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About Literature / Hobbyist tetrarchangelMale/United Kingdom Group :iconorang-utan-comics: Orang-Utan-Comics
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Deviant for 14 Years
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Bay of Ashes
How long O Lord, how long?
How much more can we take, O God?
David’s seen his son lost to rebellious death,
And we ache with our hopes run aground.
We ache and see a bay of ashes
Tear-sea, waves and no calming rhythm,
No loving silence, no furious spray which tastes of life.
We bend and crumple beneath the many weights.
How long O Lord, how long?
Will we dwell inside ourselves,
See unlucky omens,
Not able to speak
Or meet each others’ gazes?
How much more can we take?
How much more of this,
And whatever more comes tomorrow,
Each new gap in mercy,
Or so it seems?
We sob upon the bay of ashes,
Grey sand and greyer skies,
With course lost, gone dull and numb
Pain never so sharp since it is so denied,
But in our hearts is that cry:
How long O Lord?  
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Giddy with luck,
I am dancing and discover that I can dance.
How rare the delight,
To find a touch where I do not tense,
A person to share all,
My hand on your waist,
I cannot believe your eyes.
Maybe ascribe it not to luck but to blessing,
A river falling,
A sea of love added to
By newly found tributaries,
Little gifts,
An outpouring
[Two souls, one night by the river’s run,
The old mill,
Telling all].
Or perhaps destiny,
To reconnect two threads ever so close but never yet overlapping,
Taken each far from home,
But meant to be entwined.
I could say only love,
Not deserved, nor wilfully won by I,
Unexpectedly born,
I can scarce believe it, yet
Know it to be totally true.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Give me a sign of if I have chosen
A right way
For these years,
Or if I am not worthy.
Give me some sense if this is the beginning or the end,
When it feels like endless middle.
Adjudge me to be ready,
Or leave me behind,
All I say is let me know – and while I ask this
In an unequal pattern, overstretched and underused,
I say too much, too soon:
It makes sense
I identified as a traitor for so long,
And then by self
Self-focus, selfishness
To firmly betray
For the sake of avoiding feared outcomes,
It makes sense. Does it matter if
It is true?
But we seem to live in a world
Where there is nothing in the present, or the near past
Only next time, next time, so
A sequence of events has no meaning
If you are not sure what to learn
Or how to get there.
That’s what you believe,
That the core is rotten, but
It is never so simple. There’s
And pain, guilt, ego, hope, beauty, trust,
A heart is never just one part.
It is not the sort of redemption that
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Out of the Briar
One thorn reminds of being wrapped in brambles
The old pain, the old wounds,
That felt inescapable – that held me fast,
And kept me from moving with any swiftness,
Wound me down to gasping, uncomprehending exhaustion.
And memory erupts with the belief that
Once again, I am trapped,
Even as I ease the thorn from my palm,
Rise lionlike once again.
Fear insists that one step back means all is lost,
And what I have lost is a vision
Of where I am now, of how different
A single thorn is from many,
A single setback is from total blockage,
A single mistake is from the ill-chosen path.
My body burns with flames and I think I am lost to the furze.
Through the briar and flames,
I see it:
A meadow that shines with its own light,
Perfect buttercup sunshine bursting from the earth,
See those flowers that do not weave – the woven rainbow light rises up from them!
There is peace to be had – cast burdens and let tomorrow have tomorrow,
Embrace today,
Run free, becoming a child, and
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Remember Then What It Is That You Were Saved From
They might say, in the end, that we saved each other
Sure, only God saves,
As with all things, we’re talking some way down the line,
The secondary, the tertiary, the helicopter and the boat,
At the moment all the stories
Are notes in small journals, held by us,
Some balladeers we make, telling each other
Stories of only weeks ago.
‘What have you been doing for the last year or so?’
I was asked, and I said ‘growing up’ because
Poetry is for adolescents and they’re eternal
These days [they’ll die in the future, they died in the past, but
In the now, they grow incrementally-eternally]
“Time present…” I prodeclaim in a put-on voice,
Noble aims with selfish reasons,
We come so close to the impossibility of the teenage condition.
It is so easily to forget how
The stunted teenager-inside-an-adult worldview,
Ruled by fools’ passions, disconnected
