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The Tale of Etan the Bard

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The Tale of Etan the Bard

During the time of King Donnchadh, son of Domhnall who was the son of Murchadh, there was a bard in Kathlin in Northern Ireland.  Her name was Étan and she was the daughter of Buan mac Báin, who was a wise and educated man, and also said to be descended from Amergín himself.  Although it was no longer common for women and men to do the same jobs, she was proud and high-minded, and would pay no attention to the words of her neighbors. She was a strong woman in both body and mind, if not very tall and somewhat quick to anger.  Her pride and the quickness of her sharp tongue kept her unmarried, but also kept her from regretting this.  Neverthele

Triangular Desire

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Triangular Desire

If we ignore the fact that I have never, ever answered to Scotty, The names even sound similar. If only my best theoretical paradigm, my flawless Marxist criticism, My profession of words would stop getting in my way. Commodity and commodifier at the same time, that would be Me.  Good 60s girl, right color hair and eyes And a sense of class; I am also the good but damaged detective, A scotch and nostalgia my bulletproof vest. Dressing up my Judy boy, triangular desire a perfect metaphor. Arcane, but perfect for me, the inarticulate writer, The immobile hypsophobic cop. I know I love the signifier rather than the signified. I also

You, Mysterious, Mercurial

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You, Mysterious, Mercurial

I am haunted by the ghost of your smile; Things remembered gone down to the grave. For words unsaid, I stand on trial. "Time heals," they say, so I bide a while. Platitudes a battered wit might crave I am haunted by the ghost of your smile. Tossing hollow regrets into a pile, The absence of sun tempting me to rave. For words unsaid I stand on trial. Of grief, I remain in staunch denial Relying on a tightened grin to save I am haunted by the ghost of your smile. Whenever reverie I revile, Without a steady hand, no longer brave For words unsaid, I stand on trial. And you, mysterious, mercurial, Work with ghost-words the magic I

Light Enough to Move

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Light Enough to Move

Slow minuet, a Victorian Garden party dance affair Conducted at A kiss a day, A wink every two weeks, A slow giddy wheel every month, Then an elegant split and Reformation Into new sparkling pairs, Rotating and dotting the Parquet in new Constellations, The Heathcliff not Orion, The Bennetts not the Seven Sisters (only three), The Bronte not Cygnus. Sparkling smiles, decorum, structure, formality, Constancy. And in the middle, the North Star alone, Or perhaps one of the stars that Goes down burning through the atmosphere at the Rightest and most wrong posible Moment. Rock or Ephemeron, I stand in the sky, Breathing smo

suspici sidus

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suspici sidus

Some days I Wonder if this will ever come straight If the tangled yarn I Call my head these days Will ever unravel.  The answers I give myself depend on The time The mood The song in my head; This is Most days I wear three years' experience on my skin, Tattooed tire tracks race down my arms Cranes and berries blanket my shoulders Sheet music indelible on my lips Pens for unwilling words on my hands. I want everyone to see it too, Because it's beautiful Art And we made it together.

little sister's soliloquy

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little sister's soliloquy

What's in it for me? always your first question, Cannily concealed beneath outrageous shocks That could still like grenades or wound like kisses. How could I oppose, refuse a quick-tongued thief Of cars and bodies?  To say no would be lost, Swallowed by layers of quilts and strange dreams, The same blankets that absorbed all the salt I Would ever bleed from all unnatural shocks Of salad days, appropriately colored Green.  Green like candy bears, green like the pills. I dreamed in green and woke in blue, cat On my feet, no longer separating Mad dreams whispered in my ear, duels unfought For me, no man at my feet, save one dark Fe

munai

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munai

For every Africa I will never recall, every Lion and mastodon held fixed by a wish Instead of a spear point.  For all the Loam and dragonflies that have come down to me degraded. It's no use, My fingers will always remember The hardness of plastic keys before The feel of pebbles. All the devolution in the world- the Imaginary pain of exchanging gills for lungs- will not Make time run backwards. At night, I will always see Blinking jet lights, hear Cars whispering past on the highway, and not one Bone drum to still it.

