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WritersInk recently had an amazing contest with the theme "Moral of the Story", so I present to you the fabulous winners!

First Place





Colourful LanguageThey talk blue. You see red.  Three Billy Goats GruffGoats outwit a troll.
(Abridged story.)
Fan Fiction for the UnconvincedThis is an attempt at an informal essay on fan fiction, by a middle-aged woman who reads and enjoys fan fiction. It won’t really be a balanced argument—I will be concentrating more on what I see as the positive aspects of the genre. I’ll be using mainly examples from the Sherlock fandom, that being the fandom I’m most familiar with. (There will be some spoilers, especially for series 3, so if you haven’t seen the series yet and you intend to, it might be wise to give this essay a miss.)
Why do I read fan fiction? The basic reason is exactly the same reason I read anything—some of it is of astounding quality. I think fan fiction is often saddled with the image of being written solely by beginners and being uniformly terrible. But it’s like any other kind of fiction. You have beginners, you have the competent, you have the talented and experienced. The very best fan fiction writers write at a professional standard; the very best sto
 
FluffThe Diary of His Supreme and Condescending Majesty, King Stalwart Prettipaws, the One and Only
14th April
The housemaid has just given birth to a second child. It really is too much. So much noise. So much commotion. The footman appears to have forgotten I exist. I had to give the order twice this morning before I was fed.
However. I am the King - I must be gracious about the situation. They may be just servants but it is their home too. It would be cruel of me to expect them to leave at this stressful time. Perhaps I will go and stay in another palace for a while. My kingdom is certainly large enough for me to be able to find something to my liking.
Of course, there have been all those skirmishes with local pretenders to my throne recently. But I think the situation is now in paw. (No-one can yell and fluff themself up like I can.) It has undeniably been stressful though. And now with the staff reproducing… All in all it might be a good idea to get away for
Musical ChairsThree women.
Three bladders.
Two toilets.





Second Place





Techy Trio by NeverMore-X The Lonely Monster
        Passers by would always make a second glance at him.
        Roy liked to think it was his pet crow, Timmy, catching their attention. But he knew better. Sure, his black hair and brown eyes were of the common kind but his presence cannot be ignored.
        Roy’s father was a hunter so he grew up shooting down and slaughtering wild animals. When his father died, Roy was able to live in peace through fishing. Although a new man, those years of hunting appeared on his body built.
        The thought made him smirk while he looked out at the scene in front of him.
        The narrow streets were busy and filled with townsfolk. There were lots of bugs, which was fortunate for Timmy, who constantly pecked the air for his morning snack.
        His eyes would squint against the dusty and sunny view of it all.
        Just another day.
Once Upon A Prophecy (FINISHED)
Chapter One: The Two Lovers
  The Hunters were out once more, devotedly traveling every inch of landscape full of green and various animals under Lady Artemis's commands and their loyalty to her sacred name. The Goddess did not join them in this particular venture, which was uncomfortably odd, considering all was in peace after Percy Jackson has recently ended the war.
  As far as each Huntress knew, Gods and Goddesses only neglect their duties out of laziness, which is never in Lady Artemis's case, or when the balance of nature is threatened, and thus, merely guessing the appropriate reason could either be a half and half chance to be bad or worst, hence, it is done respectively.
  The girls were obviously having the same dilemma with each of them in deep relationship and special fondness for their Lady. But as skilled and blessed Huntresses, they were aware of everything, still. From the creeping paw steps against the ground to the tiny critters crawling about.
 
Unbroken by NeverMore-X




Third Place




StrengthMy grandfather was the strongest man I ever met. If you’ve ever seen someone on TV perform some superhuman feat of strength and thought that it wasn’t real, you’ve never met my grandfather. I have seen him rip a telephone book in half. He reached his full height of 6”4’ at the age of fourteen, and by the age of fifteen he had left school to work in the metal works. No one thought twice about it, because he was more than capable of the work and looked older than he was.
I am not strong. My joints frequently hurt, although I do not think I can convey to you how much of an understatement the word ‘hurt’ is in this situation. Most people didn’t understand why I didn’t run as long or as fast as the other children, or take delight in the frequent football scrimmages that almost all the boys I knew took such delight in. when I told them “I can’t, my legs ache,” they just told me to be strong.
My grandfather didn’t.
  A Mathematical Proof Of HopeA prime number is a number divisible only by itself and one. For example, the number five can only be divided by five or by one. If you divide it by any other number, you won't get an integer (a whole number).
Needless to say, not every number is a prime number. Most of them aren't.
However, there are an infinite amount of them. There are an infinite amount of numbers, and because prime numbers are a subset of ordinary numbers there are just as many of them.
Think about that, for a moment. There are less prime numbers than ordinary numbers, and yet both of them are infinite. A paradox. By its very definition, infinity cannot vary in size, so there cannot be a bigger infinity or a smaller infinity. Numbers are both infinite and containing infinity. And yet this is the case.
There are, however, a finite quantity of people. A little over seven billion, at the moment.
Except that, in a sense, there are considerably more people than that. Perhaps not an infinite supply, but close enough tha
SchizophreniaHolding on to a thought has always been... difficult for me. They're so rarely interesting enough to hold my attention for more than a few seconds. Quite often, I'll tune out what someone is saying because something they said sparks a thought which leads to another thought which leads to another thought...
No, I don't get distracted by shiny objects. I'm a human, not a magpie.
I never really cared that I wasn't listening to what people were saying. My thoughts, as cascading as they are, were always more interesting than they were. Eventually, I did away with people entirely, living in my own stream of consciousness. Even now, it is difficult to continue mustering the willpower to finish this, instead of rushing off to read a Virginia Woolf novel.
Then, after I'd isolated myself from all those boring people and their slow, mundane thoughts, I became aware of a shift in my own though processes. I noticed that, when having a thought, I'd finish thinking the end of the thought before I'd a





While on the subject of WritersInk, they're in need of a new gallery mod (cause I'm leaving them :noes:) so if you think you might be interested, send C-A-Harland a note! I've been with them for almost two years (I think?) and they are really one of the best literature groups on dA. You can't go wrong.

