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About Deviant JulesFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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In bed next to him,
your arm follows the swell of your hip
and your hand hugs your thigh;
you've never felt so alone,
or so beautiful.
His closed eyes have mapped
even the ghost towns of your skin;
every time you slipped off your shirt
you wished you could outline your contours
with a dirty brush, darken your creases.
Hot breath shivers on your neck
as you leave him for the last time,
corkboard walls still rattling in your ears,
his father's shouts like accelerant
aching for a match.
Now your ribs pant, tired from caging
your heart puckered lips
kissing the same depression below his ear,
lungs lolling dead in your mouth.
The broken air conditioner whirs,
stale air pumping through tired rubber tubing
trapped beneath your skin and bleached fine hair,
saving scraps of shallow breath.
You forget his name,
drag his limbs through your fingernails catching
on the deck's laughing splinters.
You forget his details,
dirt smeared in the crevice of his hip;
sun casting shadows on his eyes
so you n
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 3 3
Cover Girl
Look at you.
Acne spilling out the edges
of the sea-level sling-back dress,
zipper-down, skimming the tops
of your thighs.
Skin slivers
you forgot to cover-
from the front you're glazed,
concealer drying in the zits
typical of your age, but not the vision
you have for yourself.
But from the awkward angle-
through the rushing blood
of boys checking you out on the street,
your flushing cheeks-
See how your clay nose droops?
See the rough patch
on the side of your neck,
the cracked ceramic shoulder blade
where you'll get your next tattoo.
You wear that kiln-carnage dress,
clinging to the malformed curves
of an amateur's misshapen spiral pot,
and don't even know
how unfinished you look.
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 2 4
Mature content
Room :iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 1 6
I slip Leonard's jacket off of its brass hook by the back door, step into his large, heavy mudding boots, grip my walking stick tightly in one hand and find myself reluctant to put it down, even to wrap the jacket around my thin, shaking shoulders.  The jacket smells like mildew; I did not hang it up outside to dry properly, did not want Leonard to suspect more than he had to.  The corner of my mouth curls as I think about the silly story I told him-fell in a puddle, Leonard, it's no matter-and how readily my husband accepted it, rewrapping his worry for a later time.
Darling, I feel certain I am going mad again.  I could hardly write the words; electricity had replaced my veins, thin cords of shock-and-stagger.  I jolted around the house in spurts and then buckled, powerless.  Useless.  I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times.  When I lashed out without reason, the rational piece of
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 4 2
They climb in a flesh canoe
for the maquiladoras to stab their
pipes into and carry them down river,
where the locals suck their soap refuse
and haze like hash,
burning out-of-season mangoes,
hard-skinned and bitter.  They hack thin spit
that runs along street curbs into drains
beside the roundworm water
and then disappears in the dry Rio Grande
where even bones evaporate-
caught, sand-handed, by border police.
They climb in a flesh canoe
with babies swaddled on their
cigarette-pack shoulder pads,
and dip their oars silently in the sand.
Their legs ripple with the
effort of remaining water.
Goodnight, they tell Juarez,
and don't look on in anger.
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 1 0
The grandmother is someone to be ashamed of.  Her wispy orange hair tufts around her ears in clumps and patches; her prosthetic leg and walker clip, scratch against the asphalt.  The father is waiting in the car, his forehead against the Arizona-hot steering wheel asking himself why, God damn it, he hadn't visited his mother earlier.  
The last time he saw her his daughter was four years old, his son had just been born, and he was in the White House, shaking hands with the president.  His mother clamored on stage, beaming, lips trembling, smoothing her hair around her ears, and even though she was slow and awkward with her cane, the father never cringed.  They looped arms, and the two of them stood taller than President Clinton, filled the entire room, so that reporters shot pictures though one another's legs, and the flash bounced off the huge, proud bodies, made hundreds see dots.
Now she is obese, six-foot-one in all di
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 1 0
Mia Cara Famiglia
Mia cara famiglia,
If you're reading this, my body is lying embalmed in Pasquini's Funeral Home, no better than a jarred frog in formaldehyde-and my dying wishes have been totally ignored.  Don't try and deny it, Mamma, I told Pasquini's sweet son to deliver this to you only if my body showed up at his mortician father's door-I described my birthmark, so he'd know it was me.  You can imagine how glad I am now that I had the foresight to write this letter, seeing as my suspicions were completely correct and my entire family does think I'm an idiot.  Hopefully now that I'm dead, my opinion will weigh more.  Maybe on paper, just a memory, I'll be able to convince you to see my way.
I am not "sitting in heaven" like you imagine me to be, safe and sound grieving in your brightly-lit kitchen, dabbing at your dribbling nose with father's neckerchief.  This moment I am staring through unfocused eyes at the ceiling of some dim-lit, metallic morg
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 2 2
An Updated Resume:
Your father’s favorite
his fingers dancing on your scalp
irritating rusted springs
three taps from snapping.
You cry
every time he calls.
like Charlie Brown and
old cartoons
the 1930s, when men
jumped out the window
a mass exodus to the ground
and no one noticed
‘til after
‘til cerebrospinal fluid
flowed around the “haves”
in oblong rushes brushing
the “have nots.”
You look out at the scenery
a daydream distracting
phone pressed to your ear
and they tell you not to jump.
He pressures you
like a shaken cola
a bursting catheter.
You gust out of a
punctured aerosol can
into school, postponing life—
don’t date in college—
a cerebrospinal geyser.
You think about the after
the milk and honey that flows
out his mouth into the receiver
tickling the down in your ears
that keeps your balance.
Just one more year.
And after everything—
they said
you should’ve spent more time
with your father.
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 2 0
I am standing in the doorway.  I held her close to me here, just here, during the earthquake three years ago, when I finally decided I loved her.  I am standing here in the doorway, and she is standing by the bed, staring at an antique lampshade; I know she is remembering the day I brought it home from Brunei.  She kissed me on the mouth for the first time since our wedding.  Just in the corner, just there, but it was enough.
A suitcase is on the bed, the zipper half open; she stops every few seconds to stare at a piece of our life together and remember.  The lampshade.  Ring stains on the bedside table.  The pattern the light makes on the bedspread through the window.  Me, standing in the doorway, wishing I were holding her close.  She shakes her head, just a little shake, and goes back to unzipping the suitcase, begins tossing clothes into it, helter-skelter.  I stumble into the room a
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 3 10
she holds baby like he’s
as if his plum tomato lips
stick her through,
name her pincushion with their
first words,
most women coo,
it’s not so bad, having your
biological clock
tick-stopped by grasping gasping
clinging crying
she’s too strong to peel away
softened-butter joints
from her solid-food fingers,
up to the knuckles in pedialyte.
men see the quills on her
baby-wide hips
and imagine lapping at the
baby-bottle poised dripping
hovering millimeters
from her nip-tuck lips.
she prays for I want you,
pulling-strings into her dark-
green bustier,
one pump balancing on the bed,
and listens to drag-stab choruses of
from the men swigging at her breasts,
helpless, crying, clinging,
without necks to hold up their heads.
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 3 6
My Face as an ID '09 by Waltz-With-Me My Face as an ID '09 :iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 1 9
Shame-Faced Fear
A single unattended bag caused more than an inconvenience for its owner on the Nord-Süd-Bahn in Berlin.
My family of five stuck out like a sore thumb in the streets of foreign countries. Mot for lack of trying to be chameleon. We’d had such enhancements installed as language schooling (my father claimed he could speak German like a Deutschlander), nondescript clothing (the waiters didn’t have a clue we were tourists when we had a five-hundred dollar meal in fanny packs), and the cool, impregnable faces of the weather-worn world travelers we were.
London’s underground hadn’t experienced a suicide bombing in weeks, but we could still feel how wide our eyes had been, glued to the television screen, hoping we wouldn’t glimpse the carnage, and yet unable to look away. We boarded the Nord-Süd-Bahn, full from a German fast-food feast of brats and unnaturally-thin fries, and dreading yet another day of trudging through museums like the floor were tar and we h
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 2 0
bird bath
bird bath
I’ll go to sleep in the fog,
lie down below its
hovering feet, dream of
breathing in the heady perfume
of small talk, patronized smiles,
the molasses eyes of men
as they syrup you, butter you
from collarbone to calf.
I dream of that.
In the fog, love, you touch my arm
and I follow you to the baptizing basin
in my old backyard. A bird lights on the
rough, white stone and I am forced
to call him God; He dips his beak
in holy water and leaves it there,
as if He struck gold too heavy to lift.
You speak to Him, love, as I
shut my eyes and pretend
I am back below the fog,
opening my mouth for no breath,
and I am there.
:iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 8 2
Mature content
Goodnight Saigon -Part Five- :iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 6 8
Mature content
Goodnight Saigon -Part Four- :iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 5 3
Mature content
Goodnight Saigon -Part Three- :iconwaltz-with-me:Waltz-With-Me 5 1


