|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The Daily Sentence ProjectShe shifts her thighs to the same angles
where tectonic plates exchange glances.
The infant in her arms coos in haiku,
the phone crouching on her shoulder
barking in blank verse and bank terms;
where has the affection been displaced?
Perhaps the both of them are three full-
time jobs past romance and two cases
of chickenpox past the seven-year-itch
to be able to tell that dishwater softens
and oatmeal baths becalm their hands.
The kitchen tile is a haphazardous haven
for cloven shoes. She prefers slip-ons.
Catharsis (Slam Poem WIP)In the psychiatric waiting room
you asked me if I believed you could get better.
I don't hail Mary or believe in ghosts,
but I've prayed until I heard thirteen footsteps on the roof—
and heard it enough times to not question if it was you.
But the hierarchy of monarch butterflies
in my stomach are hesitant to take precedence
over the moths quick to blame
you when your twitter hashtags are hashmarks;
like high scores in psych wards.
Bitlets 26Sometimes I wake up so gradually
that the transition from dreamscape
to reality is all too apparent,
so I use what little dream-time
I have left to live lucidly.
Mouth to MusicCompressed audio codec;
Album on repeat.
Lyrics from the listener.
ShelterThe wind is heaving in cloudbursts,
urging me forward with pelvic gusts
towards local storefronts coerced
to acquiesce with the storm front.
My breath bends inwards in outbursts:
gimme shelter or gimme comfort.
I let the thought whirl and disperse;
the hearsay after the hearse click-clunks
with the wind heaving in cloudbursts,
the six lanes of traffic slow to confront
the November burial. It is un
Savior and ExecutionerSomeday, you're going to face some hard truths about life
and the role you've played. The things you've done
and the decisions you've made,
all the things you refuse to see.
I imagine it will be a lot like opening a window
and having the world come crashing through,
like experiencing years in a single minute.
It's going to be epic, redefining the term reality check,
but I won't be there.
You've had that finger pointed at me for far too long;
your sole source of blame and fixer at the same time,
your savior and executioner, but it's time to step off.
The role is played out
and it's left me old and tired,
but not used up.
I've saved the best for last.
upon leaving edensend me far away to where
the sun shines silver like broken
mirrors and wild things wander
through the night; places with
funny names and maps etched
from tree bark & lichened stones
that line up end to end for miles:
where truth is a birthmark that
scars us by, upon the coast
glass of wine- toast to the rising
moon sublime. dreams are in third
person, cupped by the creak of
wild woods that whistle, and teach
us what it means to be alive.
come, nestle up against cedared
fantasy & watch the birds fly south
for the winter, hoping for something
other than white sand & buried treasure.
save all our tragic souls from becoming
what we should have- speak now or
forever hold insecurity like a spark in
the eye of god, and wish upon things
more infinite than a star.
like the fell of spring, bursting with the
coloured dawn of wind; like the rooted
soil we sing, the return of our ghosts
to self aerifying. to the slight of clayed
fingers reaching, deemed to be teaching
celestial crossovers & the
Garage saleI wonder if it will get easier,
a thingless life.
Body of one,
room for none.
For sale, cheap:
A PlayStation 2, used.
An ambition, abused.
Four walls, beaten.
One lamb shank.
...no, that's eaten.
Ninety-seven DVDs, watched.
Three novels, botched.
One brain, worn.
One heart, torn.
& other things, call for details.
Everything must go.
Like that girl in her waist coat
who called herself my wife.
Like that man in his leather jacket
who told me how to live my life.
SeptemberRed leaves bowed to condensation,
the curdled air upon our skin;
black birds were carried on a breeze
exempt from Autumn's sullen temper.
I sought beneath great folds of flesh
colored by the sunrise and bedsores,
arousing the vessel unbefitting
for the natural beauty of your charm.
Though unsatisfied, I yielded,
eyes closed to your piggish flush,
the sopping paste of your thighs,
those tiny irises dull as paint chips.
You admired me but soon discovered
I cringed beneath your every breath,
weak in the heat of an Indian Summer,
clutched by wet effeminate hands.
You have been alone since then,
pining for the yellow flowers of June
with too much sadness to resent me,
even when the winter fell at once.
I still revere the sculpt of your mind:
if you call, I will listen raptly
with a pierced yet unprejudiced ear;
if you die, I will write the eulogy
in the voice of a bereaved mourner;
if you wait, I may return to you
like a butterfly nostalgic for milkweed,
but today, I am vain.
lovely flying stinging thingswasp to the face, and lo!
oh my hell holy jesus christ
my god what the hell!
did not spark forth like sacred lightning
upon the offending
AutobiographicalI am not defined
by the way my eyes
or the way my mouth
instead of flowers
I am not a word
lost in a dictionary
or an unspoken writ trapped
in the chambers
of your unrequited mind.
I am not defined
by the way your words
roll of my tongue
or the silence
that comes without them
this is the definition
of a legacy:
veins dripping with blood
seeping through the valleys
of these papyrus bones
and raven feathers unfolding
the beauty of their afterlife.
The spine-sewn pages and
their only story
like a motion picture,
the art of
ink staining vast oceans
to fill the memories
of fragmented sky-filled irises
the mystery behind the overflowing cup
the orbital rotation and the ricochet
of a planet inside my lungs.
the withered wings of fantasy.
the dream of the reality.
SundreamsSundreams kiss dry skin,
waves crashing--thunder--on the
shore. Gulls' broken
cries, crisp across the wind,
I know the
mortal world can't keep.
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
Bitlets are about quantity, not quality. Free-write at least one a day about what is on your mind, going on around you, or the state of your life. Ignore the urge to edit; it's not about being profound on purpose, it's about stumbling on it by accident.
About this BitletOh yes, I do like this one.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More