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Literature
litany
Mary, whose roses wilt in the evening streetlight
bent through the window of her elbows resting
far from the river carrying her bright secret
home, Mary of too many letters
piling one on top of another and whose poetry unwedded
weeped under her bed in the black
box of an unbroken garden her
fingers red clay on the brick and bones of a tired family
a long room in heat and Mary your blood a red crest
bursting out
from the low grave of your father
or through the fields where I lay down beside
you Mary
in the baptising heat
of your new wound we were
children in the dying grass opening
ourselves beneath egg-white skies
and the long road after
her face in the dark glow of a silo
light Mary
who was calm when I broke down in front of her
and said It's OK It's OK though
my angels betrayed me with murderous
disinterest Mary
who didn't question the white sheets
the sterile floor of a hospital room breathing
flesh and skin her window
a caged
view of the river, her bright secret
the new bones of he
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Literature
the preachers body ascends to
And in prayer, Lord we forget ourselves forget our hands forget our fingers forget eyes mouth tongue bent double curled up Lord, we forgive ourselves make what's right and good- whatever, Lord do not teach us how to live do not rope us together we small and buried blooming, open impressions of cat's skulls grinning wicked singing magic light-folded bent like leaves straying from our brutal imaginations,  Lord forever is so long and so long and so long with nothing but rain snow Your incredible machine, we are lost seaweed in rivers Lord, open canvas of tents Lord, bruised petals of roses Lord, we cannot touch our eyelids, we do not grow in shingles, Ms. Winters has died on the front step Lord of your inestimable house and no birds come no decay Lord, her eyes still stretch out at dawn and there they rest on the organ, praise some kind of  convergence Lord, now we step around her each morning, we string tape paper Clementines to her clothes, Lord the days are the day
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Literature
what i wish to tell you...
whispering
we built so many beautiful things-
bent ribs convex mirrors
ashen jewelweed pouring through
bones
  how we suffer
for the wood. nails
  tack
    canvas
rope bound boat moored in the lake
salt licked water
cold goosebumps 4:30 AM in a raincoat.
dawn is three hours before in texas and
  we tip-
toe in black light of wells.
crushed cornflowers
mud
sifting
through the clear plastic bag
  nights we forget
have forgotten for peace.
  the house bent low
to the lake,
aging streetlights birds
in the living room and
already I
am in love
searching for the warm
places in the moon-lit
floor
delicate rain through windows,
bracelets, boots, cold milk
spilled on the counter.
  what I remember was soft
and giving
  what we forget wakes with
us in the morning,  
ghosts of hope in our
emptied stomachs.
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Literature
Reasons for 2 Bodies Entwined
Because you are here,
Because you met me between two fields,
Because you wrote of freckled angels,
And Because you twirled under that streetlight
on one good ankle, silent supernaturally smooth
Because your hair hung loose on the car seat
  as you touched your head to my shoulder
and Because your ears were impossibly sweet
Considering your post-it notes, your pens
and your papers, considering your
words in ink and your name in lipstick
and Because of the birth mark at the nape
of your neck, because your wrists slow
sound on my wrists
Because you are the front porch, the lamp,
the screen door, the hands soft on welded
skin, and because
you sang darling, I'll love
you as long as you want me, as long as
the starlings roost above our poor heads

So too, Because you are one hazel eye,
one dusty bookshelf, one page before Juliet
wakes with Romeo dying, his ripe red heart
in her hands.
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Literature
sestina for ___________
there are, first of all, the red flowers--
already they are blooming, already
they line the soft parts,
petals wound     round
tense cords, flesh excited button
at night he would taste thier colored
insides, sketch paleness on thier fingers