Hope you're all doing well :aww:

we came as humans do                  [to whomever is left to listen]
and I thought that we could forget that we are giants,
monsters with footsteps that bruise the tender flowerbeds down below
we must realize that to sleep is not to wither in the decomposition
of the soil we try so hard to forget
was here before us, but to dream that this
ground is not the barren dollhouse we have left it to be
these cities are graveyards for the cost of construction,
buildings tombstones for all that should have sprouted
but was built instead, scraping the dreams from the sky like
stars burning out and falling back to earth
nothing grows here anymore
our concrete sprawls across this landscape like a parasite,
like an unwanted lover
we will drain the color from the cheeks of this valley
suburbia is a scab that cannot be ripped off
a cancer that grows in the prairies like wildfire
this civilization comes neatly packaged in sparkling plastic,
a cosmetic enhancement, over-
  to hell with goodwill (que sera sera)his tale-weaving tongue
tastes of crisp linen
his breath
drenched in bergamot
locked in by lips
of brown sugar that bubble
a blueberry melody
on his siren songs
i've sunken
drunken on an unearthly state
i drown my earl grey eyes
refusing to abandon the atrocity
that is his bedspread
~
his vesuvius temper
everest pride
keep me on the verge of tears
on the ledge of limitations
loathing
lust
longing
trust
i know all too well
i can never repel his touch
his gaze glazes over my beehive body
and i break open
gracelessly
raw and wild
sucking on the saccharine serendipity
of seeing this scene
in some long lost dream
his lambent limbs
though scathingly swollen
from warning-stings
spread far and wide
such is my
exasperation
emancipation
~
i am peeled
past my quivering
petrichor-tampered film
he polishes and pencils
past my profanities
his life oeuvre is
to have me obliterated
of insecurity
come what may
the desolation of this delusion
will one day leave me
dead-end demented
to inferno with goodw
  Things I can't apologise forwondering if the devil had a hand in carving craters in the moon.
/if you help me, I still won't believe in you; I just want help/
God coughs out deserts, but Satan soaks sand and flowers erupt.
 
dreaming of a jailor's castle and the music that flowed under his soil.
/he's going to drive me out of town; he's going to let me escape/
Legends of girls far braver than those before them, flying from higher floors.
 
not catching your name the first time round, I really didn't know what you said.
/we have to teach our youth something; but i don't even believe in hell/
Pressure-squeezers wear the same colour; blasphemy.
 
 
 
believing that shooting stars eventually echo out an answer.
/yes/
Wishes and dreams blow up and bloom.
 
 
 
stripping right down to expose my troubled bones.
/perhaps darkness sustains life's intensity; coiling up and squirming/
Earth circuits and love pieces break out of their throats.
 
being the very current of the
  point blank dangerousthe other morning i saw bugs crawling into my sink that weren't there when i looked back up again. i get headaches the size of bricks, stabbing me like toothpicks and chainsaws all at once. when i see you my hands start shaking and not in a good way, not anymore, i can't look at your eyes without wanting to throw up - not from disgust, but from pure, unadulterated fear, you are the most beautiful pistol, point blank dangerous, since the first time you looked at me in that way - and you know the way i mean - i knew i'd just bought myself a one way ticket into the pit of my stomach and i knew i wouldn't be alright for a very, very long time. and they say forever isn't that long at all but try carving your own infinities into the soles of your feet or balling your hands into fists and opening them with new dimensions inside, it ain't all that easy and maybe now you'll understand when i tell you i can't move on. not because it's risky, not because i'm scared. i'm not scare  woke up for six,and now it's nearly midnight. the bedsheets still smell 
like the nape of your neck lie creased like your hands 
over my hips i cannot sleep too wound up too low 
with the heat of friction too twisted tangled thirstily
throat scratched out by the itch i am waiting waiting
whispering pillow talk and i think that sometimes 
wanting is the loneliest action.



A few of the many gems I'm unearthing from my inbox (finally taking the time to go through it! I'm still back in April so be patient with me)

things

Journal Entry: Mon May 12, 2014, 4:15 PM
Gallery l Journal l Watch Me l Note Me

-failed NaPoWriMo but passed all my classes, so I think that's a pretty decent compromise
-I have therefore survived my first year of uni! yaaaaaay summer
-wait, but - summer is four months long. what do I do with myself?!
-oh that's right take on two research positions and then try to squeeze in a third
-have some features to post for NaPo. bear with me if you're waiting on them. also bear with me if you don't want to read them. (you better read em anyway)
-the font in this journal skin is very small I apologize but I just remembered that skins are a thing and also I tried to edit the CSS on another one and failed sorrysorrysorry so I'm using this one instead which I don't really like aaaaah
-I'm gonna go write a thing now
-how are you guys?

CSS made by TwiggyTeeluck
Background image by AF-studios
Brushes by SummerAIR
... spring!
just kidding. it's still winter here :stare: April fools?

In all seriousness, April is my favorite month because of NaPoWriMo. A couple years ago I stopped writing for a very long time (at least a year?) from a complete lack of interest, and then I stumbled onto NaPo and miraculously fell back into writing. so basically it's pretty important to me. I'm not sure if I'm going to finish this year because of exams but I'm going to try. So expect a ton of stuff in your inbox! (sorrynotsorry)
pssst check out NaPoWriMo if you're interested in trying it out!


and now, even though I was not tagged, 20 15 random facts about me! because I'm in class and very, very bored.


1. we'll start with the easy - I'm in my first year of uni studying neuroscience.
2. I met J.K. Rowling when I was 13 and too shy to say anything more than "hello" (ALL THE REGRETS)
3. I'm always complaining about winter taking forever, but I actually don't mind winter all that much. it's just fun to complain! :la: but I do miss the flowers.
4. I like coffee. very very much. and cats. and food.
5. I've never broken any bones - the most serious injury I've ever had was a sprained ankle.
6. silly anecdote: when I had my wisdom teeth pulled out, they gave me general anesthetics. After the surgery, I awoke in a different room, and was told that I walked there. Still don't know how I did it :shrug:
7. I've been playing the flute for seven years now, during which I've been part of a marching band (santa claus parades, hell yes), two concert bands, and .. let's call it a klezmer band for sixteen shows of Fiddler on the Roof (which I now know by heart, obviously)
8. I have an unhealthy obsession with Sherlock :noes:
9. ummmm
10. I like to say umm a lot
11. I also say eh, like a true Canadian.
12. A couple years ago my trust in paper was completely destroyed, and I haven't kept a journal since.
13. I tell that wisdom teeth story a lot even though it's not that funny =P
14. I'm left-handed. so are both my parents; my sister is the only odd one out.
15. I secretly wish I was British. (not so secret actually)



I tag.. everyone

Fantastic Feature Tuesday #60

Tue Feb 11, 2014, 9:48 AM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.


diverted genesisi call your temptation
Jesus
and your offering
Sin
spread your altar wide
sacrament
sacrilege
a tight wrapture
that sustains you
forestall me
and my devolution
into what I suppose
i am suppose to become
flow through me
and so i shall return
this
our troubled romp
your fulfillment
my diverted genesis

spread your altar wide
sacrament
sacrilege
a tight wrapture



the day i was a bride,i wed the river.
ever changing, she shed me
and tumbled over other banks: a
week later our marriage was
declared invalid.
"a woman cannot wed
a woman," they said -- they, who
wed their pocket-sized
technology, whisper dull secrets
to one another in the
lamplight.
my wedding ring found its way
into your current, and you did not
look back. our wedding certificate
became ashes, frame and all: you choked
it down, spat it into the clouds. it
rained desperation for the next
twelve days - five days longer
than our happy ending.

they, who

wed their pocket-sized

technology, whisper dull secrets

to one another in the

lamplight.




blowing my teeth out the back of my skullI.
we are hynagogic wasteland words, unraveling
corpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasoline
II.
and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones
( i will never be rid of you ).

we are hynagogic wasteland words, unraveling
corpses clutching at bruised throats




baby jesus.my bell jar breaking
head is
an aquarium; 
shark tooth smile
and a
whale's cry, rumbling
everything that
will never hear me.
i break down church walls
and wonder why
people scream 
baby jesus, lord, 
baby jesus, where is yours?
the star around my neck
sometimes burns
and 
i wonder why my dad moved us
to this shit hole
of a town. 
i'm a jew- not
a circus act.

i break down church walls
and wonder why
people scream 
baby jesus, lord, 
baby jesus, where is yours?



