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Keep your verse terse
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Literature
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,
here.
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 90 30
Literature
Alchemy
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
:iconspoems:spoems 15 15
Literature
workshop
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
:iconspoems:spoems 19 19
Literature
working
I wake
in mourning
working
on the end.
each blade of body
greys like cedar
brittles
in their
marrow
the eyes
become
dimensionless
never weep
from their sleep
years
digress
between
sun salutations
the gut
grows
tempestuous
with a cruel child’s
shame
yet god, buddha,
or the last aching
deity
offers up a salve
at our Mass of the Unnamed:
deadnettle
for regret
in the early grave
of March.
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 26 11
Literature
The Meaning of Bearing Life

Experience
may not last.
It
is impractical to
continue to evolve and become
the collective
experience of
bearing life,
for such
internal hardening and
the effects of
material
fatigue, going further
can be called
failure.
Life is the
life of bearing before it fails;
the so-called life
experience.
Life should peak,
oscillate, or remain
extremely short
and compromise
known or calculable external forces
or inertia.  When
free,
ignore deformations in the
frame
and act on a bearing, on a
direction,
for only light
applies to
pure
acts.
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 15 8
Literature
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
articulating
personhood
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
reclining
in the aftermath
and never knowing.
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 11 19
Literature
Elsewhere
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
:iconspoems:spoems 25 6
Literature
Retirement
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
:iconspoems:spoems 12 12
Literature
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
:iconspoems:spoems 14 16
Literature
language
I see her
foraging
for joy
in the tiniest of things
and pretend
I know the world
as well.
Somewhere
on her lips and cheeks -
a myriad of flights
and plumes,
the sweet
dichotomies
between
her muscle
cantering
the pace
of summer
and lounging
with the artless peace
of willows
guarding
waters’ edge,
I find
what she is
looking for -
a pair
of shadows
in her eyes.
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 25 24
Literature
loathe
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
:iconspoems:spoems 11 7
Mature content
The God Of Landscape Timbers Says Not To Worry :iconspoems:spoems 14 13
Literature
caesura
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
:iconspoems:spoems 22 15
Literature
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;
unabashed
unrepentant
Mexican pink.
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 25 27
Literature
I would have you do this
Here.
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
    a
:iconspoems:spoems
:iconspoems:spoems 28 15
Literature
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
:iconspoems:spoems 25 25

