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Deviant for 12 Years
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Literature
Vitruvian
No semblance of youth now that I am worn,
Not a question of price or sale,
For the tally being taken each time I was born
Has whittled almost to male.
Each cast a crude copy of the Vitruvian
Until I cannot tell them apart,
Bodies that mope, dragged by filthy skin
And equally filthy heart.
Heavier – materialised – now that I am no foal;
Yet, with bare minutes having gone,
A lifetime of this taxidermy to greet and mull
Waits, patiently and overdone.
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Literature
Mimicry
Lounging on my own
selfish sense of decency and
the thickest core of each,
I infuriate my flesh to the
very antithesis of my arrangement;
that stealthy, solid,
mangled thing.
While priceless, meaningless;
no other will meet me there,
below the mantras of what
it is to be a grown animal.
It dutifully examines me in my adreno and
carefully adds to my breath in my rest,
mouth to mouth,
so that I drag open my eyes
to clementine, red and gold
and to a fraction of myself.
Its tar pouring into my ears and nose,
thickly down my throat,
pooling in my temples –
A conversation between a thousand others
individually wrapped, delivered
with an expected thank-you note.
A third generation radio station
on maximum volume
plugged directly into my teeth.
An impressive mimicry
of an uninterrupted, organic skinsuit.
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Literature
Telescope
What if I never think of another word
to describe the wallpaper of my thoughts
that is not synonymous with
an old, oily rag.
What if I peeled my eyesockets in the morning
to the taste of prickles,
sawdust and mustard,
to tales of the sun staying in its crib, smirking
at my neck angle, bullying
my calculated dopa.
What if I sense my feet on the pedals instead of the
pavement, and the capsule breaks.
(A long, thin cylinder of metal and glass
is how I talk to my family
to remind them that I
remember home.)
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Literature
Tinnitus
It is not enough to
speak in plain phrase, for
this continent is not.
It is not enough to
spout stretched words from
the mouths of other variables
for extra credit and senator approval.
There sits the one true singularity
someplace between my vertebrae,
I hold it in my slump, my stare, my slack,
my teeth,
chew it until I can’t and
then begin to chew again.
I’ve heard there lives a royalty who,
despising his own fluency,
resides in teeth of his own;
I should like to break his capable jaw.
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Literature
Amphibian
The act had long past sunk below
its territory blue,
offering in hand the silencing
of lillypadded view
where tongue searches for winged sound,
amphibian at best,
and crunches muscle after dark
in its peculiar quest.
It had not settled for contempt
nor for the childish scowl,
it did not conjure blackened shrieks
nor melancholic howl
but choked the very air from throat,
that abhorrent fly,
when right inside the frog’s own skin
it became tempershy.
Bone-given grace evades the pit
that snakes into ground pores,
marbling decadent hopelessness
with all the open doors,
so lime flesh learns that airborne thoughts
are meant for underground,
and it settles into motherhood
without another sound.
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Literature
Matters
And so, after 60 years, Raymond Montgomery had finally, exhaustively, definitively had enough. There were no marbles left for him to lose. It was not so much that he wanted to die as it was that he simply did not care anymore whether or not he continued to live. Dragging his eyelids up, a quick shot of his eyeballs to the left gave him the disadvantage of being audience to a group of young people discussing Matters. Raymond had had enough of Matters. Matters were things that the juvenile were privileged enough to believe in, like poverty and war and global warming. They were things that bled when you bit into them; that soaked into juicy, fresh minds and, once settled in, melted into opinions and passions and reason for cause. These terrible, Godforsaken Matters; subjective to the human mind's own limitations of reasoning and compassion, coughing thick smoke into the room so that one can ignore their own existentialism. Matters are comfortable because they matter. Raymond shifted his a
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Literature
Sick
Velveteen safety, smoke
rings elaborate from my scrawling words
contributing only cancerous undertones and
semi-formed pleasures. I am
always
always so cold
and nothing can warm me.
Birth will always be a myriad
of questions I cannot answer
and answers I cannot grasp
with torment after torment
as I grip in thin air for the
reasons I am oxygen dependant and
made with six electrons;
not seven,
not five.
Brick in and
brick out they
torment me again, leaving me
stranded in my head with
an eternal raging stormcloud of unanswerable
and useless, wholly critical
persuasive illusions so that I still do not know
if they torment others
the way they torture mine.
I don’t care for your hobbies
as you care for your hobbies
because
I
cannot
and for that I
remain in a self-propagating and
formally demonstrated quarantine
chamber with only my torture
for company.
I am sick
but outside is sicker.
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Literature
2 + 10
At two o’clock and ten o’clock
the micro rabbit listens in;
with sudden small delinquent shock
the now 10 foot rabbit balks again.
Preliminary blood tripping sound;
The She, in stars, was not aware
of effervescence in her ground
which bathed her fur foam in Beware.
And, rabbit, with bowed head remind,
one/all will then next step implore
how hating The She, sight in hind,
for infantile teething at your core
would sweetly grace you harmony,
your rabbit soul of astroblue,
when astroblue is made of She
and She is rightly blistered, too.