CompoundHit me with a lightning bolt that turns into a thousand hearts made of glittering plastic. Tie me with chains sprayed with fake gold and drown me in feathers dyed crimson. Hail to the Queen of the Second-Hand Market that walks down the catwalk surrounded by pearl slippers and Barbie dolls, who calls unknown numbers with red wire phones using old phone directories. Hail to the Doll that walks down the aisle to kiss her 80s prince that wears a dusty blue wig and a laser disc on a chain around his neck. In front of a congregation still in their striped pyjamas, on an altar covered with one-hit wonders, they exchange vows to keep changing batteries to the rotating disco ball and never toss away the ice cream machine, and promise to love pink and blue and faded My Little Ponies until they start to decompose.
Hail to the Queen of the Second-Hand Market that walks down the catwalk surrounded by pearl slippers and Barbie dolls, who calls unknown numbers with red wire phones using old phone directories.


the war that stilled father time.snow;
pillows full of cotton snow
beckon my weary
eyes –
tousle my hair,
soothe my thoughts,
hold my thumping head
children;
branches holding children
twist my red
heart –
vacate my lungs,
bruise my knees,
empty my deprived belly
tablecloths;
tablecloths ripped & stained
stay my trembling
hands -
halt my heartbeat,
strip my body,
break my narrow bones
gates;
gates lock in shaking people
& let my mind
forget –
that it is for the greater good,
that this is for our future,
that we are living on borrowed time
breaths;
a baby’s final breaths
have brought my morals down
low –
i can’t see the bright side,
there are too many bodies,
& blindness seems my only friend
(let us pray,
let us grieve,
& let us sleep)

let my mind
forget –
that it is for the greater good,
that this is for our future,
that we are living on borrowed time







Fantastic Feature Tuesday #59

Tue Feb 4, 2014, 9:23 AM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

Cold and slimyYou feel my edges,
            finger,
             skim
The tepid touch of sweaty skin
Like
         frogs
    on lily leaves.
I fidget, throb -
             A fly ensnared,
Wings and neck weak, damp and bare.
Chaos rushing,                     eyes agape.
Chaos closing,                     no escape.
                 Spider.
            Legs   and   legs   and   legs
entwined:
My body under yours confined.
The web u
                                            n  w  i  n   d  
         

Down cracked and brittle
Cliffs and slopes of skin and bone
Like lava tongues - first flame,
                       then stone.




i don't quite understand
the condition i am in
when
i am not sad enough to be called ill
but am sadder than everyone around me




moon cratersTouch me,
once,
I’m a new season—
a new color, and I won’t
ever say what shade;
and every time ‘reality’
turns real, I crater easier
than clay.

and every time ‘reality’
turns real, I crater easier
than clay



to the nineteen-year-old girl who killed herselfdear Madison,
they say there was a blanket of delicate snow
at your service, flurries falling from the sky like old friends,
and winter has never felt so cold in Philadelphia;
even the willows weeped candlelight from the highest
branches— on friday Rittenhouse Square was breathtaking,
the sun setting on an amber day— there was a radiance
about you, a spark that burned a little too bright
and I know that you tried all you could,
but sometimes you can't help but choke on the flames
you fell from the roof gently, like the tired petal of a flower
compelled by the promise of gravity and a place
to sleep in the soil down below,
but the irony of a rose is that it is most beautiful once dead;
this is not to say that you are beautiful or not,
though that's all people seem to remember;
your existence brought the gift of faith to those of us
who need it most— you left gifts for your loved, and that was the
most beautiful thing we could ever hope to do
I will not end this sentenc

you fell from the roof gently, like the tired petal of a flower
compelled by the promise of gravity and a place
to sleep in the soil down below




<da:thumb id="431602272"/>
infinite little
moments in the black
marrow roads of these bone-streets



Fantastic Feature Tuesday #58

Tue Jan 28, 2014, 7:09 PM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

A short one this week (I fell behind), but especially wonderful pieces :heart:



My perfect girlfriend was beautiful and horrifying in the same second.
She went 4-5 days without showering because raising her arms over her head
caused all the inspiration to run from her fingertips to her biceps




Evanescentonly the most
beautiful of creatures
live the shortest.
red roses and quivering
butterflies and other
useless things, like the
way she wishes on every star
she sees for a different
soul because she can't stand
the way it's rotting inside.
and it's only when
the thorns beneath her skin
start to bleed that her
monsters whisper, "have
you ever trembled, my dear?"
because they know
for every whimper that hides
faintly in the dark,
there is a pair of lips stretched
into a smile pretending
that all that is beautiful
is timeless and unbroken.

for every whimper that hides
faintly in the dark,
there is a pair of lips stretched
into a smile



<da:thumb id="427426955"/>
she will
not fizzle
into seafoam.
but rise in
the waves that
swallow up the sky



Through the cornea of the IBalancing on the edge of both could-be bi's
and teetering off the autism spectrum;
the mind is a silent factory and
mine in a perpetual neuron boom,
ideas growing out like roots
drinking in the hyper,
images entering as ships
in the docks of Eye,
every sense hitting this empire
like a five-fingered chord,
life making me waltz
through every shadow and tint:
life is a reverse cosine to flipped coins,
balanced.
I will french kiss history,
make love to the zeitgeist
until it pushes into the next one
and inject hope into my synapses,
smoke dreamland,
take poetry as LSD,
I will believe because empirical evidence
is a dictatorship,
faith a republic,
a democratic heart,
I will love dust
because altruism is my wife,
I will laugh because
what a sweet currency it is,
I will find the saxophone in every city
because God is poetry.
I
will.

I will french kiss history,
make love to the zeitgeist
until it pushes into the next one
and inject hope into my synapses




To The Boy Who Thought I Didn't KnowI know your body’s smallest ways: the nest of raccoons you hide beneath
your tongue like gangbanger’s tooth-split razor in jail, the pickets
of your nails, all studded sideways: your body a ten-cent California, illegal-
raised home. This is why hands heavy with bruised
fruit will haunt you; the way they broken-English ask how to slide
iron inside. This is why the hinges of your voice will fall
open, why what scratches you will grow the wrong way. Back
to your blood. After, you said I didn’t know you, like I hadn’t
counted the blinds rattling over your heart, a window with a dead
sparrow crumpled outside. Body like an envelope with its thank-you
note stolen. Your clawed tongue, all your body’s wrong-
hung loneliness. This is why you're condemned: I know that you’re still gay.

This is why the hinges of your voice will fall
open, why what scratches you will grow the wrong way.


Fantastic Feature Tuesday #57

Tue Jan 21, 2014, 5:24 PM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!


This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.



