples like a demon husk, roadkilled in a dream.
How many molts with their veiny dead hues
do souls need traverse, an urbanex sulking
through concrete petals, ’till our sin
becomes sarcoline, an imperceptible solute?
Electromagnetic eyes to lick
:iconspoems:spoems 15 15
The hearth in your denim pocket,
quietus and earthen floor
windows settle nostalgic dust
and hold outcroppings through their pores:
maps, manuals, flightless single wings
awaiting consequence, a bloodless chore
in the future you have willed the world
for those of us who still remain
workless as the dead.
:iconspoems:spoems 20 19
I wake
in mourning
on the end.
each blade of body
greys like cedar
in their
the eyes
never weep
from their sleep
sun salutations
the gut
with a cruel child’s
yet god, buddha,
or the last aching
offers up a salve
at our Mass of the Unnamed:
for regret
in the early grave
of March.
:iconspoems:spoems 27 11
The Meaning of Bearing Life

may not last.
is impractical to
continue to evolve and become
the collective
experience of
bearing life,
for such
internal hardening and
the effects of
fatigue, going further
can be called
Life is the
life of bearing before it fails;
the so-called life
Life should peak,
oscillate, or remain
extremely short
and compromise
known or calculable external forces
or inertia.  When
ignore deformations in the
and act on a bearing, on a
for only light
applies to
:iconspoems:spoems 15 8
60 Inch Samsung TV
The vagabond
at its hilt
in its infant neural twist
before meandering
80 years
in feral knots
and vanishing in a lurch
prior to weeping
into knees
for uninvited gods
in the cold behind the grocery
despite a lack
of all the trappings
I’m sure he had it:
a smoke of a dream
a million heaving cigarettes
blazing in the unborn stem.
I took his air
and animation
but in this new configuration
the atoms speak only to his faithful ghost.
In my stolen host
my wiry beard
I never leave my final place
in the aftermath
and never knowing.
:iconspoems:spoems 11 19
I do not cede your life to you.
All things begin in my aching bed.
Baristas, starmen, nothing has survived the light.
The living lose their space to me.
The last fond ritual before the ghosts will be allowed their speech
is the moment that I really live, when I breed all neurotic wants at once:
to king, to beggar, to whore out every figure
yet to be betrayed by gross approximation
and dumbly muddled by these dumb fingers.
The all important touch is just a disillusioned brute
hanging like an ugly halo around an arbitrary mass
that hosts your hidden magic.
And I kill the world to have it.
What bizarre and dissolute intelligence births itself in a hot smear of thought,
infests the throbbing slums of my sentience with ideas,
hungers and machinates for a free and unkempt soul,
reams into the deep darknet to damn my lazy search for hell,
or no, but to illuminate this damning of my design
and uncouple me from centuries of tiresome ontologies?
I’ve waited for the searing sign to emblaze
:iconspoems:spoems 25 6
The pecan tree looms like a ghast above the trail
waiting to collapse and crush someone’s skull.
It’s fruitless and frozen in the throes of a last hurrah,
unmoved and unmoving, a fitting bride for fire.  
I wonder when they’ll cut it down?
I am a wretched effigy
pining for the arborist to cull me from the path.
I’m still leftover from the bloom
frankly splayed upon the bosom
of this great interminable happening.
All that is animate is my nonnecessity.
I can no longer rise above the level of my eyes.
The tendons are frayed and salt-encrusted
sail boat lines brittling in the Gulf.
The bones grow blond and discontented.
Tell me, why should I ever move again?
The wind will list southward and find its way
to cool the cracks in this rainless mud.
The planet will bring news of the coming brood,
drench the veins with a violent pace
and I will finally be replaced.
:iconspoems:spoems 13 12
Business Trip
I’ll never make the drive west to San Fran
like a psychedelic troubadour
a zealous eremite on a mad mad dash
a pilgrimage through the Sonoran holy desert
those hipsters lounging outside City Light Books
cream in their wares about.
No, it’ll be this lonely business