From all others by not meeting their eyes,
The rapacious consciousness owned us, br
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Oh say nothing,
And hold every word,
In increasing internal hollow
So no sound will ring
In a room
That encompasses all.
Find connections in
Some codex of restoration
That tie up insufficiently
With her, and her, and
Experience incapability and inability
Fear for fear
But say nothing, and hold them closer.
Realise femininity, that
Sitting down is for rooms with chairs and couches
And notepads, and that other sort of listening
Listen to her as her movements touch the air,
The raw, the burning, sings out
Listen, say nothing, hold close.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
To tell honestly,
Of the reality of my heart,
To speak and sing and use words, those fortunate words,
How I come to know my love,
How I come to understand:
This stolen idea, to breathe only
Secrets and secret names
Forms that only we shall know, and answer only to
When in the other’s voice.
That we mark each other apart: you are my special one,
You are the only one
You are the one called…
Oh! Darling
That I cross this place
To find you,
[a wolf at your door;
echoes years later]
To find each snaring brier
Passed, and passable, and past.
And journeying
On roads afar,
After our journey begun,
Saw your domain and its seams
The sky woven with a lattice of colour,
With lines of light and squares of fire,
Accumulated intangibilities unknown to me but visible, beautiful,
Where shall we go? We know only that
It shall be under a sky of infinite intricacy,
And we shall have made something overarching and magnificent.
O those veiled eyes
That see nothing
And show everything
Would that
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
At Sea
I cannot see anything as it is. A mire
Of expectation, that is nothing to do with the real
Experience, of feeling
All is lost
When nothing was ventured.
To feel the utmost tumult, despite
The skin of the water unpierced by stones
Oh to hurt like this again
To love, as the only answer,
To unbidden pain,
To unworthy, undue suffering that comes from nothing.
When you draw nothing from the well
It will reveal the blackest poisoned water
That every failure going before
Has written a negativity beyond reason, beyond knowing,
That rises now, from misty seafoam,
A corrupt and false resonance that draws
One’s heart onto the rocks –
Howling at myself for having done nothing, lost nothing.
One finds this wake, then, that could not be seen,
Until crossing the path on the next stage of the voyage –
That it is permanent carved in the water’s surface,
That choppy, that rough, that which leaves a ship
Unbalanced, shaking, despite
No collision occurring.
I thought it was impossi
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 1 1
Haphephobia – I forge relationships
Of immense intensity
With people I will never know,
And can never meet,
Who exist only in aether, and
Are given flesh by a libidinous mind. No contact
No contact, no touch,
For I know that I’m compelling
If all I have is the
And my words
To lead the way.
Aphephobia – A monastic cell
Whose door opens into
A brothel where I’m the madam,
An abbess of one and a
Procuress of infinite possibility.
There is a rule of no touching but it counts differently:
Don’t touch my heart and don’t move me,
Don’t caress a strand of sympathy.
Haphophobia – I crafted an environment
Where the closest heartstring
Is full one hour away:
“Oh give me space,” I said,
Meaning the void
Where every distance is essentially infinite,
And light reaches not to my retreat.
Hapnophobia – Love did not (save) me, but it did preserve me.
That is to say, my love, the love
I made,
A preservation of a decaying star,
A nucl
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 2
St. Michael and All Angels
So it was about four years ago and I would call it a lifetime
If that wasn't offensive
And I know I don't mourn like a pagan
But I miss you
You're not a pressed flower
You're not frozen
You're a garden, and it's summer
I had to come before I went
Had to be honest
I'm going where we were both going to be
And you're with me
A bit
The dirt on my hands never washed
Earth and the earthman
And the heart and the hippocampus
It's tranquil till it's not
Nothing set in stone
There's just a wooden cross
We'd fought all sorts of things in that same corps
On the same journey
The same mission, royal commission
So so long as I'm struggling I know you're ready to laugh at my foibles
The only flower I associate you with dances
Bawdy lyrics and our rubbish harmonies
But there's a place where carnations grow and no one is afraid
Of course I wish I could have kept you closer
Of course I know I make the same mistakes, every one of them
But I'm going now where we were always headed