Sorry for the ugly formatting. Sta.sh hates me today :noes:
actually it hates me every day
someone should get on that



she's a 49ershe’s a 49er
“you know I hate crying, ricky.”
i know you do. i know. But…it helps.
sometimes.
“i’m too tired to cry anymore, rick.”
breath escapes my lips and my head falls.
i can’t help my sister with this…fuck.
our hearts are burdened.
we’re two southern children,
with old souls,
49ers not on the west coast,
and searching for diamonds,
as we filter through the rough.
i don’t know what she goes through,
but I can listen to her.
i can be her ear to hear her vent.
i can be her robin to her batman.
how can a girl not even 5’5’’ be batman, you ask?
easy.
she’s a cloaked hero whose main super power,
is the power of her will.
while she may keep some things close to her chest,
and under her sleeve,
i’ll always be by her side.
and the gray-son became the dark one
in nightwing.
batman touched him more than you noticed.
dick grayson
was a human vigilante after he graduated.
and she affects m

she’s in search of gold,
but hasn’t checked one area,
the place in which all of her beauty is,
the safe-haven that no one can touch




the artistwhen you color the world,
don't paint the shadows black
because their deep purples and blues
remind you of the bruises your father left
as thumbprints on your thighs,
paint them as they are
because fear is something you can surmount
when the blackness of night is unconquerable

paint them as they are
because fear is something you can surmount
when the blackness of night is unconquerable




please, eathoney, 
please understand,
i do not love holding you up 
like a sinking ship
--your hipbones are jutting above 
seas of skin again, icebergs 
tearing both you 
and me apart
have you drank water today?
because i worry
there is no fluidity in the way 
you move anymore
you are all angles, angel
your body creaks and moans 
like an old, worn out machine
and i don't have your schematics 
i know you've taken a tape measure
of every inch of yourself but 
i cannot measure your mind 
to figure out how to fix you
even though your spine 
has more ridges 
than the rocky mountains,
you know you cannot move them
you cannot pick up textbooks
your stockpot full of water
yourself
please, don't forget how to smile again
i remember all those years ago 
when you lost so much of yourself 
that even though i could help you up stairwells 
and wait for you on the bus every morning  
those beautiful twenty six muscles

if the world broke your heart
or you broke your own
i will take you,
with your mismatched flesh,
hiccuping heart,
and empty stomach




Natures songThe Bluebird chirps natures song vivaciously 
filling these ears with its crowning glory 
holding the helm, as the victors speech.
Perched proudly in-between bars of gold,   
wearing a coat-of-arms of shining colours. 
Veraciously, as now it wore so true and bold. 
 
Thoroughly colored as the one with blue.   
Courageously as nights assailant, 
strumming now wishes that came  to be true.
  
Whose plumes now spurred, prowess. 
whose black beady eyes, 
grew observant  without dourest.  
 
Now a blackened likeliness 
carried dimly  
to glare-of-natures-kiss, 
many seemed blissfully unaware 
as promises 
now wore-a-silent-bliss.  
  
Upon the perch 
singing peaceful, 
praise upon the night. 
You was a shadow, 
who's shadow  
was the key, 
To a cage without a door.
Yet somehow

Whose plumes now spurred, prowess.
whose black beady eyes,
grew observant  without dourest.




The Missing SoundI can’t bear to read them
any longer; accounts and dialogs,
the manifests of spindly travels,
referendums and shopping lists
scrawled on braided brown sack paper:
1. Bones
that flake from old sea crust.
    Another mantelpiece, perhaps.
         No one knows the reasons you horde them
         in piles of cadavers like a miniature apocalypse.
2. Ruminations
on a gasp of memory.
    A counterweight to your long gone lover,
         painted and re-purposed, staring out from hallway sheet-rock,
         desk drawer compartments, and garbage bin bottoms.
3. Stones
from a river bed
    for the many windows to her soul.
         Arrange them like a sundial, in arcane, hermetic patterns,
         like runes without an acolyte, or throw them at her spectres.
             

A counterweight to your long gone lover,
painted and re-purposed, staring out from hallway sheet-rock,
desk drawer compartments, and garbage bin bottoms




to you, who I love too little-love letters sit on my tongue, but i'm
tired of writing them, the coffee and
cigarettes; postcards to the old you.
one day you'll slip away
and become a bad poem, I tell them
the whisky like an atom bomb sitting
deep in the jungle of my throat
being in love and being free
are hard things to be
old lovers touch me like a flame
and my man sits on the top of my dreams
that seems more like a house of cards
than fantasy
i'm wide awake, he's fast asleep
and i'm still dreaming of the day
when who I want to become
is already me
so I write this love poem for her,
when she's drinking too much
and she's burning pyramids in the trees
hoping someone will see the smoke
with bruised roots and flashlights in the dark,
asking for her to come back
home.

one day you'll slip away
and become a bad poem, I tell them
the whisky like an atom bomb sitting
deep in the jungle of my throat




Dancer of the Twilight Hoursdancer
of the twilight hours;
that is what i often call her;
my little coco girl,
she prefers the term bird,
however -
as she loves their graceful
feathered bows in cloudless skies,
and the freedom they represent,
forever frozen
she wears them on her skin;
right where her shoulders
curl into the frail arch of her neck,
a place
my fingers love to linger;
tracing
those inked, weightless creatures
on her sunkissed canvas,
sometimes
i find remnants of her thoughts
scattered through our shared home;
careless doodles in purple
on the notepad by the phone
trying to fly somewhere
from their place between the lines,
sloping words 'n unfinished stanza's
entrusted to receipt-bottoms
and backsides,
i often wish, on days like those,
that i could bring the heavens
right down to her knees,
drain the blues from my eyes
and wrap them around
her skinny limbs
so she could claim the sky;
her realm of infinity
and bay of dreams,
the true home
for my little coco girl.

a place
my fingers love to linger;
tracing
those inked, weightless creatures
on her sunkissed canvas




my friend,whether you're wearing plaid shirts or a miniskirt, please know-
i like your smile. i like the way your eyes twinkle and crinkle
at the edges, when you're on the brink of laughter-
i would not remove one word from the song of you;
the layers of your voice make you so beautiful-
and i cannot speak of what, exactly, 
it feels like to see your skin and wonder 
which side has claimed it,
whether you're meant to be soft and hazed into landscape scenery,
or hard and rough around the edges- something you found more natural,
perhaps. i cannot speak your truths-
but i promise you this:
you can wrap my arms around your body 
when you don't know what else to wrap it in.
i love you breathlessly regardless of your dress.

i would not remove one word from the song of you;
the layers of your voice make you so beautiful


Fantastic Feature Tuesday #56

Tue Jan 14, 2014, 11:07 AM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

sumer on the eve of sumerianif you traveled back to a time in cuneiform
and played them music,
they would not understand the lyrics but they would the sound.
you would say what you must with a smile and they would know.
I don't think there was a time before language;
being alive is a language.
the blind read the air when they breathe.
we are in parenthesis between the moments when the sun changes hands,
Gilgamesh and God speaking in two tongues and the absence of faith,
the hour when we are limitless.
there is a way to kiss every word in every language.
we can say nothing that we do not feel,
and we bled it before we could speak.
there is breath without phonation and
there are things lost in the dark fold of vocal reeds that do
not go away.

being alive is a language.
the blind read the air when they breathe.