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Literature
Brute
To nullify this fraction bomb,
to split this royal right,
what are you, tame and rotting words
or centre of the night?
Substantiate your viral claims
with speak of modern war,
yet draw a blank when asked to tell
of that not told before.
And strike directly at the chest,
waste no time breaking arms,
I hold your face inside my wrists,
alleviate you of your harms.
How does one so free of brute
allow his ills as vice
after they spark upon the thought of none
but own reflection precise?
In spite of these insatiable beasts,
horrendous in their war,
I absorb your condemnables safely in
and am devoured all the more.
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Literature
White
A windowless shed
pierces the mayhem and offers me
white.
And I reach blackcurrant sun,
flaming throatwords,
terrible diseases of
perpetual daylight and
eyes from each corner,
asking me what to do.
The atlas isn't moved,
it stays in its lace,
it sips on pink cotton
and talks of cherrypie
and smells of the deceased.
Winged, petty dragonheads,
slandering your only love,
your lifelong loyal fleas.
White
is where the remnants lie,
white is where I gnaw.
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Literature
We
I, once a thing of Material,
now tempering the Sun
am not only drawn but pulled,
vacuumed, stretched,
dragged, extracted and dislocated
into the Eternal Unknown.
I lovingly greet my Self there.
I, once a thing of hypothesis,
of matter, error, mathematics,
I claimed directional ownership -
the compass without a soul.
Now, alone with my Self,
I lastly allow Her to cradle me,
to forgive me for my softness,
to detach my calcified outer,
to show me that I am Truth.
It is not external mindset
that has ever cast a shadow,
but I, once external enough,
was matter enough to shade the Sun.
Forgive me for my loneliness,
lasting distrust of my River
for fear I would awaken miles downstream
with no recollection of return;
I, once wanting marbling,
now welcome that I marble on my own.
I retreat into my River
and allow the current to take.
There is nothing left for mannequins
and, as I am gradually less present,
Material is eroded and I watch
my Self grade into the Sun,
beginning to secure the symmetr
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Literature
Ode To Caffeine
Mind enters opening,
layers of hours
to sorrily drag
as sleepiness devours.
It only takes one
meagre point to buy
that my day is not worth it
and that here I shall lie.
But, alas, the clock
does not wait for my mood
and, lead in my head,
duvet and chin still glued,
I find it in my recesses
to remove my sheets
for one single reason
that never dims or fleets -
the meeting of water
and gorgeous coffee grain
collides with almond essence
and - it hits my brain...
I am light, I am free!
The day is my own!
Now with my sweet caffeine
I am no longer alone
and from this day forth
I will not be without,
for caffeine is my soulmate
and I have no more doubt.
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Literature
Nervehurt
I do not think it is introspective,
the means by which kindness desert,
when spiders of wet black try to forgive
that timed soliloquy out of dirt
and hours are pledged to stare, relive
the vomited fear, the solid nervehurt,
and the miles of futurecones I will give
for every spear you could suddenly blurt
will first be strained in my cognitive
before my heart will claim insert,
for our means are still true connective,
and I am still yours until fear invert.
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Literature
Furnace
Horrendous.
Climb through the nightframe
to siphon my skin.
Narrowing tiles as they come to the edge,
ugly and unnatural,
risen from cyclones that politics pledge.
Your darling opinions,
your beloved sideline fights.
Easier to stand for another's rights.
Unturned pillow causing sleepless nights -
Alaska in your wording
and then furnace in your eyesight.
Lighter
and milder
and safer
and evaporated
and left is your duckling -
she doesn't call names
or twitch when you slip.
So draw up your bedside
and give her a sip.
You'd ask for a bow
and she'd ninety degree flip.
"Why, what beautiful eyes you have!"
All the better to destroy you with,
my dear.
Isn't that your lovely pasttime,
besides pitying your fear?
Leaves are predictable and
dirt is solid and
roots do not have their own and
poverty is too widespread and
coffee is not fairly sold and
the entire world is your oyster shell
but around your dread you curl
you are still just sand
afraid to touch your pearl.
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Literature
Twelve
Allow me eleven to close into
then a lonely slip into the twelfth,
fixing armour over something new,
hours to pile and mimic stealth
and branching out among the lot,
skin flickering around the dust,
its caramel shadow that you are not
stains the narrow, leaves when it must.
Ninety degrees of solid sweet
to inhale and let you struggle in,
dreaming on that floral street,
same metre high, same dorsal fin
but I, seeing teeth, do not evict,
nor show you mine, nor hold you out,
twelve more than I could predict
but twelve eternal, if you without.
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Literature
Flinch
That melted tonic, that
burning glass.
The cavern that once
held your apologies
now smokes inside a fireplace.
Where do you flinch
when I tell you there's more?
Do you retreat in your chest?
I can barely gravitate
when you say you're unsure.
Lucid potentials,
and here I have thirty;
they all remember nothing
and I remember all.
Membranous glitches
stutter over your ways,
I am not her
and yet I have her name.
What alchemy is rare enough
to see mine instead?
If you were not afraid
I would not be your tremor,
and all that you do is shake.
Instead there is a cataract,
it forces you to be blurred.
I am a specimen in here,
I am confusing and confused
but not to you.
Fifteen minutes
and all I want is to not.
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Activity