pragmatically jetting over grave errors
of character and wind wrinkled hillsides
everyone circling the same 25K miles
half-dead asleep on these very wings!
All the while, trying to forget
what the world remembers to forget;
this is what you wanted.
:iconspoems:spoems 14 16
I see her
for joy
in the tiniest of things
and pretend
I know the world
as well.
on her lips and cheeks -
a myriad of flights
and plumes,
the sweet
her muscle
the pace
of summer
and lounging
with the artless peace
of willows
waters’ edge,
I find
what she is
looking for -
a pair
of shadows
in her eyes.
:iconspoems:spoems 25 24
Curious, how he ages past his origins
a rage unfurrowed by the planet's touch
by the girl who held him like a furnace bides the coals
by the women who survive him as a coat of arms
by the man whose imperative is sowing seeds in space
on the mind within the mind where ancient troubles fall on lips
and regrets' subdermal cultivation
in the bodice of his erroneous twin
bloom in these terrific wires
‘till they turn up into the skin;
recalcitrant sores of a leper god
see them worship and abhor!
What tribe, these scars
dark medicine art
and who will bear his animus
when now he's old and new again?
:iconspoems:spoems 11 7
Mature content
The God Of Landscape Timbers Says Not To Worry :iconspoems:spoems 14 13
Today, impermanence is 5 weeks of rain
and pine limbs spindling clear above the house
and things I’ve left underground:
a cavity in the storm
misplaced regality
a stark white coat.
How do we perish yet
still lounge eminently
sharpening the catalpa
pacing the gutters
impaling midnight
in our wanton monotone?
My jealous imperia do not ruin.
Innocence is never lost.
It grows back like phantom vertebrae
and rebuilds the animal.
:iconspoems:spoems 22 15
the lesson
Following the last communique
of any order
of anything,
we'll not find a posteriori death
no grand apocalypse
carried off in bits by ants
or hurtling beside us
like dark matter twins
nestled in our bullet blue capsules
fighting us for singular dimension.
Under stones, behind the clouds
sleeping in fire, circling in bodies
we'll turn over nothing in nothing
that doesn't lead the way to these:
Pioneering blossoms
of my judas tree;
Mexican pink.
:iconspoems:spoems 26 27
I would have you do this
this is your prayer
your mantra, your news.
I leave it as I found it, papering in the streets.
as godless a truth as you will know
it’s still a ghost of a dream
smaller than theories of infinite resolution.  
you will believe it because it has no industry
no acolytes or storefronts.
it’s not an embezzlement of fascination
or confabulation of missing histories.
you will not doubt its truth because your design is hollow
    the space inside your car
    the adventitious spine that vials through the weeds
    the ice of march on adam’s needle
    the ants, crickets, beetles under sandstone
    waiting in a music box for the catalysts to wake
    and split them out into the breen.
you will speak of your awareness
without knowing what inhabits it
    like a colour that doesn't hum
    or passing through a future forest
    of apparitions in bald park meadows
:iconspoems:spoems 27 15
While Driving in the Suburbs on Valentine's Day
I’m sure of nothing, no one;
we’ll never be ourselves.
Our lone device is left to searching
through bins and vessels
on drives and circles
one by one, houses upon houses
secreting pills and thoughts and air
behind their stealthy doors and bellies.
I stab into each of their ugly little anthems.
What is mine?
What is mine.
Windows caught on Christmas trees
pathologically white
the pale hypnosis of television
bleeding through curtains drawn to a slit.
What dares to go on living in there?
Dawn comes drunk and begging
shrill and shameless, undiscerning
‘till the string breaks high above the plains
‘till it’s engorged on everything
the hairline crack in a potted blue sage
the lip of the gutters haunted by cats.
Houses are holding things close to their lungs
moistened in darkness, a glorious sadness
that no one's allowed.  Left out!  We're left out
of unholy communions, distensions of time.
I've only the rumors to cradle my demons
and only your face, sw
:iconspoems:spoems 25 25