2820 milestag-along games i play with my guilty conscience
as i am drawn running towards the sea
away from the cold atlantic and over the mountains
through misty moors and smoky shacks
into the land of giants and ruffians
past god's own blessed children
i'll rest in the foothills, sleep under the stars
forget why i came, leave my boots in the rain
eventually sing indie rock in memphis
cross the styx and enter no-man's land
sun stroke burning my brain
prairie grass tickling my bare legs
the flames will scorch me as i continue
questioning myself in dreams
visions beleaguering my addled acts
texas taking its toll, dusting me over
when i reach the desert i want to finish
i wish to relax, to lie back and rewind
but i must go on, i am not finished yet
the red clay reminds me of why i walk
the cactus appears as an omen
the roadrunner goes ahead and turns back to help
the promised place is nearing, i can sense it in my soul
a searching light is cast, and i want to respond
it is the final stretch
the pac

i'll rest in the foothills, sleep under the stars
forget why i came, leave my boots in the rain



To Lack Resolutionsthe television flickers, an old
sitcom throws itself against the walls, wall
paper for all the poor men. she
watches nameless actors push through
their scene -- watches them wait
for queued applause, their blank
faces. curd floats in her tea, sometimes
spinning like petals let loose from their
flower. she dabs at them with a cautious
tongue, closes her eyes as they bob back to the
surface. the television flickers, an old
sitcom ends in a flurry of credits, a
poor woman opens her eyes to another year.

the television flickers, an old  

sitcom ends in a flurry of credits, a

poor woman opens her eyes to another year.




somehow, we make it feel like enoughi.
there's a stand-still in your head, quiet rainfall
before lightning strikes,
you wait for release, the rumbling,
the turmoil.
the words fall away when you open your mouth
to speak, and i struggle to meet
your eyes.
ii.
i keep waiting for a turning point, a full frontal crash
into a brick wall; but you were right,
it's more like quicksand.
you can't feel the sharpness of change until it's already drowned you.
we sit back, listen to the storm raging on,
disconnected, yet hopeful.
i almost died once, and if i had
my last words would have been,
no, it's fine, i'm alright.
if the same thing happened now, the only words
escaping my mouth would be, if only,
and somehow
that feels worse.
iii.
it's the same city, but in the morning hours
the streets feel like they belong in a far away country.
you tell me one day you want to explore, and i'm already
putting pins on a map,
everywhere, anywhere. but later when shadows fall from the pins
and the circles ar

i open the windows and though the downpour
has ceased, i can still smell it in the air.
when i finally close it you are wide awake,
watching me.



The River RamblesWe cut each other halflong (simple
cell division) to find answers;
nothing spills out and nothing
floods in and nothing
ever changes.
It is a bleak burden, this
stargazer syndrome, near-sighted symphonic
strangers sipping endless streams of data
exchanging bits and bytes in and of the void.
Dark chasmal pockets
full of doubt, full of fever and strife;
we odds and end-less ebbs flow
back to the sea
as we are teased by landfall.

It is a bleak burden, this
stargazer syndrome, near-sighted symphonic
strangers sipping endless streams of data



I'd like to burn down town.She said I was everything she was looking for but I didn't want to be
found. Yet I was never lost, I wasn't even hiding. I was sitting stark naked
in bed besides her all that time and I don't know where she went looking if she
didn't see me.
When I met her I didn't want to belong to anyone but myself. Yet I wanted her, I
wanted her to belong with me and maybe she does, and maybe I belong with her, but
not right now. I can't sit still, can't sit stark naked besides her in bed all that
time while she's out looking.
My chest feels like a time bomb but in a good way. I'm out ticking and waiting to
explode, and once I do I hope I burn down the entire town.
I'm making houses out of people, building hotel rooms in the chest cavities of all
these guys and girls I'm falling kind of in love with, for a night or a week or a year.
It doesn't matter as long as I'm playing these games by nobody's rules but mine, and
I don't have a lot of them left.

I'm making houses out of people, building hotel rooms in the chest cavities of all
these guys and girls I'm falling kind of in love with, for a night or a week or a year.



I'm not much of a poet.I'm not much of a poet when I talk about
how the sun rises and sets and
sends tendrils of fire across the sky, or
how flower petals lift their faces toward morning
with a beauty uncapturable, unfolding eager petals
into the waiting feet of frost-laden bees, or
even how your smile curves so carefully
across the distance between us that it reminds me
how unfair it is to hate you for things you cannot change -
I'm not much of a poet. I will never find the words
to properly describe the feelings you bubble within
my blood vessels, the taste of your devotion as it
sweetens my tongue, the smell of your disgrace
as it sours my thoughts of you.

how flower petals lift their faces toward morning
with a beauty uncapturable, unfolding eager petals
into the waiting feet of frost-laden bees



Fantastic Feature Tuesday #55

Tue Jan 7, 2014, 7:17 AM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.



burn butterfly kisses
on icy skin; spring thaw brings white
crocus



heartstrings.i.
The night is aglow, sitting
in the depths of my heart;
the city lights knitting
pale orange halos above.
In breaths pale with Argyle pink
diamond, the lovers rise
over the very brink
of the iceberg's cyan crown,
like celestial bodies.
ii.
In the crumbs of honeycomb
scattered on the table,
I'll find our proteome;
I want to decipher our
genetics, map your heartbeat
and find constellations
among every discreet
naevus nestled upon you,
joining the dots.
iii.
I'll pursue you forever,
until my worthless bones
(in boundless endeavour)
are at last compressed into
Argyle pink diamonds.

In breaths pale with Argyle pink
diamond, the lovers rise
over the very brink
of the iceberg's cyan crown



12-10-2013Though I have loved you far less
than there are stars in the sky
or grains of sand in the sea,
you cannot expect me to help myself.
And though you have shone brighter
than any sun or moon or constellation
unfurling upon the darkness of my heart,
I cannot expect you to help yourself.
For a rose can grow in the most desolate places
when conditions are right, spiraling deep
into the cracks of abandoned parking lots
where the water is sweetest.
And from that rose come more roses,
until the concrete is green and spilling
over with thorns and bouquets weeping
with the golden scent of years to come.
Grateful as I am that I have pricked my heart
upon your heart, you are still so new to me,
and it frightens me that we are little more
than corporeal loam feeding a violently beautiful bloom.
And though I touch you with Midas’ trembling fingers,
know that I am in awe of every minute fiber of your being:
perfection, imperfection, body, soul, and synapse.
I cannot help myself.

you are still so new to me,
and it frightens me that we are little more
than corporeal loam feeding a violently beautiful bloom.