loa

l

loa

the first half-hour after midnight, lit by a moon or a monitor, showing the shrunken-head voodoo priestess (with apologies to grande brigitte and samedi, le baron cimitiere, the legitimate graveyard denizens), collecting platitiudes and drawing figures in makeup like chalk; laying out all manner of silver-plated platitudes and thin dimes in front of a many-armed hoodoo figure that- in the right light, or lack thereof, of course- might pass for an oracle, if you ignore that that's not spanish moss, but a skein of fishnet. what would ogun have to say to you? chances are those pretty stylized artistic skulls would start chatteri

55 in a 78

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55 in a 78

so they say you love me now, in your own fumbling kind of way. but i'm afraid of, years from now, when you've forgotten their names, waking up next to you with that bike of yours turned into an acura sedan in the driveway, and your face, once defined by ivory-soap angles and steel rings, now defined by weekends spent wallpapering. and maybe the odd suit-related food thing, here and there (of course costing more than the clothes we used to wear) and your hands that are now white and thin have become the new face of company loyalty, unlike my grandfather's, hale and hearty and altogether himself, very much 20 at 82. i won't say

electronic diesel

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electronic diesel

ideally- and this is to say that this is never going to happen- i'd have a nicer machine, and i'd paint it pretty with fleshplants (isn't that a nice word there?) so you could watch them, largely unaware that they have been known to feed on star-crossed clerks and english majors. they're carnivorous largely by accident, which is what's going to happen if i don't learn to stop watching smoke in mirrors and keep my eye (also accidentally carnivorous, and guiltily so) on the tire-treads i need to be following. you know, ideally, you would not think that's kind of charming.
See all

Apology

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Apology

I'm sorry you saw that.  Ragged bone, forests of needles bristling up around mirror-lakes dotted with bleached-bone-white islands.  Colors were there, terrifying in their intensity.  What did they do to you?  Could I make it better could I could I.  Machete my way through forests hydroponically thick with poisonous plants, always green, bloody poppy smiles grinning at me like death's heads.  They've woven their way into you, vinous viscous poison carried through tendrils into the base of your brain, your spine.  Break the bones break the bones break the bones.  Progeny of chemical misery, let me make something go right?  Blood is thicker than

Avenging Angel

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Avenging Angel

Screaming silently into a slick reflective void. What have you done for me? Bristle with needles at my touch, hurl a shout jagged with sweet crystallized anger when I ask What's wrong what's wrong what's wrong. Your propensity shattered the wrong thing. I can't hack my way through your poisonous jungle to voice my concerns anymore. I just stumble now, tendrils of futility and abandonment catching my ankles, dragging me down down down down to you. My hands are stained lurid brokenheart colors by your family tree's falling leaves. The vines finally choked it off. I can feel the tip of an angel's wing brush my tongue, leaving behind the sweetest

Trouble In Paradise

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Trouble In Paradise

I wish I could block out the sound of you two Arguing, The same damn fight you've been having every day since you met. You, I feel bad for you. He's pushing you too hard, and in all the wrong places. Hearing you argue sends chills up my spine Today you bicker, In three days you'll scream at him, call him a liar In a week, drunk, stoned, you'll throw things at him Your purse, an ashtray, the lit end of your cigarette And in ten days, he'll ruin you. Violently. And come back the next morning, eyes as blue as your bruises, saying Baby I'm sorry, but You're too sensitive, Touchy, It wasn't that bad, really. I don't get along wit

Staff Meeting

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Staff Meeting

I feel ridiculous, Being here. Naive To even think I deserved To be part of this unconscious elite. To think I was worthy of Holding myself to the standards you measure yourselves with. Knowledge is nothing if left to decay. I, Who takes small bites around quality, as if afraid the core has seeds. If I rely on deception To replace invention It further proves my disconnection with the Way Things Are. I'm sick of being Patronized, Lied to like a child Naive. Ridiculous.