these they would take for themselves,
spread filaments  clutch cradle of man-
  hood, spent currency of bliss
these they bent inward, leaves entangled
crept up through the hips; oh love,
how can i describe it to you? only as
a pair of foxes atop a ridge, a grove
of cherry trees ripe red in the summer.
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Literature
birds
don't worry mother, your daughter craves a lot of things--
the sky is pregnant and wet at the hips; sweet ridge of body
i'll break when right in moonglow. much nerves over nothing.
when, after all: what good is dust on her wrists?
chapped tips of her fingers i'll soften in twilight, strip
of the bracelets and writer's lead. so much for blood
on her pillow; mint of our hotel. bags I'll carry with
pictures for home. see? your baby still dresses in red
still licks her lips when thirsty: what difference in her taste?
she'll come around [don't say she won't]. the frilled skirt
you bought still rests in her suitcase. nothing else but empty
bottles we'll fill with rain from our hair. sweat from our foreheads.
no smog here. no dirt. no slamming doors, speechless eyes, want bones.
don't worry mother: you were first. unclench your fist. let birds fly.
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Literature
the girls
                                           who enter whispering
whose rest Whose tired working
Whose backs are broken legs of a chair
Whose chorus are cracked stones here
in the sun drying
whose nest Whose ashes machine woven
burnt shoulders smoke in the factories
Whose bodies frail as cigarette paper
named Trutnov, Whose word means dying
black bones two girls huddled for warmth
whose stories are invisible feet running
past fences, one would make from skin
to escape Whose dirt whose trees cleared
in the night of shattered glass, wept
all morning overturned tombstones
now fifteen girls, Whose bread whose soup
means a long time ago, whose soil went
on to feed his children whose teeth wore away
            
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Literature
o' currents
O currents, low watch the ground run rave,
cry cusped shoulders hunch, whisper
running of jaw to thigh;
tip to bone, blue and sliding
oh, this struck panting pink, lit me up
hard gaping, bite down you'll taste
lust and copper, creeping slow the skin
strike smooth the knee-cap, cream for
your lips
my, my, strip those fingers sung
stuck inside; look how shy the wall looks
back. soon,
not yet o currents bled young, kiss to stop
the maddening still please just us. why
do you moan so sudden where,
here? come lower, arch up I want
the neck stiff shocked, wrists stretched
mouth move stumbling,
grip solar plexus, o current I
grow sky; be no nearer than
death's dream dying,
run now opposite watch
bodies slick sweat.
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Literature
blues affirm
mama talk to your daughter,
talk to your daughter for me

