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Literature
On words unspoken or unread
Words echo into the space - waves of scattered particles spreading into infinity. They last but moments then dissipate- never disappearing but growing further and further apart; they shrink smaller, smaller, as they spread longer, longer.
Words sink deep into paper. Lines of ink staining fibre. They are unmoving- lasting until the paper itself is destroyed (possibly until the end of time).
What are spoken words if nobody hears?
What are written words if nobody reads?
And words read from a page to an empty space-
                                                                   are these doubly useless?
Yet if space is never empty...
                                         is the act of disturbing particles enough?
                                         is it enough to fill fibres?
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
I, The Sober Fool
My Beloved speaks profundities
     and pays dues not His own-
while I, the sober fool,
     stumble falsely drunk.
Though His wine warms my heart
     and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins-
     I am not subject to it's dance.
I drink too little, too less
     for the drunkard I claim to be.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
DONT WALK
I am the kind of man
who will stand at
the DONT WALK sign
on an empty intersection
of an abandoned town.
I am the kind of man
Who is flattened
by a renegade road train
on the very same intersection
if I do decide to walk.
Yet.
I am becoming the kind of man
who will pick himself up,
who will brush himself off,
who will face that road train a thousand times
before bowing to defeat.
I will be the kind of man
who will either
become one with the bitumen,
or by God's glorious grace
reach your side.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 2
Literature
The Balaam Monologue
O Lord, let me be as Balaam,
  only able to utter
  only able to speak
  only able to bless
  only able to curse
those words and names,
      subjects and rulers,
      mothers, sons,
      fathers, daughters,
      wives, husbands,
      women, men,
that you place on my lips.
     Let me speak thine truth
     thine whole truth,
     and nought but
                    thine truth.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
thebigwet
That serpent slithers past,
                                  fast.
Her furious hunger
swallowing whole
all that lies in her path.
She has no mercy,
she makes no concession.
She does nothing
     but devour and grow fat
     with insatiable greed.
Yesterday she protected us,
     brought us life,
     gave us joy.
We revelled in her beauty,
     bathed in her majesty.
Today she demands her fill,
     her payment
     her sacrifice.
Today we
           see
her true colours:
                    
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 3
Literature
The Smiles of Silent Judgement
The smiles of silent judgement
slither across their knowing faces;
     lips lying,
     laying in wait
          to thunder down God's almighty truth
          upon the sideways sinner.
     Poised-ready to pounce
     at the slightest suggestion of a slip.
While the infant in the corner-
     hands outstretched and
     feet together
     wept.
          For His works ignored,
          for His grace witheld.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
CHI-RHO
Who am I, O LORD,
that you should bless me?
     An unsteady harlot,
     drowning in my own sin and failings
     (though I try always to walk upon the sea).
As I fall, in the seconds
that briefly linger,
your firm grasp saves me
from the dark, eternal pit
where there is weeping
and gnashing of teeth.
For although my grip
will forever slip,
your hand, O LORD,
it never fails.
For I am yours and you are mine,
and on me, forever, shall your mercy be!
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
About Tomorrow
The swallows and sparrows
dance on the cool morning breeze.
They rise and fall;
        float and stall;
        soaring, diving, fluttering
and all the while chattering-
        not about days been,
        nor days to come-
        but the present moment;
        their current joy.
They trust the sun to rise at dawn,
the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air.
The swallows and sparrows
     (dancing as they do on the cool morning breeze)
worry not about tomorrow-
for today will have troubles of its own.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 1
Literature
The Jazz Player
The jazz player hunched in the corner outside the circles of dim light, cast by steel-shaded lamps, hung from the ceiling. The lamps broke through the darkness, but failed to make clear the thick smoke of cheap cigars and tar-laden cigarettes.
A one-man quartet could be heard from the corner— the lone saxophonist mystically weaving his melody in and around itself, knitting a cocoon around himself until he was completely, flawlessly protected from anything which could reveal and tear apart his vunerable heart. And yet to do so, he himself needed to make a small incision, through which he would feed his fingers, flowing flawlessly and effortlessly up and down the saxophone; just enough so his guts—the centre of his being—would know where to direct his fingers; just enough so his soul could seek the weak points of his figurative fortress and advise this same centre of where to direct his fingers so the carefully crafted cocoon would stay ever true, ever complete, and the ja
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 8
Literature
MUSEings
My muse and I reached reason.
I gladly devour'd her fruit
with selfish glutt; nill return.
So she most softly made known:
honeyed words aren't freely laid --
one must observe and examine.
Only then will she sweetly whisper;
only then will we love once more.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
First Crescent
Stars shine in Cleveland amidst
a thin veil of creeping clouds -
silvered by gentle kisses
of the new moon's first crescent.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
Persuasion
"There comes a time in every mortals life when one must meet ones maker. Unfortunately, some need a little persuasion..."
He switched his gaze from his bony hands, placed delicately on his lap, to meet the therapists's eyes. The emaciated face of her patient seemed to gleam with a passion for his job.
"... That is where I enter the proverbial picture".
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 2
Literature
Den of Dragons
Within the dragons' den -
   the smoke they breathe; twists, turns, spirals
   hea'enward in clouds of tar and ash
   (their mouths gaping and nostrils flared).
Indeed they don't breathe fire -
   They inhale it, swallowing whole
   The ancient gift of Prometheus
   (the first giver of stolen goods).
A wise woman once said:
   'This is the closest one can be
   with said sacred element. Yet
   such intimacy comes with price
   (as with all sim'lar relations).
I see their wrinkled skin
   And hear their deep raspy roar that
   rarely, though spontaneously
   interrupts their philosophy
   (or words of the drunk lay-dragon).
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 2 0
Literature
Dear Mr. Burgermuncher
Dear Mr. Burgermuncher,
You are a fat fatty Mcfat-fat.
And you smell.
Love,
Your faithful stalker.
P.S. See you tonight!
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
What The Tree Saw
She sat on the bench, he lay beside me. The wind would blow – roughly persuading my leaves to float towards the ground, and lay themselves upon the man who lay beside me. Some weren't persuaded. Some would fall, but land between the man who lay beside me and the lady on the park bench.
Some even dared to land beside the lady.
The lady on the bench let a smile through her cool, calm composure, elegant in the moonlight. Her eyes - focused beyond the gentle sprinkle of rain relived her story. She enjoyed every second: The control, the power, the thrill.
The night was quiet, spare the soft roar of cars. The roar reminded her of the sea. Crescendo, Forte, Diminuendo, Repeat. There were no crickets to be heard. No cicadas made an audible sound. Nor did the Owls who, or the storm birds screech. There was Rain, Wind, Leaves, Cars. And last of all, the thoughts of the lady who sat on the bench – which had now turned to the family of the man who lay beside me.
Did they exist? Who were
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
Observations On The Train
Silent clunks and
squeaking breaks fail
to overpower the
aging gentlewomen's
genteel, garrulous gossip.
Lurching into station
they part with
"Don't bother to
dial" and giggle
as well-born
gentlewomen should.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0