Muon neutrinoSome number of days
become one: a thought bound together
by the number of pills I took, 12 on Wednesday,
you forgot Thursday, when God lets his head rest
a blackhole forms,
and you ask for your poems back.
Maybe I took a reflection gold like yours,
a few back hairs, the phone you bought, a German market,
your accent, but my hand was possessed:
I spun a new era,
knocked around plastic bottles
and shattered a dropper.  My lines were perfect,
nothing like the fizzy bits of an atom,
when your car never started,
a roach on the nightstand,
my eye imploded,
but I send my poems back.
The ones on napkins, dollars, candy wrappers,
unduplicated sinews of sex, laughter,
or just an amphetamine,
your smile--
You were always better. And better
is impossible to swallow,
light's always faster,
and when God blinks,
nothing happens.

but I send my poems back.
The ones on napkins, dollars, candy wrappers,
unduplicated sinews of sex, laughter,
or just an amphetamine



complimentary colorsand today, I must speak to you about the colors of the ground,
I must touch the sky with a pinch of sand and
call the salt upwards, spiraling back into the breakfast of birds,
creating miracles but blocking rainbows.
the shadows are solid, like they were painted,
perhaps by an amateur, the ground has failed to be part of the earth.
but I am not alone for the pigeons hold a hearing, a call to order,
they speak in a contour of rustles, but what they say is the same,
that we all must crawl back under leaves
for the sun is falling into the ocean, and we cannot.

I am not alone for the pigeons hold a hearing, a call to order,
they speak in a contour of rustles, but what they say is the same



The Truth About Words.words, words,
oh those words,
sometimes they don't
comfort me.
they cling to my eyelashes,
parade against the seem
of my closed lips,
make my heart repeat
it's dance beneath my ivory
rib case so many times
it sings a tune entirely
of its own.
letters
phrases
sentences
stanza's,
they all waltz
through the realms
of my mind,
sweeping clean
the carefully preserved
cobwebs of corners
i've deemed forgotten,
and doors i thought
i locked and thrown away
the keys.
trying to break free
they cry havoc against
my skin-and-bone-armour,
torturing me from within
to give sleep a backseat
and grab that lined notebook
& always (a)waiting pen.
on nights like that
i sing my secrets towards
the indigo-soaked sky,
tie my hopes to
hidden stars
and pray that
lady silver will help me
preserve my sanity
for yet another
waking day.

i sing my secrets towards
the indigo-soaked sky,
tie my hopes to
hidden stars



Oh, but do you have to go so soonVampires beneath the ti-trees
tossing dusk-blue shadows
over the burning fire-grass seas
watching a sun slip away,
molten coin falling falling falling,
falling
all the way
down
(fields
made of gold, made of
tremble,
crying seeds into the
summer-dry winds)

fields
made of gold, made of
tremble,
crying seeds into the
summer-dry winds







Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

But first - happy new year everyone! :party: I wish you all a great start to 2014 and hope that all your goals for the new year will be successful and meaningful. It's only afternoon here on the 31st but I'm already excited for 2014! One of my goals is to post this feature every week, no matter how busy I am. Here's to time management!


<da:thumb id="406955631"/>
I am captain;
until red curtains meet grey
concrete. Curtains.



enoughi am a map of closed doors,
(nautilus chambers of the mind) and inside, i
am walking from room to room, turning
all the lights on, then back off again.
without you, the world
is unnameable. voiceless now,
this animate limbed thing
that i am, piloted like a shipwreck's memory:
winter to spring
to winter again.
like arithmetic we learn
and forget ourselves,
grieving, carbon-scripted vessels
that we are--
spectators to passion and its disappearing act;
(how our teeth
become bone chimes
hanging in a rusted valley, ringing
with dead sound.)
how to rename it. how to even begin.
how to harness this ache
to the lathe. carve myself to meet
this godless horizon; my body a shaft
of cold light, refracting
across an empty room.
vacant machine. stopped mouth.
the incompleteness
of it, standing at the edge of an ocean,
blank and bloodless,
with an empty cup in my hands.
(but if i were to fill it, again,
i would drink
until i drowned.)

carve myself to meet
this godless horizon; my body a shaft
of cold light, refracting
across an empty room.




I'd rather have
you
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly.



Lost LightsPeter Pan, with his hands cupped,
tempts the Moon Mother with his smile.
Shy stars peek past her skirts,
wondering why such a soft soul
holds heartache an ally.
"Look closer, children; he's here
to guide ghosts--lost lights--home."


Shy stars peek past her skirts,
wondering why such a soft soul
holds heartache an ally.


A Man Gunned Down(one)
Lead shuttle fracking open skin and
(two)
blood flailing in the echo of
(three)
steel cries whipping skin,
(four)
dance of burning pink and
(five)
a white-hot snapshot from
(six)
Grim's bang-bang camera,
(seven)
down.

a white-hot snapshot from
(six)
Grim's bang-bang camera,
(seven)
down.



Dysphoriashe sells 9mm shells by the seashore,
says she can hear the ocean.
but if you listen close to these shells
you can hear ghosts.
something borrowed, something blue,
something broken, something bruised.
she traces her fingers across the autopsy scars
while she counts her bones like currency.
she'll leave your skin screaming,
and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.
can you hear the ocean?

she'll leave your skin screaming,
and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.



My Boy is of the SeaHis voice is deep but hollow,
a riddled-out cavern driven deep
through the center of the earth
His laughs are glancing echoes
off long-forgotten bones,
his whispers swirling currents
scooping pearls from their oysters -
rushing tides about to sweep
an unsuspecting seabird off her feet
From his eyes, bubbles dribble,
opaque tears slipping off a
crocodile snout, and he drifts near me,
arms stretched wide – beseeching,
though the whole ocean is at his command
Seahorses wound through his kelp-forest hair
whinny a warning,
but I am entranced
Surely nothing this beautiful could be
dangerous?
Surely nothing that wants me like this
could also want me harm?
His crab claws lunge for me, but I am not afraid
They rake across my feathers, but I am not in pain
Even blood looks beautiful down here -
it hides me from the world
Waves grab me up, and toss me
I am a whirlpool.
My innocence goes flying
Swallowed by a binge-happy blue whale
My wings are shredded
by a crowd of eager piranha,
And my ba

From his eyes, bubbles dribble,
opaque tears slipping off a
crocodile snout, and he drifts near me,
arms stretched wide


Hey guys! Thought I would pop in and say hello, wish you all a happy holiday, and let you know if I'm ever coming back to this place. The answer is yes, but not yet. I'm about to begin finals and I'm pretty busy so I've decided to postpone my hiatus just a little longer until winter break, during which I will delete everything from my inbox and get a head start on features so that I don't screw myself over when school starts again.

School is going pretty well. I'm a little disappointed in my marks but then again everyone around me gets excited by a B+ so I guess I'm doing alright =P I have high standards. I got myself a position in a research lab at a mental health university/institute doing EEGs (COOL RIGHT??) next semester so I'm going to be really busy, especially with band practice and giving music lessons as well. Time to upgrade my time management skills?

Lastly, I very recently received my fourth DLD on my poem 'love, and other natural disasters'

love, and other natural disastersacres of barely concealed tragedy
are sprawled along the vacant beach,
spreadeagled like a group of starfish or
a colony of dead Vitruvian men.
hair becomes whip-like in wind
as shorelines burst onto squeals of water,
each one a hideous screech
from gaping jaws, a cry that echoes
for hours while stars tick-tock overhead.
i could swallow entire mouthfuls
of the pale sun, feel them explode
like lightning strokes in my aching belly
and still think like a deserted seashore -
the only signs of life
ruffled seagulls picking at dry oyster shells.
the earth is a sphere and the coast
is a box of empty prayers
held together by a couple loose ends
of fishing wire
sharp enough to slit throats.