i come here, am birthed screaming
cotton fields and sunlight, raise
up curling fingers through smoke,
hooking thumbs in my back pockets,
sing rain and crossroads where
the devil has slept; where
i grow assured of wind, Missouri
tide and Texas rope bound my hands
and sat me down on heaven's chair,
i have become number zero-six-six-two-six
saved through reform and gunmetal
bibles, tears come easy
  in this valley of red clay,
where i was baptised
in the chorus of Muddy Waters, ran
parallel coyotes and skybreaks
pour through the reeds of my one
harmonica, my one ticket
out by the river
but my love has gone and left me here,
packed away with the preacher's sermon
and gospel.
i dream religion, forgot my birthday
but keep King James next to the hotel bed,
fated to hell but writing
for angels picking for choirs,
i call and respond in threes,
believe hoodoo,
howl sideways
and squint through the eyes of candy skulls,
spea
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Literature
Paper Bag
For us, our portrait and jungle, sketching charcoal imprints naked in the banana leaves. Retching violent palmprints pressed down into the sand, the sea tide beckons with crooked pinky, asks us questions but we're too tired to hear, too much submission and obedience; resolving then to forget this beach, this dimebox where you promised the deep valley would wait, would close up or fade away in the figured wheel of memory. Except now it hangs brooding schism regretting, now it grows impassable for me and not you.
Don't go, don't leave, stay and I'll promise the wings erupted from shoulder blades, the sexual hip and collar bones, the taste of love like chilled orange juice or columns of doves rising from a well, its black water transformed and sculpted to whatever you desire.
Don't say it, not here by the embers dying metaphorical and the twisted lament of crickets outside, not seated in this position of arching backs and familiarity as a head resting on my lap, not while Coltrane plays f
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Literature
Alluvial_For Omar and L
Blue,
the plain and delta,
the alluvian waters
surge full-sped
        towards home.
Or once, was home,
  when we had
the idea of it
  as a refuge, quiet, like a young
girl's dream; and dreaming,
imagines us perhaps,
in our caged carousel,
our stallions spun, forgotten.
At least, I forget
the still strength of this river.
What it has given, long-blessed,
I bless; again, thanks be
in my faith, cherished,
upheld by the memory
that flows
          yet
in her reverie, the
late tiptoes as she
sleepwalks to her
mother's room.
She, in her bed, awake,
hips
  a round moon, or the
Great Turtle's back,
herself afraid, in fear of the
life inside.
She, a mother, who
  watched the doctor's hands,
to make sure they were steady,
though it was
   simple,
not really a procedure
      at all,
but more like a window
  that
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Literature
Ole or Sex With Coltrane
lifting inhales the staccato breath, and ascending static lines overlapping
clockwise letters in their epileptic frenzy,
adding in measure to the piano prefaces as one-eighth of a second ticks by,
roaming pilgrim stops for a moment in the auratically-hewed landscape, as now in vibrant canary yellow that nests in Borneo, away from hungry coal mines; soot black outlines of Spanish terra cotta tiles and Revivalist sermons
sung in alto to opposing rooftops, arms raised in unison the guttural greeting to the day. And as now - in corrosive orange, indicative borders its low-lying neighbors, arching out to meet the glorious red of Iberian Moors who once
ruled this peninsula, expanding in raucous celebration, deteriorating fireworks in acrylics across the open canvas through the sudden change of the painter's mind. No rest in the interlude of opposing bass and bitter,
high-strung flute, demanding as an interrogator in coffin rooms fit for the  
soon-to-be corpses inside, reticent in taste and
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rodeo_festival_cowboy by wombatical rodeo_festival_cowboy :iconwombatical:wombatical 0 4
Literature
restless actors on stage
whistling circles around a little carousel,
costumed in lights swimming in pools of halogen,
the miniature horses ache to rid themselves
of the poles dug through their backs and into
the rotating platform below
red trim and gold leaf, polished to reflect their
struggles down onto a sullen beach, stretched
across and stitched to the canvas
passing by, I see the words "pleasure" painted
across the top, topsy-turvy as it tips past
my pupils
dilated by the taste of salt in the breeze, peppercorn
sting and the image of the caretaker's house
digging its way through the surf, edging into the water,
running away from pleasure,
goes to play with the kids.
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Literature
Radio Disc Jockeys
Sympathetic,
some tepid ear,
their voice on the radio goes out the other
Charismatic,
appearing to hear,
she picks up the phone to a nauseous kind of
Tone,
a lonely booth,
it's always two men who haven't grown up in
Doors,
and one producer,
varicose voices some sense of reason.
"You're on caller",
"You're listening to",
one jobless man after another.
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Literature
pedal point blues
pack up,
I strayed from the
thought
and this idea
I had,
one time in autumn
when we were
in our garden,
its little secret
in full bloom,
whispering closely
to my
ear, the tiny
drop
of
water
against a lip
longing to
hold it
amid daffodils
and violets
and other things
I couldnt say
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Favourites

Literature
in our beds and graveyards
not in the eyes, but stiffly in our
beds we weep. we're like candy
nations or troubled bears, and we
don't know where we can go
the moon-light gives us shadows
and the sun provides us pots and
pans, our mother fell on her knees
bent over a package of honey and
pencils for the longer days. nobody
wants to speak anymore.
if you can see me, come home or
run away or trip over a rotting log,
it's like this: around here, we don't
die but bloom as crazy redwoods
down the hills, up the gravestones
into chemical wishes and a fixed
image of a town. onto the rooves,
up the ladders they will never find
us and we leave no tracks, come
into the sky.
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:iconmistermatchett:MisterMatchett 1 9
Literature
The dream was always running
.
Oh, little crook'd arrow;
   sawed from sapling, bone-smooth shaft.
   Little arrow of inner divination,
I fear'd the knocks would splinter you finely.
Oh, little crook'd arrow;
   there you have made my eyes run,
   shot and kill'd yourself a bird.
(My, my) On a doorstep!
Clever fowl it were.
   Though we spied it, (oh) we are ever so quick;
   hidden behind those lamp chains- ones pulled.
Spark'd that bulb of creation.
I am fat with it,
   Now all red and runny;
   a little child's winter nose.
Pick'd apart with my fingers, the miracle.
And I am ever full and satisfied.
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Literature
flight 24b to los angeles
in
  a forward motion
     over  the    deep fall
ing floor of  the     world
    where  the   tapestry
of streetshines races  in
    gentlechaotic
    consonance tranced -
a   figure    of  lights
    alone with   darkness
closing  in  around   and
infecting      the state
of  man's expanse   and
the photons of         sun
     fire consuming    the
horizon,   stretching
across the bend of   the
world       (visible     
only from  this   height)
irre gular   in     form
to    eat   the  darkness
alive,             dispelling
the  blank empty  -
we  begin our slow
but shaky   descent
to   the     earthborn
starfield below,   with
      infinite    blackness
be  neath eachtwinkling
iri   descent star
of   human creation;
we sink  in   to  the
             collective man
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:iconprivateerlunatic:PrivateerLunatic 2 3
Literature
6 Funerals
there's beauty in the breakdown
--frou frou, let go
does he have to love you for it to matter
romeo and juliet broke hearts breaking to pieces
you thought you had the play so well figured out
contorted despite our symmetry your unconventional nature
the ribs the lips the tide of your hips overflowing
speaking japanese was a heart
a hand and
the keeping of the two
you tried to think of something deep to say
gertrude stein in her making of a miracle through secondhand lions
you raged through the prisonyard like a former convict
can't decide whether to sit or stand or fall or jump or stare
into the nothingness of transparent antiques
you can see where it's all been, can't you
you know all the faint details of a polaroid transfer
and how it becomes something more than it ever intended to be
art can make a man out of him yet, you think
what does illusion
mean to you
or i or anyone and what about reality
and what about the real real real that escapes
down through your shoelaces
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Literature
Blue Heavens High
I feel separate;
                      the days are long
and not my own,
                      but the sun is
swallowed by the
                      far meridian curve,
an expanse known
                to science but not
fully to the quiet
                            drifting heart of
                the me who fades
        