And you’d s
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
My body in space and time
Is a battleground of warring
Allied forces
And internecine;
I spend my time as a negotiator for my own release,
When we all agree on purpose and not on
How to get away.
Meanwhile predators that do not stalk
And fearful souls stride like hunters
We wilfully forget the spectrum and subtlety
Whilst morally choosing to believe, always.
We knew I must go to the sea,
We know I would be on the edge,
Some bastion standing where waves meet the land
Where black paper swans bisect the green,
And strands connect us in new ways.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Kicking and Screaming
I can’t express it but I’m begging you to rescue me
Even as I love this
I wish you were here taking me
Throwing me over your shoulder
Kicking and screaming
Exfiltrated by you from the deepest danger.
A big man with a big walk
Striding into the heart of the beast, the belly of darkness,
To steal me.
I resist and I struggle but
Only because I’d trapped myself
More thoroughly
Than degrading captors
In vermicelli ideas
A labyrinthine library of lies
To tie me to this bed.
He speaks and none dare reply
He lifts and I can’t stop him
My protests are feeble, unheard
To his stature,
And he can
Walk down the street, as I kick and I scream
And no-one questions it.
They know
That he is the hero.
I can’t tell him now,
As my impotent tantrum rages
How he’s saved me
From all horror
But even if I will never turn to thanks
He would have come
It is in his nature to break in and rescue.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Dead, honeysuckle summer
Dead teenagers
Dropping, mayflies. Impossible hallucinatory British Summer Time
In hot, sticky darkness,
Hidden cove-caves,
Absences appearing along
A sandy map.
All human, always human.
Salt-taste and salt-lips
Skin that crackles under
Polaroid sunlight
This could never be now.
So then, rotting sweetness
Dying on the vine,
Told only in recollections
Warped vinyl on the 45RPM of ’76
(Or was it the 76RPM of ’45?)
Sun-drenched days,
Sweat-drenched clothes,
Blood-drenched remembrance.
Bleached paper, crinkled, unfolded,
Scrubbed hands,
Lye, lies, all that season
Gone quiet,
The climber dry and brittle,
A tangle that cannot be undone
And all of it dead.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
The Wayward Spiral
It spins away.
In quiet, it leaves its safe
Gets out of the invisible
Fireside warmth.
Icy night closes itself around
The world. Forests turn to glass.
The nights become more beautiful when the
Sky is ever dark, when the sun does not occlude and
Stars form carved lines, paths of light
To surround a planet that is leaving its mother star.
Spiralling away,
A wayward wanderer finally living up to its name.
Its heart cannot cease to burn,
As ages turn, as the starless wastes are traversed
As one single light grows every brighter,
It had not known its mother well
Nor saw no siblings born,
But is sheathed in cloud, in
Seas warmed just enough
To go on living,
Until it can newly embrace dawn
Under the golden light
Unlike the blood-sheen of home.
In this place, the clouds can clear,
The seas fall,
All that simple life grow
Ferns turn to oaks,
And time shall come when it can know itself,
Song shall rise from the world.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
The Same Key
There is darkness ‘hind the secret door
That somehow falls in shade
From false corridor light.
The key that opens
Each office,
Mundane rooms of mundane
Necessary life. White and grey,
Graphpaper décor.
That is the key that opens the hidden door,
That same key, plain
Worn brass
Teeth unsharpened
Fitting unsurprising tumblers.
Lock all the doors.
Walk to the secret door.
Cross the first threshold: shadow.
Place the key, turn it, inhale.
Feel the door open, letting darkness into the hallway.
Cross the second threshold: the door.
That same key that opens every door
Opens even the door to darkness
To a depraved place, a room where
The dark clings close,
More smothering than cloaking.
The same key seals the door behind,
Not an inch of light,
Can claim bright territory. Only
Darkness, darkness owned,
Darkness embraced as ravenously
As it embraces.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0
Dynamism and dynamics,
The containment of all the little futures.
We make sense of the world
The lines that frame comprehension,
The roots of knowledge.
Our voices in synchrony,
We cannot help but head in directions
Cued by the lives that came before
Each familial map
Adding bits and pieces
Relosing other territories.
Alignment with bloodlines
All these imitations who became men
So dependent on our fathers
For a way to go,
So invariably shaped
By their image.
:icontetrarchangel:tetrarchangel 0 0