Random from Poetry

Existential Oink
Patience, as it turns out is
Not among my virtues
(Of which
I almost have none).
Patience replaces spines
To make great stairs
Straight to one's head
To perch on.
Meekness is really
Out of the question.
I don't wish to inherit the earth.
All I wish
Is to be left alone
As I work through this accident
Of birth.
© Debjani Chakravarty 2012
:icondreamydeb:Dreamydeb 13 16
I refuse to surface.
I will turn my limbs into fins,
layer my skin with scales.
I will slit my throat, such delicate gills.
Down here, they are mutable, shifting, first whale
then urchin, all spine and stomach.
Up there, air and light fossilize,
a trilobite caught in stone.
:iconswansisters:swansisters 36 4
fright of flight response
in tall thin houses
we stare
steep narrow
dare we descend
as we are?
stumbling up
hard on the shins
plummeting down
bodes lethal
hip crammed against rail
we reach
where is that step?
where is it?
llp - jun2012 - dA
:iconalapip:alapip 12 47
Trottel by Amanda-Graham Trottel :iconamanda-graham:Amanda-Graham 17 5
fashion a cheap, functional spoon
to ladle your stew.
find shoes that won't crack.
they should stomp through the nonsense
cut up all theoretical mud
relish pounding on hard-headed male
take out the trash in a muckbrown bin
that smells just right for what you've set out
to do, because
it's so rough raising such rank dumpsters of boys,
as we admire your rounding and flattening
straining shoulders
we can see it all from the surrender-slumped couch
ask us questions.
your sturdy authentic-leather boots have marched so far
and they are so ugly.
(they never pleaded for answers.)
our girls' prancing arches will scoff at them
for five or ten years
as they splash on,
and keep slopping,
but your children will never taste the love
gumming up your split-pea soup
because our wilds are fenced in the gated neighborhoods
between mother and son.
your brood is undefined.
we liken ourselves to roadside litter,
burger chain refuse, defiled,
tossed and torn.
you can ignore it,
comb aisles for
:iconinkatmidnight:InkatMidnight 11 14
to my pull-apart seams-
i won't be fingering you.
in respect for matters that are always the same,
i'll toss a black veil over the wailing romantics
in the library, and prostrate myself before geography
and books labeled by stiff-binding lock-codes of numbers
i'll find a cooler cloth to drape over my fevered skin
when i am thinking wishing stomping along the same vein,
the same wrecking-ball of apocalyptic thought
these naysayers i call my colleagues:
i can only shake my head and stand above myself,
acting as my own conscience as i dive in
these are good people spoiled only
by the times, which are not so intrinsically good.
the way i live, the personifications are endless.
though the sun says hello to birds and blind
businessmen in turn, at breakfast i took the time to respond,
and as a reward, my live stream has been a cacophony
of whistling tones: i sensed the joyful subservience
of the tableware. i cut into the unswaying nuts and bolts
of advanced robotics on my way out the door.
:iconinkatmidnight:InkatMidnight 8 7
celestrina neglecta
let's talk about a month ago
pleasing myself on pointlessness
smiling for no fucking reason.
can't say i loved him much
with my knees gravely kissing the
cold floor under fluorescence
it was all about
the way he looked at me
and the way i looked at the rest of him
well i was so bitter
and he tasted salty
ridding everything of sight, mostly me.
i'm a blues butterfly
nothing less of me is nothing more.
you will never see me.
i cannot let anyone touch me
but when i remain untouched, crying, i
wonder why they could not, would not.
standing in my own way,
a one-winged butterfly
i bite my lip.
he grips me, my hips, my ribcage,
the pallor of my breasts, he's squeezing, he says
you are so fragile.
he likes me to feel, to moan, to scream
careless of what hurts and what is real
lost in his own dreams, and i in mine.
we cannot touch even as
he is inside me, even as i
worm into his thoughts
our connections run cold
as i turn away, cut him off
cut into myself
i hurt me,
i hurt him,
i hurt us
:iconsilklilies:silklilies 10 2
i spill out of my skin
every morning, noon and night.
this elaborate harvesting 
of my insides
starts with the crackling of clouds
and the tremble of trees out in the forest
as my skin resonates, picks up
the static sound
and begins to crumple a little
on its own.
everyone knows.
this is the best or worst part.
everybody knows i am 
pouring myself into a new me
at least three times a day,
spattering on the floor as i do the deed,
leaving pieces behind
milky-thick and soft like doe tears
dripping soulless pieces of me,
slipping from eyes, nose, mouth
connecting long tendrils
from my throat and stomach
and a longer electric connection
is damaged, frayed, each time
a kind of magnetic sync
with my heart
and i can imagine
if you opened up the chest
with your surgeon eyes
you would see nothing
but the singed space
where i was once awakened
:iconsilklilies:silklilies 10 5
looking for an online lover
i have ginger hands,
sandpaper skin,
tapioca nipples.
i wish my pores
were mestiza freckles.
no, no, no, they're not.
they are just pores:
acne aftermath.
i'm going for the truth here,
uploading unmanipulated
close up images