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child
Down the stairs and too the left
sat a man unable to speak as his
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mothers eyes told stories that he would never
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questioning his love and lust and wondering
where to draw lines in the sand they had spread
across their dinning room floor
in the room across the hall lay a child
something very tangible but terrifying and they
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I'm going to give you the skinny on this nasty bug, as well as point you in the direction of more thorough, official information on the topic should you wish to learn more.
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As Dark a Dream
faint starsprawl across the swell of her hip,
skin so pale, her palms open to the skies.
and you watch her as she sleeps,
kissing her softly,
as her eyelids flutter over vast universes,
all gently turning upon the wheel of her dreams.
she is beyond you now,
in a place you cannot reach...
but you take her warm hand in yours,
nestling your face against her neck,
her pulse a hollow drum of blood,
keeping time with her meandering journeys.
you close your eyes,
willing yourself to find the connection...
willing yourself to wander;
willing to dream the same dark dream as she.
:iconmaenad77:maenad77
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Literature
Mama, the lantern
Deep within,
deep within
She holds deep within.
She brings us clear vision
we bring her slow death.
Her soul shines through
her body, it spreads
Hanged & burned,
hanged & burned
She is hanged & burned.
Oh! how hard she cries!
Yet she cries so silently
so meekly, as if in a trance or in prayer
Like melting candles
they cry as they touch the fire
So light & warm,
so light & warm
her love is so light & warm!
But in contrast
the candle gives up easilly
It melts & expires
it melts & expires
The candle, it melts & expires
Her little children exclaim:
"Look! Mama, the lantern!"
"Mama, the lantern!"
...then mama brings another candle...
:iconEllisBigay:EllisBigay
:iconellisbigay:EllisBigay 0 2
Literature
look up
look up.
look up at the sky
why don't we look at the skies anymore?
they're ever changing artworks in the heavens
noone seems to bother
looking up anymore
look up
look up at the sky.
God paints with the stars & swirls of clouds
:iconEllisBigay:EllisBigay
:iconellisbigay:EllisBigay 3 13
Literature
trust
Would you trust me?
Even if only for this moment.
The time we have is very precious,
already it is slipping away.
We walk the dim line between darkness
and light.
Blinded by what was and what could be.
Take my hand,
I need to feel the rhythm of your pulse,
a powerful current; running in time with mine.
(Our lives, held together by seemingly the
thinnest of threads;
burning, strengthening, bonding
with each world we will encounter together.)
Are you prepared for the path that lies ahead?
There will be much joy,
but much sorrow as well.
Will you walk this dangerous Wood with me?
It will never be as dark as it once was;
if we lose our way, we need only to
look into each other's eyes.
Can you see the world beyond that veil?
Possibility dwells there, waiting to meet us.
Are you ready to take this leap with me?
Close your eyes, and don't let go.
Hold my hand tightly...
and please, never forget
that even when the path becomes perilous,
threatening and filled with shadows;
I will remain foreve
:iconmaenad77:maenad77
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Road to Memphis
I gave my last cigarette to John before he left.  He looked at me as I handed it to him, and he smiled his John smile and put his arm around my shoulders and said, "Lu, I'm in a world of trouble.  What am I gonna do with a cigarette?"  But he took it anyway.  He got on the bus and was gone before I could ask him just exactly where he thought he was going, which is John's way, anyway.
     When the bus pulled away, and after I had waved at John and then the bus moving off toward Memphis and then nothing for about ten minutes, I walked to my car, crawled in, and headed back to town.
     This town had been our home, mine and John's, for over three years.  When we moved here from, well, more westerly, we settled down in an old apartment that my uncle had rented to us for cheap, but John, being John, had found us something "infinitely better" and infinitely more expensive within the week.
:iconbassforsoldier:bassforsoldier
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Literature
VAN
[cheap, out of tune, strummed guitar, sounds of people at a subway station]
I drive. A. Van.
An un. Marked. Van.
Wolf-boy. Am. I.
So the world. De. Cides.
I have. No. Home.
To call. My. Own.
'Cause my fa-mi-ly
was so Tired. Of. Me.
That they kicked me out,
and I have no doubt.
That I. have a van.
And that is the plan.
And now I drive
out to wonderland!
[guitar becomes in-tune, joined by drums, subway sounds tuned out]
And I've got no regrets
and I won't forget.
That this past of mine
Is all wicked and divine
And the angels weep for me
and the hookers sing for me
Songs of roses and thorns
and these tired old bones
[bass guitar joins]
And the hobos will tire
building my funeral pyre
But I'll just drive blind
right until I find
that one bit of mind
left in the world's confines
That one true smile left
all locked up and bereft
in a pixie girl's face
left with no one to embrace
and I'll steal her from her cage
and all of the for'st enrage
But I'll run off with my pixie
in my unmarked van
An
:iconreiookami:reiookami
:iconreiookami:reiookami 1 5
Literature
-tomorrow-
Boys are made of beer and porn
Girls are all made of mascara
All that's in between is scorn
Come and get me, Pistoléra.
Courts decide second degree
But they say that that's amazing
Identity is outrage
They said "Sorry," paraphrasing.
"But tomorrow is so bright"
"The future will heal all our pains."
The tomorrow I see's blind
Flashbang wiped my sight of stains.
Now, the courts have crumbled down,
Everything's a deadly crime.
Now, The cover girl is dead,
and remorse would be sublime.
Yeah, the laws are just
for the people they're leading
but the mother's still crying,
and the daughter's still bleeding
This Hell is getting closer.
Our exit's approaching.
Knockout gas and riot gear...
But here we sit, watching...
///rEI 1-25-05
:iconreiookami:reiookami
:iconreiookami:reiookami 3 4