Thank you so much toxic--sunrise and TwilightPoetess for making my day a whole lot brighter! :hug:

I'm going to go disappear for another three weeks now, though I do pop in almost every day to check on my groups and respond to (some) comments :aww:

I do not celebrate Thanksgiving (American or otherwise) so share with me the adventures of your weekend! Turkey and shopping? Perhaps shopping for turkeys? What's your Thanksgiving dinner (or is it lunch? oops) like?

GGG Feature!

Sun Oct 27, 2013, 8:00 PM


As you have already probably heard, PoeticalCondition hosted a really fantastic contest a while ago and the winners have been announced! I'm so late on this feature but I've been crazy busy, so I'm sorry if anyone was waiting on this!

PS. Sta.sh is being a bitch so apologies for the awkward formatting I promise I'm not actually this bad at making things look pretty I HATE YOU STA.SH  /endrant




First Place


:iconmalintra-shadowmoon:
Malintra-Shadowmoon
Star Child in WinterCarefully, I step on the white dusted grass.
The frozen evening dew moistens me.
It is cold – I do not feel it.
Only the silence of the night is all around me.
My hair becomes entangled in an icy wind.
So that I fear to be blown away.
I reach out for the branch of a tree
To seek help and protection.
In front of me I can see the forest in awesome loftiness.
The trees welcome me.
Finally I arrive at the spot I am heading to –
The clearing – a spiritual place.
I stop in the middle of this circle –
Symbol of eternity, image of perfection.
I wait and only my breath can be heard.
Time seems to stand still.
Then, at last – the clouds flee
And unveil the radiating face of the moon.
Its illumination seems to cover everything
With liquid silver.
Shimmering gold is mingling among the
Silvery glittering night-blue sky.
Unnumbered stars are strewn into the night.
High up I lift my face.
My eyes catch the light of the moon and the stars.
I know that the time has come.
Determined I lower my head,
Rai
A Magic Night of Sorrow and Hope
I feel that something in the wood is other than usual.
There is a happy mood that is mysterious at the same time.
The senses are sharpened.
Like from afar I mean to hear the music of elves.
The songs they are singing are merry and joyous.
Songs that echo through the night that will not become dark.
Songs, penetrating deep into my soul.
That let me forget this world and make me dreaming.
But beyond all high mountains, under oaks and beeches dense.
There, where the moss has a sappy green and
The light breaks through the foliage,
Lies a pool deeply hidden, legendary and mythical,
Carries a whispering secret, conceals its power in the water.
Because thousands of elves were weeping, tears so enormously clear,
For the stream of life which had died tonight. For the oceans which do not breathe,
For the rivers deaf and blind, for the once so beautiful lakes which are only dried.
For the trees and the plants around lying in their agonies.
Nothing of the cheerful songs will ever dry their pain.
I
Fairy Tale Castle by Malintra-Shadowmoon


Second Place


:iconspidermilkshake:
SpiderMilkshake
Sun-Day For Wurms~ by SpiderMilkshake My Unthinking CapMy Unthinking Cap
Have you ever tasted dirt?
There’s nothing wrong with the flavor of Earth
But—for our finite tastes—too gritty
A lashing-back lie that keeps away all tongues.
However, I love the crunch and the whiff of soft silt
The squishing brown wilt
And no, I don’t share a bedroom with Pica
That slimed affliction.
The taste of Earth’s heart sometimes pops out
It greets the spring moonrise and drip-drips off the ferns
With a tip of its homely cap.
When this gentleman of the night bears his fruit
I become a Venusian boar that scows
In the patch of floodmeadow behind the church
Where his courtiers gather.
I can be anything, he says, anything;
List whatever you want: savory-syruped steak
Treacley truffle in a cream of wheat
Baked into a mound of hellacious steam
Burning forth
Raw vegetable goodness, or sweet
Cinnamon-rice stuffed, or for the meek
Fried crisp with the Trinity and pepper flaked.
I am a mushroom and I can be anythin
Dreams and Nightmares by SpiderMilkshake



Third Place


:iconpauper-circumstance:
Pauper-Circumstance
epilogue of a dreamerDear Poetry,
some smiles,
leap through eternity;
it is an autobiography
(of) when I was a child....
The Dream, the dream,
in chains
        chains
               CHAINS!!!
These aren’t just laws, they’re constants!
Hope,
(a) false ambition-
twistful irony.
it ought to tell me enough
wishes are never found
Dreamscape,
everyone has one;
falling asleep among the stars,
loving every minute:
senseless lovers
There are times
I'm being selfish,
feeling this way
all will be well
the honest truth?
FATE be damned!!!
Persevere!
dreamer
one last poetic goodbyeThere once was a little girl,
(singing) a love poem to rainy evenings in town-
a love poem for a bibliophile,
just (for) me
Why must I suffer?
I am so blind!
I'm a mask,
wishing (with) some mad hope
(that) a beautiful life,
(and) a better tomorrow
exist
Hope is like a flower,
always half finished
          waking      wishing____________ waiting
Darling?
Don't feign ignorance (me)
My words are flightless birds,
lost in my own separate sky.
I am sorry sugar.
I am (just) the bird with the broken wing,
mourning (your) treasure map heart.....
and then I wake up
(with my) hope in  s    h    r    e    d   s
FirefliesFireflies flicker in the evening,
shine brightly at night.
little stars with wings,
make the dark seem so,
much
less
frightening.
Oh, these fireflies give us hope,
little bright lights of hope,
that no shadow can consume
that every dark corner fears…..
Evil wants to eat these fireflies;
black holes want to suck up these stars,
but none can touch our brave
fireflies.
Through dark times they have courage
where would we be without them?
who can show us a path?
in the dark
better than
a
firefly.
These fireflies are our inspirations-
show strength;
give us hope
to one day
bring light too!
Fireflies are everywhere,
little bright fireflies,
never do they fade.
I wish I was as strong as fireflies,
they face a darkness,
I could never face.
yet they defeat it,
because they are bright stars
and nothing can touch,
or harm
these wonderful
little
Fireflies.








If you were just here for the feature and are completely uninterested in my personal life, you may leave now =P

So I've been AWOL in the past month, I know. I haven't even written anything since.. august? College is so much harder than I thought it would be. I have three midterms this week and it's very overwhelming and sorry to anyone that was expecting a feature in the last two weeks but real life comes first :shrug:

Once this week is over I'm hoping to get back on track with features and reading everyone's stuff and everything. Not promising anything though.

That's all we got time for.. just wanted to let you guys know I'm still alive, and to post this feature that was due about two weeks ago, oops...

How are you all doing? Anything exciting happening for halloween? I have a midterm at 6PM. This girl ain't going trick or treating, nope. (also I'm way too old but shh)
:peace:

Please +fav this article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

Also this should really be renamed to Fantastic Feature Wednesday because I suck at setting myself deadlines but anyway.