deviantID

Swansong666
Take a sentiment that's real
Take the way you really feel
Find a safe place to hide it

Favourite style of art: Words.

Comments


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:iconjumprj:
JumpRJ Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2011
You're awesome :)
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:iconxilamne:
xilamne Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2009
A personal quote from my favorite movie! I may have to check out your gallery...
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:iconxilamne:
xilamne Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2009
so.. after I finally got around to looking at your gallery page.. I realized how much work you have in there. I'm rather too impatient to go through it all, but if you have some suggestions on anything specific to read, I'd appreciate it. I enjoy poetry more than stories, though I like to see what the artists themselves appreciate the most in their own work... so.. w/e you want to throw at me :P
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:iconswansong666:
Swansong666 Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2009
Well the good news is I don't have ANY stories in there haha.
Half of them are structured and rhyming, and the other half are pretty much just free thought.

So of the structured variety, I'd suggest Cerulean, Sunburn, Betrothed To The Lie, Laminated Lover's Muscle, Inexplicable, Us, Fearing Your Truth, The Art Of Denial and Autumn Leaves.

Of the open ones, I'd say Glass Box, To My Beautiful, Siphoned, Papyrus, Nevermind, Perfectly, Essential and 8am And Last Night.

Sorry that's still a long list; I can't narrow it down, the ones I like you may hate haha :P
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:iconswansong666:
Swansong666 Featured By Owner Jul 23, 2006
Just a note:

Thank you everyone for the comments! They're helpful, inspirational and motivational :P.

Please feel free to tell me what you like and what you think should be changed, what you want to see less of and more of. I usually just write what's in my head but if I get some feedback on topics it'd be great :).

Thanks xox
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:iconbokugakowai:
bokugakowai Featured By Owner Jul 16, 2006  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the visit :)
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:iconthkofme:
ThkofMe Featured By Owner Jul 3, 2006
Hah, thanks :-)
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:iconabatrasau:
Abatrasau Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2006
wow i really love you poems. Keep up the great work!!!
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:iconswansong666:
Swansong666 Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2006
Thanks Abatrasau! I went on your page, yours are awesome too. I totally related to them, they were beautiful. Thanks for the comments!
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