you are not a demigoddess

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you are not a demigoddess

You wear your intolerance as a badge An insignia of your own secret society, Separating you from the "mindless masses." You're like a banker with his Klan title on his business card, And for that reason you sicken me. Feeding on your own ego. Subtle as a sledgehammer Not all your slings and arrows hurtle harmlessly over the heads of the innocent. In fact, you're a lousy archer. Although in the stagnant reflecting pool you use to Avoid looking directly at the world, I'm sure that's just my denial Making up for my inadequacy In your brilliant Atlantic City light. Self-serving Child of self-love I'll brook no assumption as to mys

Dreaming Real

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Dreaming Real

Knit me a basket from shining sunbeams so I can hold the stars.  Don't yell when I try and catch a leaf, sometimes it's not catching it but following it that gets you there.  Let me be a flower for today, small and white and moss-shrouded and reclusive.  Make me a palace of crystalline snow.  I'll ride a reindeer there.  Glean from what's left a sparkling purple piece of what was.  We can make it into something.  Just not a jewel, cut down into a tidy shape, metal-cased and chained about my neck like a reproach.  Do that and I'll throw it into the sea where it will become gently washed seagreen.  I can see the same arc in a glacial circ or th

Gryphon- sic

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Gryphon- sic

You walking corpse, You McGoth shell of a boy No one understands you, Appreciates your god-like insight, Is capable of discourse on your level. Let the worms feed on your "Alternative" corpse At least then you'll have Gotten what you (Claimed to) Have wanted. No one ever had the chance to Mull over your points, Speak without fear of your processed deprecation, Open their mouth and prove that we're not all Intellectually deficient. You say you're depressed, But you're just depressing A farce draped in black prefab "Army" jeans Imagining himself to be Deus ex machina Cast down into the seething pit To illuminate the jeerin

I will never tell you now

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I will never tell you now

Most people, I start out thinking they're assholes too and they have to prove otherwise. Very few get a clean slate, fewer still get carte blanche. Just by breathing, you understand me. Not-hatred is a valuable commodity in my world, and I respect you for it. Morbid curiosity. Answers to amazement to respect to feigned childishness to. I'm worried; a total stranger screaming hatred to the molecules responsible for the world's lack of motion. I defy them. Don't do this to yourself. For what? Two vague chemical ghosts, a shrew preserved for the ages in brandy, an almighty hypocrite? They. Are. Not. Worth. Your. Ruin. I'd slap you if I could rea

You Want It- You Got It

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You Want It- You Got It

We're lined up Like preserves at a backwater fair Labeled, Awaiting the judge and the multicolored ribbons This one is too astringent, Pickles, Not the strawberry preserve Nice-and-easy That you want it to be. A black ribbon for you. That one a rice pudding, no right to be here outside the confines of your categories A good rice pudding, But because it's out of your classification, A blancmange, Quivering, pale A stained white ribbon for it, dipped in the beetjuice blood of a martyr. The first and final one black cherries Candied and set with gelatin. Finally, something that meets the requirements. A blue ribbon for it, bec

Martyrdom and Chocolate

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Martyrdom and Chocolate

Straight-backed and eager for abasement You glide forward with the other Writhing pilgrims, crawling toward the body of the martyr Even now leaving bloodstains on the white sheet. Bloodstains on the sleeve of the habit, Blood trickling down onto the hand Trailing off the bier like an unfinished sentence Blood dripping from waxen fingertips Cherry ripe And sinful as chocolate. You crave it as you crave absolution, and Glide regally over the backs of the struggling faithful at your feet. Clasp that hand, feel that Blood Rich as your reward Drip through a shard of eternity to your eager waiting lips. Licking up humiliation like a

Good Morning

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Good Morning

I woke up again today             hungry for you.                         Far away                                       you.