Hey there! I noticed some things about this song I thought I could help you improve, so I figured I'd write you a little critique. Beca...

by vespera

First off, I thought this poem had very great impact. It was the charged language, the words like "malice," "cyanide," "tortures," "ske...



United States
I'm a foreigner anywhere I go, and I like it that way.

Current Residence: Singapore
Favourite style of art: I
Operating System: feel
MP3 player of choice: like
Shell of choice: falling
Wallpaper of choice: in
Skin of choice: love

YoungARTS! :D

Journal Entry: Mon Nov 23, 2009, 1:04 PM
Yay. :3

I'm a finalist in the youngARTS program and get an all-expenses-paid trip to Miami for master classes in poetry.

*bounces around the house and then comes back to sit down*

This is...exciting.  Mondo-exciting.

  • Listening to: Neutral Milk Hotel
  • Reading: City of Ashes
  • Eating: homemade sushi!
  • Drinking: I wish there were soda in this house...


Add a Comment:
joeyv7 Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2011
:iconbirthdaycakeplz: Hope you have a great day today :)
Katerina-Art Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2011  Professional Traditional Artist
happy birthday :party:
ProvenParadox Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2011  Student Writer
I just did like all of your polls and I've decided that I'd like to be your friend. You seem like a good person.

I'm on my way to go read your writing, but I'd like you to keep that in mind.
cyberdelika Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2011
I saw you on the Alliance website and looked you up.. you are amazing!
TheSwampDragon Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2011  Student General Artist
Aishi-kun Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2010  Student General Artist
JULES~!!!!! thanks for the watch <3 I miss you ^^
Stellaciel Featured By Owner Dec 27, 2009
Look! I'm a moose vampire!

Waltz-With-Me Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2009
I'm going to be a viceroy when I grow up.

Stellaciel Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2010
Why in the world would you be a viceroy? I'd rather work at a museum. (That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to be a person in the corner at an art museum. That, or a Barnes and Noble worker.)

NunsNBagels Featured By Owner Nov 27, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Awww, I've got another creeper! An awesome one!
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