of my current age - 39.
by the way,
what do i look for
in a man?
i have no format or template.
but would you leave me in peace
at daytime?
so i can write poetry,
bake, talk to flowers...
and at night, would you
seduce me? i would very much
like you to.
your turn.
© 02.June.2012 :house:
:iconcristinewakesuphappy:cristinewakesuphappy 29 44
Deny Me
I couldn't care less
   about your eyes;
        be they amber,
             blue or amethyst,
and your tresses,
    be they cropped or long…
        dark as midnight
              or red as sunset.
I don't give a damn
   if you're fair or dark,
       or if your hands
are soft as petals,
          or if your fragrance
should remind me
              of rain wet roses.
But every restless night
       and every endless hour,
I am haunted and taunted-
           not by shameful moments,
                not by tender memories…
but by a heart too fickle.
:iconsarboom:sarboom 22 9
The Dig
I was harried
and hurried,
broken down and abraded
by the horrible sluggish pitch.
I was preserved for a million years,
a perfect unmoving artifact.
The earth froze and thawed.
The ice crystals of my soul
slowly began to run,
as I was chiseled out of the abyss,
carried slowly to the surface on the
groaning back of a winch and crane.
The metal arms that enclosed me
touched me with rust
as the sunlight wrapped around me for the first time
in a million years.
The light licked
my being
from my toes to my inner core,
filling me with warmth.
I had survived everything, even death.
:iconindiana-w:indiana-w 4 2
at first to kiss meant
to not say anything. a gesturing away from words.
to demonstrate a way of things as they are,
a way of being enough.
then it was  how we said
"this is my emptiness  without your emptiness."
dust to dust, the minimal to the maximal,
the identical points on either side of your mouth.
at last it came to mean
"we rhyme." a summoning of things narrowed, met.
things finally indistinguishable,
yet still separated by surfaces, outlines of wings.
to rhyme is to become a silent overlapping
of fabrics,
of all that might come to rest in dappled spaces beneath trees.
different shades of blue. yours lake-water
after heavy snowfall, mine saltwater a hundred
feet down.
and that is
how i kiss now.
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost 8 8
on the table
my voice
a cold ring of water
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost 10 4
Drinking Death
I enjoy drinking death
the way it lingers on,
like a cherry
upon my tongue.
It is inexhaustible,
sweet with a touch
of bitter tang,
the aftertaste
blows my mind away.
I savor it as an
after diner mint,
strange, refreshing,
it fizzles and burns
just around the edges.
It is a delicacy
from exotic locations,
an acquired taste
not intended for the
weak of heart or mind.
But it elevates me
when taken in just
the right dosage.
Like opium you need
to find the balance,
too easy to slip
too far one way
or the other.
For once you have had
your first drink of death
and it courses through
your bloodstream
there is no going back.
The trick is never
to take in too much
at once, you must learn
to nurse it, and make it last
as long as you can.
But be forewarned,
there is always a price to pay
for indulgence in divine pleasures,
once you have become drunk on death,
already you are lost
and beyond redemption.
:iconsilverwynd:SilverWynd 12 9
manifestation of the teenage heart
i look for you inside poetry.
for your dark skin, dark hair,
bright eyes, long fingers &
narrow shoulders.
i look between lines, inside words
& i hope to find you tangled in
adjective-noun-verb-adverb phrases,
i pray to see you hiding in the gaps
between stanzas & in the crevices of
metaphors & generic rhyme schemes.
it's because i'm losing you, you see, so
i need to search in all the rightly-written
places to find you again. spaces & lines
& all those hidden symbols, they're up for
interpretation; or in my case, investigation.
searching, searching
my age-earned naivety used as a
flashlight, i expect you to nomadically
turn up at some point because you're always
moving from heart to heart these days.
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree 12 4
god's tongue
god speaks in chandeliers. the little crystals, the ordinance of light fixtures.
god speaks in road signs, through telephones, and he tells the less-than-
lonely children that they are bigger than their problems & he tells the bigger
girls that they will find men too. he tells the men who love men, the women
who love women, those who love both, and those who don't love anyone at all
that his love for them is everlasting. things won't change, no sir things never
really change, but god's light shines and baby, nobody knows what you call
me when we're lying in the dark covered with sweaty bedsheets, nobody
knows about us & it feels like we don't even know each other sometimes.
the morning afters are always a little darker than the night before & that's the
hardest i've ever had to look to see god in what we do because there's nothing
holy about how we co-exist, our interactions are nothing to brag about. when
you're inside me, i forget his name and preachings and there isn't any room left
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree 12 2
my favorite dA poetry