The Real Divine Comedy

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The Real Divine Comedy

a serpent crossed my road today.  and he hissed the sweetest psalm of lovers in the hay;  of halos in the way;      of hearts spent with irregular beats, and of the masterful feats that i were to accomplish...                  if i could only find my feet! mistakes have been made fences built upon my thoughts. your juiceless viscera          was once desired --                              intertwined?          i now desire only wine... and i say to thee:   thy love was a mistake,   so let us pass by.          and.....                        when it came time... to pluck the blossom from the vine... please,..
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Spotlight

peppermint

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peppermint

And I'll just Trace your bright scars with my tongue And with my teeth spell out On your collarbone where it's almost unseen At the smooth joining of muscle, That I love you In spite of/Because of the fact that you're the Antithesis of innocent and Legally dead in someone's mind. And those fingers that braid me bits of string Are also used to Spin about me words that end up Stretching everything to the point that I'm a Piano tuned too tight Ready to fly completely apart if The wrong finger (That being anybody else's) Hits the wrong note (That being anything less than your lips) At the wrong time. And when I can erase a st
28Comments
  • United States
  • Deviant for 18 years
  • She / Her
Badges
Llama: Llamas are awesome! (7)
My Bio
Current Residence: 805
Favourite genre of music: most
Favourite photographer: shootingstar
Operating System: windows 7
MP3 player of choice: iTunes (baww)
Shell of choice: crunchy oo;
Wallpaper of choice: domo-kun by diane
Favourite cartoon character: ren & stimpy, spider jerusalem
Personal Quote: oh, the sharks and the jets are having a kilt fight.

Favourite Visual Artist
jason khan, yan-zhou xu
Favourite Movies
the people under the stairs
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
anything but country and most rap.
Favourite Writers
william gibson, t.s. eliot, norman maclean, chaucer, dylan thomas
Tools of the Trade
keyboard, food, words, braaaains
Other Interests
many things. many.

Dusty

Dusty

Holy crap, I am never on here anymore.  I suppose that's what happens when all your words and energy are used writing term papers on subjects no one actually cares about, but that's almost over.  I'd like to be able to upload new things, but that doesn't seem likely as my focus shifts.  That's okay, though, I can use this to see pretty pictures and pretty words, assuming I remember to sign in and, y'know, check things.

el oso

el oso

so things might be looking up for this place, this page.  i've moved, and while a very enigmatic new neighbor has been altering my perceptions of everything almost daily, this means something good for my art.  for the first time, i feel on kind of okay footing about calling it that, like it might actually be.  after a very intense and weird and lonely walk this morning, i came to a novel point.  during the walk, i unfolded a new concept for what i want to do.  i intend to make art with my words and my hands, using what i have to cobble together a visual/written piece.  this means i get to take a lot more pictures than i have been lately, and

what a time warp

what a time warp

it's late here, or rather early, and i'm an insomniac who doesn't have classes tomorrow, so here i am on da.  i submitted something, the first thing i felt like saying in a very long time (the rest is just me versus writer's block).  and i started to look through my gallery.  i can't pinpoint the exact moment in time where it fell apart, but it doesn't really matter.  this is probably the least appropriate place to be discussing genuine anything, or epiphanies, or the kind of stuff that would make a middle-schooler say "deep."  but hey, fuck that; there's my customary eloquence.  anyway, my old comments blew my mind.  people said all kinds of

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:D Sorry about the big delay, but thank you for checking out my wood works! I totally agree about the children's book influence..I have a book with similar style floating around somewhere..
:w00t: :dance: :cake: !!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY !!! :cake: :dance: :w00t:

It's 2nd January which means it's your special day. Hoping you have a fantastic birthday, get some nice gifts and generally get to enjoy it lots.

All the best and much love from the birthdays team to you :hug:

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thanks for the message, I know what you mean :D
cya 'round
Gwarrrr Erin o_O.. how is life woman? Haven't seen you in way over a year XD o_o not since that Toga party I do believe >3 Fuuuu you should IM me someday woman if you ever get this.
this place kinda just died in the arse didn't it?
love your dead bear icon :D
it five things not two :d