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Activity


deviantID

theguywhowritesstuff
...sometimes...
Artist
Australia
I find:
          The hardest
time for me to write
poetry is when I try.

The easiest?
                     Never.
Interests
I don't know who - if anybody - still visits this neglected corner of dA.

But I've gone through and purged the crap.

This profile originated as a space to upload all my poetry
               - regardless of quality -
                                                     under a very thin pseudonym.

Then I became attached.
Then I became distracted.
Now I am writing again -
                      and the shite must go.

So my gallery reserved for crap is gone
           (as are the ones which slipped through the cracks).
Poems of sub-quality (but not trash-worthy) are now in the 'scrapbook'.

I will be uploading a newer, longer piece of prose -
     chapter. by. chapter.
     
I am taking my time-
          at times: 3hrs for a single paragraph.

Although I don't have a fancy account with a fancy 'Critique Wanted' check-box,
                      Critique
                           Is
                      Wanted
                            (honest, brutal, unabashed).

Now that I have bored you with unimportant information, I will leave you.

Adios!
  • Reading: Insufficient amounts.

Comments


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:icondeformity0:
DeFormity0 Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you!
Stay creative ♥
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:iconbeaple:
Beaple Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2012
Thank you for deciding my work was worth being aware of!

I hope to produce articles of artistic merit that justify your choice!

Thank you!
Reply
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:
Thank you for producing work worthy to be shared!
Reply
:iconashellessmind:
ashellessmind Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2012
MISTER DARCY
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:iconcatoram-a:
Catoram-A Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2011  Professional General Artist
thank you for the watch!!!! :iconrainbowsheep2:
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:iconpsdeluxe:
psdeluxe Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
thanks for the fav on this --> [link] :)
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:iconpixelationunknown:
PixelationUnknown Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2010
Lookie Lookie!! I took your advice!
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:icontheguywhowritesstuff:
Huzzah! I shall go view presently!
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:iconpixelationunknown:
PixelationUnknown Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2009
D-ROD YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY! ^-^
:typerhappy:
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:icontheguywhowritesstuff:
theguywhowritesstuff Featured By Owner Aug 3, 2009
...Don't you mean T-Rod? =p

And no probs. Making people happy is what I like. :D
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