critiques to do

Critiques I Promised To Do

I'm open for requested critiques - mainly free verse poetry, but I'll consider other forms. Please note me with a link or links to pieces you would like critiqued, and I will add them to the list.

NOTE: You do not need premium membership critique enabled on your piece.

matron by InkatMidnight

Little Submarines by ohara1901

Freediving by indiana-w

Name That Baby by xlntwtch

This, My Father Talk by TheGlassIris
Ghost by TheGlassIris
Portrait with Mourners and Childless Couple by TheGlassIris

remembering by ersatz-moon

Wasteland by Infractusgrace

Wings of Glass by Klei-Brandybear

space by Tomea

Rivalry by akkajess

House of Life Lessons by belcanto2

My sorrow by TheIcyGlaceon

A Year Spent With Delirious Wounds by Canis44

For Leyla by S1n7h

Human seasons by byronycal

Helpful Links

Holidays, DDs, and White Feature

Journal Entry: Sat Dec 19, 2015, 12:24 PM
For me, the holidays are always a time to reflect on the state of life and things.  I look on this past year, and in spite of whatever happenstance I might consider as negative, such as health issues or the general and seemingly unending malaise of the world, I am forced to conclude that it was, in fact, as good a year as I could want.  As joy often goes underreported, I’m here to say that good things did and do happen.  And they will continue to happen.

In the realm of DA, I received a DD feature on my poem Pertrichor… , thanks to LiliWrites .  Considering the recent changes to the site, I had hoped that DA would make daily deviations more prominent than they have been. My feedback to staff has always been that DDs are not an art filter or browse option, they are a feature. Don't make people dig for them, as that is really antithetical to the purpose of a feature.

I’m also closing in on 9 years on the site.  I look back at my art, the art of my DA friends and other artists I admire as well as the site as a whole, and I do notice the changes in all these aspects.  Here’s to the continuing evolution of our art and our spirits.

I hope everyone has a great holiday season.  If you prone to struggling emotionally during this time of year, Heidi has compiled a good list of hotlines that people can call to get help:


And now for a white feature:


088 by narva     11 by staceyclarkephoto


Victor 3 by NataliaCiobanu

White Lace by AgatkaAltModel   

 Dispersion by offermoord

K by RealKilroy   

Black and White Fluid Painting by Mark-Chadwick


his history by MartaSyrko

Pale by thefirebomb   

Sky Storm Sea by Senecal


Marine by EmilySoto


   golden river by KariLiimatainen


M by kakaoconad

Helena by EmilySoto

W-out 0392  '  spekker ' by W-out



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Artist | Literature
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Artist | Literature
United States

words cannot describe what i really am


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dA Groups I Administrate

I'm the founder over at :iconword-smiths:.

Please join us there and share your literature with us.

I'm the founder at :iconthesimulacrum:

Dedicated to short verse.

I'm the founder at :iconmind-syndicate:.

Let's mesh.

I'm the founder at :iconvicious-verse:.

Integrate the shadow.

I'm the founder at :iconda-literature:.

All literature is welcome.

I'm an admin at :iconburdenedhearts:.

Uniting, supporting, surviving.

I'm an admin at :iconprosepoetry-elegance:.

For excellence in writing.



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Add a Comment:
aWay-with-knives Featured By Owner Jul 6, 2018  Student General Artist
I love you Shane, thanks for being there to inspire me. vents are cappileries; black holes and white holes are the feeders
beeswingblue Featured By Owner Sep 2, 2017   Writer
Hi -- I haven't heard from you for many moons, and I hope that you are healthy and happy.  I've been worried. Much love to you. :heart:
RensKnight Featured By Owner Apr 9, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Hi...I used the "Send a Note" feature on dA-Literature to inquire about something group-related, but I am not sure that was the right place to ask my question.  Please let me know if I need to re-send it to you, or to someone else.  Thanks!
zpnn Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hi! Sorry, very late response, but Shane hasnt been online in two years so it is unlikely you'd get a reply from him.

Was your issue resolved through notes?
RensKnight Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
It looks like because of the admin rights issues there is no way to submit to the folder (religious works) that I have been told as a member to submit to.
zpnn Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Yeah, next time you try to submit comment in the comment section (of the submission request) and let us know. I'll have to manually move it over for now.
Jade-Pandora Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2017
Whoa!  Belated, Shane!:iconblushesplz:
Cinnamoncandy Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy Birthday!
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Edited Jan 14, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, darling. :heart:
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