Random from Poetry

Literature
My Husband Tried To Make Love To Me
my husband
tried to make love to me
.
he was topaz, he was
grim, he was the chalk
and smoky fire
of fear and gnawed-at
angels
-
he was the bright face of fruit.
he was horrible and strange. he stared,
licked and rolled me in his palms
like a cigarette, wordlessly
dragged me from my grassy bed
by the bones in my legs and
pinned me down in that darkly
smiling, jagged place where
he put his hands on me and dragged
the crushed moans from my chest
made me yell
like a dog
and oh how frightened
and trembling
and in awe i was of his caverns,
his black and rolling eyes
how his pomegranates bled
and stung
and trickled, bitter
in my
mouth
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly
:iconemilygolightly:emilygolightly 292 51
Literature
Cherry
You look like a man
who gave up smoking
for the missus
who might've smoked too when she was about 17
ageless, bright
But never picked it up again
didn't like the taste
or maybe just grew up
But you still sneak one
when she won't know
And you
you look at young girls about 17
Cigarettes held
between cherry-painted lips,
little-girl nails the color of rainbows
Because the missus doesn't smoke
Hasn't smoked since -73
Feels the mortality
doesn't like the taste
Barely likes you
the way she did
when you thought love was
ageless, bright
like the cherry of a cigarette
:iconFadingGrin:FadingGrin
:iconfadinggrin:FadingGrin 10 13
Literature
Touching the Tea
I spilled the tea leaves.
The curls tumbled onto the bamboo tray.
I swept them up with my hands—
I swept up the sunshine pushing down,
the drops of water pooling in the veins,
the deep grip of roots in black dirt.
I touched the darker, worn hands
that had moved with long used rhythm
to pull them from the plant.
I swept up the time and distance,
and held it in my hand.
:iconzippip:zippip
:iconzippip:zippip 13 16
Literature
Twenty Years
We're icebergs
disguising as ships.
We float along so aimlessly and
crash into this shit!
I can't make
the things you create.
You give and give and give and give and
all I do is take
what I want
and what I deserve.
Our boys are yours. Our girl is yours. Anne,
you've sure got some nerve!
Nobody loves me
like I do.
I push everyone away
and find someone new.
We're clean clothes
lying on the floor.
We love and leave and love and leave like
two revolving doors!
I should have
the praise and respect
of everyone and everything that
I have ever met.
Life is hard,
but I carry on.
You think what you want, but know this, Anne:
I'm never alone.
Nobody loves me
like I do.
I push everyone away
and find someone new.
We're children
hiding from a fight.
We close our eyes and close our ears, but
there's no end in sight.
I still love
all the things we made.
Though they turn their backs and walk away,
that will never change
how I feel.
What a thing to know:
Twenty years as a Godly man; Anne,
you reap what
:iconGymdawg:Gymdawg
:icongymdawg:Gymdawg 21 9
Literature
duet
The earth is not perfect in its circumference,
it wobbles and shudders as it sings,
with pitched layers of atmospheric frequencies
and deep molten throbs.
Each person makes a noise that drowns out the
sound against a tsunami's thunder.
Do they ever know the song before it's too late,
or go mute long enough to know the words.
When you and I are together, we quietly hum in
hopes of hearing it in tune, of being a duet in sync.
When we can't, we touch; the friction of bodies
become tuning forks vibrating with the tides,
of bird and beast migrating by the silvery tines of
stars, to the music of our only home.
:iconJade-Pandora:Jade-Pandora
:iconjade-pandora:Jade-Pandora 71 104
Literature
The Redacted Qur'an (Excerpts)
I  THE EXORDIUM
IN THE NAME
OF PASSION
Praise be to
the straight path
of those who have gone astray