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If oblivion sets in on a mind that resists;
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Yet they tell us we are winning the fight
But their words just don't belong
So how are we winning now?
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To kill a thought that just won't die
They won't stop until we're dead
And they'll burn the words we said
Then breathe a final sigh
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Tell me is this it?
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Tell me is this it?
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A combination of dying conurbations, bleak natural landscapes and the only words that have a chance of describing it all.



Unto Cover by tetrarchangel

Unto is a novella of love, loss and redemption.

It was originally written by hand in a notebook, with a mix of line-broken poetic sections and prose sections, alternating by notebook page. 

It was, or at least became, set in the world of Reason, the novel I wrote ten years ago, and I released it on that anniversary.

You should buy it! It's cheap in money, and it's heartbreaking in sentiment, and do you need any more recommendation than that? Click the  link:…


Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Timothy J Swann is a writer of novels and of poems, currently working on the publishing of his first novel, The Purity Construct, as well as a host of ongoing short stories and poetic series. He admits his name is a little pretentious, but is of the opinion that it looks better on a book cover than Tim Swann, even if he's called Tim by everyone he knows.

Current Age: 22
Current Residence: Worcester
Favourite genre of music:

Journal History



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lillyby Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
VoidParadigm Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
|ike here.
winterhill Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2012
sorry i hit the unwatch button by accident!
please jsut accept this new and improved watch request :D
archelyxs Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2012
Hi there, thank you so much for all of your support. How have you been? Happy spring and best wishes to you. :heart: :tea:
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I've been a bit ill and thus not as creative recently, but I've finally started my next model, and going to a poetry society so I'm actually editing stuff for the first time. Yes, spring sprang, didn't it! We have storms of hail practically every day here at the moment. How goes your 'education'?
archelyxs Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2012
A poetry society! That sounds incredible!
My "education" goes fairly well. Lots and lots of reading and not as much writing this semester. So much reading.
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Yes, I suppose that was inevitable. The poetry society is quite fun, yes.
HugQueen Featured By Owner Nov 21, 2011   Writer

Just because! ♥ How are you?
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Nov 22, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Doing alright - just started a new job, so I'll have to see how the writing fits in.
HugQueen Featured By Owner Nov 22, 2011   Writer
Oh, I do wish you well in your new job and I hope you can get some writing in. ♥
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Nov 23, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Well, I'm doing research for my new novel right now. Ish.
(1 Reply)
spoems Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2011   Writer
I appreciate the interest.

RenaissanceLover Featured By Owner Sep 3, 2011  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the watch. :)
archelyxs Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2011
Thanks as always for continuing to support my work :heart:
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I would not do it if I did not truly believe your work was worth supporting.
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the comments, I've been checking your work to as it comes into my inbox, haven't had much time to comment though.
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
My pleasure, time is perhaps our greatest luxury at present, eh?
VoidParadigm Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist

deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
That's good! Want to do one of my eye? [link]
VoidParadigm Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
The correct onomatopoeia is Vworp. Also, which one is Amy?
VoidParadigm Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Awh, you didn't get it. The angels have the phonebox. =(
tetrarchangel Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Drawing Weeping Angels is a bad idea.
omega3r Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2011  Hobbyist Photographer
hey, thanks for the watch!
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