:iconPrivateerLunatic:PrivateerLunatic
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Literature
LOW 'Damaged Goods'
It's funny, how it seems to revel in the time. Sleepless hours and minutes of  
insightful revolution, all streaming through withered fingers like some lustrous hue.  
But this is a photograph in a sullen series, abandoned ethics for non-objective  
expression. In minute pieces.
Beneath the umbra of the ceiling fan, obscured by the sunlight bleeding through  
Venetians, I wonder why I lean in so close. Cleaned by the glow of the French  
silhouette matinee he blinks to the super subtle rhythm of my pediatric percussion, my  
pedantic parenthesis goes unnoticed. Once again. Slumped over in a vacant house, humming  
over days past like some hapless strategic endeavour. And in between the songs and the  
math, I get lost again, trying your luck to in moderation.
Between the black and the white.
The wrong and right.
The sombra and the sunlight.
Desperately calculating infinity, I just want to get back to one. so I lean in closer  
and meet yours with a smile. I pay close attention and draw
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Mature content
Foam :iconenvygrrl:envygrrl 3 3
Literature
juxtaposition holding out
petals swell like a picked-at gum,
toothache you are and i never saw
a man who liked meatballs so much
they tell me the world is in danger of loving you
behind those bars i see a face that never tells the truth,
cutting up rope to tie lies around skies that
hold him in pieces, and i
read bukowski listening to jazz holding out for the Great Tomorrow,
my pansies bridging the gap between marigolds and tulips
i am such an ordinary woman, they say, we say, saying
together as if chanting as if
shouting declaring hoping for a revival a redemption of sorts
that will never come
i love this cage i live in,
my television box and my kleenex box and my geometrical
refrigerator
my makeup kits and the door into my house,
i have found myself a box to live in that isn't made of cardboard and
you say it is a dream
overnight we changed.
they say it is a slow progression, like dying or drowning
but what do they know about existentialism and honour
interruption harnessing down
your exclamation marks
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3 by i-sh 3 :iconi-sh:i-sh 15 35
Literature
Stepping Out
Stepping Out
She had been to this restaurant with him last Tuesday night at 8:30pm.  He knew because his ledger told him so as he noted the entry with a precise flick of his wrist, updating today's notes to reflect this piece of repetitive trivia.   From behind the windshield across the street, he could tell through the glass front that she was maybe a little tired from work by the way she held her head just a little lower than usual as the hostess led the way to their table.  But she still managed radiance, a near aura-state radiance that easily lit everything surrounding her and was noticeable even several hundred feet and two panes of glass away.
He also noted the meaningful mundane; she had the mock turtleneck red sweater on, meaning they had probably fucked this morning as the two of them readied themselves to part for the daylight hours.  Her black skirt also attested to this; she was a creature of routine just as
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:iconnonculture:nonculture 11 41
Still moment by laci Still moment :iconlaci:laci 1 2 Player Orange Scores by markus71 Player Orange Scores :iconmarkus71:markus71 450 267
Literature
Self Injury - An Explanation
Self Injury: An Explanation
I. Introduction
II. Self Injury by Definition
III. Cause and Effect (reasoning behind Self Injury)
IV. Suicide
V. Resources
I. Introduction
Some may be wondering already the reason for the writing of this paper. Well, it seems as if everywhere I go, people now discuss things regarding Self-injury and/or depression. More often then not, unfortunately, people do not know the reason behind acts of self-injury, and simply choose to not understand, or not worry about it.
I will start by explaining a little more about my personal experiences before I even begin to say anything else. The reasoning behind this is simply because I would not trust information like this, coming from somebody I had no knowledge of. Since I would like to share some knowledge and shed some light on this topic, I would like for you to be able to fully know that I have knowledge about what I'm talking about; that I'm not writing this blindly, or with no previous thought.
Let's begin with de
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:icontenkei:tenkei 51 33
Literature
Life and Death
The wind tore at his clothing. From this height, the cars moved slowly, the people were like ants. Nobody noticed him. Nobody ever did.
Dan clung on to the frame of the window behind him, the occasional pebble rolling off the ledge to drop to the street below. The door to his office was locked. Nobody was going to walk in on him.
DO IT.
The sudden voice startled him so badly he almost lost his footing. Whipping his head to the right, he saw, sitting quite comfortably on the ledge beside him, a dark specter in a long, flowing robe. The only other feature he could make out were its two glowing red eyes.
COME ON, I HAVEN'T GOT ALL DAY.
Dan averted his eyes, and then looked again to make sure the image he was seeing was real or imaginary. When he did, the phantom was still there.
I'M QUITE REAL, THANK YOU.
"Who…who are you?" Dan asked.
The dark figure simply looked at him and did not reply.
"Who are you?" Dan asked again.
YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIE. SUDDEN
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Activity