80   HE FROWNED
(IN THE NAME OF PASSION)
He might have sought
to purify himself - but that
wealthy man remained to 
cleave asunder the thickets, 
to delight in each brother; 
each of them beaming, 
smiling, joyful, face veiled 
in unbelieving.
88 THE OVERWHELMING EVENT
(IN THE NAME OF PASSION)
Have you heard
of men, worn out, drinking
from a bitter gushing
fountain, soft silken carpets
spread, and Heaven leveled
to their account?
90   THE CITY
(IN THE NAME OF PASSION)
I swear you
are a created
affliction
91   THE SUN
(IN THE NAME OF PASSION)
The sun and the moon,
the day, the night spread
Him with knowledge of sin:
"Blessed shall be the man
who kept pure ruined pride
when Allah's own spurge razed
the city. He was afraid
of none."
92  
:iconinprotest:inprotest
:iconinprotest:inprotest 107 116
Literature
We Were All Going to be Wonderful
Kathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pear
black-haired, she wore it long, tied back.
She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--
silver and red, smoky and asleep;
should have smelled like cardamom or cloves
but she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.
She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchen
peeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hipped
her dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.
We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofa
with his Reds game and his beer;
men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.
The suburbs were a garden
through the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,
and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.
But he worked every day, by god he did,
drove a truck fat with bakery goods
flaccid and without souls
(whole wheat was a color not a life.)
Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interfere
with their summer afternoons.
"Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."
She only grunted,
:iconriparii:riparii
:iconriparii:riparii 109 111
Literature
volte-face
If people were numbers I’d be an 8
all generous curves with a wasp’s waist.
If people were numbers you’d be a 9
head hanging low with the world’s weight.
:iconSora-Seraph:Sora-Seraph
:iconsora-seraph:Sora-Seraph 28 13
Literature
Crossing Ariel
Your wedding;
you spoke your way toward it
one prospect at a time;
having not been
the cripple or whore,
you settled for
singularity, no future or past,
just announcement and umbra, joy in shade,
soft smiting breath.
How though did you put your children away?
Mylar-eyed,
squinting toward dawn.
If your days had been counted
purposefully,
perhaps you would have gone off
fatter, sated as a rook scavenging
in the quiet
instead of blindly staring out bread crumbs
like a gassed canary.
The shine of your boy's hungry mouth
did not dissuade your long whim;
to any call of loneliness
the answer was a towel,
clean and wet
and a ration of cold milk.
Did any irony strike you
like a bell hammer?
Aimlessly you once doodled
cast-off shoes;
no small feet wiggling
toe-ward to fill them.
Gentle prophecy of
water-filled mouth,
immortal effigy for the beauty of drowning.
The flaxen-haired siren
counting out pins from her hair,
swallowing them slowly to armor her heart,
a myth of eaters
and sadness consumed
:iconcrossing-ariel:crossing-ariel
:iconcrossing-ariel:crossing-ariel 119 107
Literature
Collapsible
Daydream. Softened tone
grazing the senses. Same
layer of peach fuzz
her kind
grows  
when port-cities put on
boréale gowns
and frown
as
Tuesday seeps over copper roofs.
In wilderness our hands were
blind swans struggling
against different
levels
of gravity —underwater heavy—
and close-whispered wishes
on the couch—
not warm,
snug.
It’s time to blink once more
and flex the ghost sinew
clinically removed  
by the absence
of her
voice.
:iconThyPoetSorcerer:ThyPoetSorcerer
:iconthypoetsorcerer:ThyPoetSorcerer 20 8
Literature
Shades
Shades
Each day's ebb and flow
Fills and empties sculpted space.
At dusk shadows grow,
suggesting those mysteries
enclosed in hearts long since stilled.
:iconAlecBell:AlecBell
:iconalecbell:AlecBell 88 62
Literature
Knife
Remember that little human 
boy who couldn't read aloud - 
who couldn't hold a pen
because his slick corn oil skin
kept sliding past itself?
Boy, oh, boy.
And he was born a hundred
years too late for his cowboy
dreams. He rides herd on the 
maybes and the somedays.
He sang a knife song - one
that sliced up the rigid spines
of teachers and parents alike
and parted them before him
like God-spoken seas.
Deft elision somewhere between
his teeth and tongue, lyrical, his
words in other men's mouths.
Knife song honed with lime,
polished with manteca.
:iconQuiEstInLiteris:QuiEstInLiteris
:iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 29 6
my favorite dA poetry

Critiques

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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 spoems.deviantart.com/art/Petr… , 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



luna by ESPRIT-CONFUS



M by kakaoconad


Helena by EmilySoto




W-out 0392  '  spekker ' by W-out









Cheers.

shane

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Artist | Literature
United States


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Shane
Artist | Literature
United States

words cannot describe what i really am







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    Anonymous Deviant
    Donated Apr 10, 2013, 12:28:21 AM
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Visitors

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Lycaenyx
Nov 8, 2018
10:55 am
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Nov 8, 2018
9:53 am
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ungraciouspastor
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WhiskeyDreamer
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groups

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.

Stamps

Stamps

I've started a stamp collection. Because, that's what people do.

Stamp: thetaoofchaos by PoetryOD Nobody Likes a Writer by wildoats
I support BurdenedHearts by PoetryOD Read Poetry by LadyTieryn Word-Smiths signature... by Villenueve
Legalize Freedom by Swimmingferret Zen Stamp by st3ramone
Jack Kerouac stamp by reddartfrog Linux Stamp by aldessa spoems! Animation! by Chronokinetic-socks

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconspecialized666:
specialized666 Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2018  Professional General Artist
Hi, have an awesome day :happybounce:
Reply
:iconaway-with-knives:
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
Reply
:iconbeeswingblue:
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:
Reply
:iconrensknight:
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!
Reply
:iconzpnn:
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?
Reply
:iconrensknight:
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.
Reply
:iconzpnn:
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.
Reply
:iconjade-pandora:
Jade-Pandora Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2017
Whoa!  Belated, Shane!:iconblushesplz:
Reply
:iconcinnamoncandy:
Cinnamoncandy Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy Birthday!
Reply
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