deviantID

wombatical
William L.
Artist | Literature
Current Residence: Austin, Texas
Favourite genre of music: rock, jazz, electronic
Operating System: XP
MP3 player of choice: winamp
Shell of choice: schwaaa?
Favourite cartoon character: Spike
Interests
   hello.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconpenwieldingpoets:
PenWieldingPoets Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2005   Writer
~PenWieldingPoets is a newly formed community for poets that use meter.
If you use meter, or would like to learn, please drop by!
Reply
:icongenanse--antes:
genanse--antes Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2005   Writer
edacval marita luning maria

edacval zabojstwem socjalisty

edacval zlavkaszda

edacval no sabia que la primavera duraba un segundo

edacval no da permiso el cielo

edacval ```sii``sii

edacval usted y vos

edacval la fuente me da escalofrios
Reply
:iconwhokilledkirov:
WhoKilledKirov Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2005
i forgot how much i liked your writing
Reply
:iconmuesliriegel:
Muesliriegel Featured By Owner May 30, 2005
i love john coltrane
Reply
:iconpufferfishetc:
pufferfishetc Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2005
Respect to your taste in music:)
Reply
:icondemonlight:
demonlight Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2004  Professional Writer
'Ello. I classify you as a literary deviant. As such, you qualify for a watch, as long as you respond. I am trying to round up as many writers as possible, because we simply don't get enough recognition. So we will have to give each other recognition instead. So if you comment me, I'll do the same for you. I make it a matter of pride to leave in depth critiques, and value my DevFriends.

What do you think?

(please note that I am away this week - so it might be a little while before I get back to you)
Reply
:iconwhokilledkirov:
WhoKilledKirov Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2004
thx for the fav mah dahlin.
Reply
:iconjacks-colon:
Jacks-Colon Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2004   Writer
You poetry is quite beautiful. I like your topics and I like your rhythm and connection. Come by my site sometime, I'd love some critiques by someone with such wonderful talent.
Reply
:iconhazmatador:
HazMatador Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2004
it's the formality I lack. I always lack.
Reply
:iconprivateerlunatic:
PrivateerLunatic Featured By Owner Sep 2, 2004
I love your writing. Mix jazz, sex, and poetry, and well, hell...it just don't get better than that.

I also like that you're from Texas. I was born there. =p

Thanks for hte comments, +watched, etc!
Reply
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