 

 

why irony is a valid literary devicewhen i touched you for the first time
i noticed the way you breathed
like pages,
a novel woven under my fingers,
a story told in the way you whispered
above the voices of the Notebook
playing idly on my mother's tv,
a breath, breath, breath,
a hum that still reminds me of
the first time i met you
when we were five years old and
your voice sounded like a torrid
of gunfire and shells, breathing
an attack, attack attack
and my heart beat my chest,
my knees weak
and i couldn't breathe.
but when i touched you for the first time
i told you, "the Notebook
is the most overrated film ever made,"
and you laughed and asked,
your eyes fixated on the books strewn
about my room, then back to my bare chest,
"is it because the book was better?"
and i could only stare back
above the gunfire that echoes still
in your voice,
because i could not breathe,
and when you can't breathe
you can't speak
and i guess
there was no story.

your voice sounded like a torrid
of gunfire and shells, breathing
an attack, attack attack




an irrevocable truthi.
snowflake child, you are a fine example
of the incandescence of a human light
even under innumerable umbras
i see you- ruby and blooming
ferociously fighting your way
out of a pile of rubble
ii.
my anemone, my halo
that comely wraps around my moon pith
do not fret if i self-stumble, fumble
with my fingers, and mumble to my toes
my center of gravity is oft frail and
meek to begin with
iii.
you are lead cause of the diamond flecks
scattering about the carbon of my pupils
you do not leave me
you teach me to be
snake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-
a sapphire wanderlust livid
for life and star-gazing sights, you map
constellations on my freckles and fright  
iv.
look now at how i'll find my lighthouse lover
then tend to some kids
and grow out of my gills and into grey hairs
then tend to some kids with their own kids
and reminisce about friends and phenomena
i signed my name on a patch of sky with
all on my own except
that your hand never left mine
that if i were to crumble
like the sandcastle

if i were to crumble
like the sandcastle i am
i only need to lean back fearlessly, trusting
to find your spine resting there all the while




<da:thumb id="391754773"/>
In that moment I was flush,
over-ripe for the picking, aching
to be bitten, tasted,
devoured by a fresh mouth.




.i have learnt enough about gravity
to know that he can do what i can't, myself
snap my bones like twigs
underfoot, and
he says that beautiful things are
the easiest to break

he says that beautiful things are
the easiest to break





my friend smokes like she is allergic to plain air
but she smells like a fucking spring meadow, i know,
i’ve forgotten my nose in her hair a few times




why we're better now               back the way we came past
               yellow-eyed coyotes, two
               caustic anachronisms
               getting the hell out of
               our futuristic vineyard,
               expanses spilling oceans
               on my neck. I wanted something
               certain from you
               the heart attack
               I slept through
               now, my lips pulse;
               sanguine peaches making
               music of arrhythmic lace
               as you rupture in the sea:
               a wet throat blooming
               open in tessellations

sanguine peaches making
music of arrhythmic lace
as you rupture in the sea




8.12 The Perseids (Endings)I fell asleep without seeing The Perseids burn
across the pre-dawn sky. Instead, I orbited an
empty bed, knotted myself in the twist of the
sheets, and awoke to an early morning message
simply stating: I didn't miss it.
I wish I could believe.
Tonight I'll sit alone under the night sky, quietly
awaiting the thousand year prisoners' free-fall to
their death, whispering wishes in elegy.
--
8/12/2013
Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All rights reserved

I orbited an
empty bed, knotted myself in the twist of the
sheets, and awoke to an early morning message
simply stating: I didn't miss it.

Fantastic Feature Tuesday #52

Wed Oct 2, 2013, 2:30 PM


Please :+fav: this article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

Just for funzies, all of today's features were found using the Undiscovered feature on the homepage.


 


 


pollenwasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)

poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;

 

 


ambrosia tastes like freedomSpent half my pearls on a trip to the sea
    Drank milky clear liquor from the coconut tree
        (That something so simple could make something so sweet
            It never fails to astonish me)
When I fade away, a god I will be
    Sipping plain, unsweetened, and unadorned tea
        Feasting on coarse bread and unripened cheese
            Buried in carefree laughter up to my knees
because nectar tastes like coconut syrup
    and ambrosia tastes like freedom

Spent half my pearls on a trip to the sea
Drank milky clear liquor from the coconut tree

 


 

i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,
cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips
and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.
i remember how i was always shot.
you ran away when i didn't die
and left me to bleed out
onto the cold concrete.
but you don't understand-
dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true. it's just dull thumping
in a hollow chest cavity.
(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)

dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true




on little truths i search for ways to voice
little truths in words unspoken,
locked behind shy mouths and averted eyes

i search for ways to voice
little truths in words unspoken




Trapped~Trapped~
 
This pain is bound inside
like hatchling crows
scratching to break free
Their claws inside your belly
always tearing to find release
The tormented bundles
of feather, beak and bone
don't feel the pain that they inflict.
You do not feel the terror
in their black eyes
which look out-
only to be faced with darkness,
again and again.
The paradox of their trappings
is the core of their hell
living inside you.
The winged creatures
who will never fly
don't ponder the truth;
They know in this struggle
you will both surely die.

 The tormented bundles
of feather, beak and bone
don't feel the pain that they inflict





CCLXVIautumn dusk -
the ladybug's wings
not quite tucked away

autumn dusk -
the ladybug's wings
not quite tucked away




The Bloomersshe said my eyes are blue. truth is, i'm evergreen-
mad- blooming mad for weeds and lesser seeds- oh yes-
the ones that trample dainty, feeble flowers
to swallow up the sun, and sprawl their souls across
my garden-soil. someday, i say, they'll flourish-
my friends of ill repute. and maybe it's naive
to trust in thistled things- but not a waste,
and hope is never lost, only misplaced.

and maybe it's naive
to trust in thistled things- but not a waste,
and hope is never lost, only misplaced.




DemarcationYou ran your scalpel tongue from
hipbone to clavicle,
peeling me back like a banana skin
to find my insides brown and
rotting.
i desiccate while walking along the streets.
the words of men and women,
childhood friends and foes
slit red rivers in my flesh,
opening windows to the withering
i hide beneath it.
My heart is a desecrated temple,
full of false idols and headless deities.
Maggots crawl beneath my flesh,
reminders of the the day I died.
i do not call the monsters to me,
but they crawl to the surface
as the sun sets-
in the mask of darkness,
they lick the wounds they create,
gnashing their teeth,
wild-eyed.
it is after seeing their faces,
red and depraved,
sleep evades me for nights.
Vivisect my fleeting dreams,
courage flees in surreal cut-scenes.
I am Frankenstein's monster, reborn,
made of patchwork frailties and
papier-mache ribbons of flesh.
My beauty is only skin deep.
the creatures swim in murk
just beneath what you see,
promising in faint whispers
to burst in lashes of fi

in the mask of darkness,
they lick the wounds they create,
gnashing their teeth,
wild-eyed





Fantastic Feature Tuesday #51

Wed Sep 25, 2013, 9:52 AM


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This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.




The Ground A Garden, My Body The Bouquetorchids:
wrapped my body in white strips. built myself a chrysalis of white flags. i give up. put on a grand smile, raised my hem line, lowered my voice. i will conform to your standards. leave my soul in a body bag to be thrown out with all the other 'different' 'broken' things. weave a cotton rope and tie myself down.
peonies:
after tripping over myself, once again i am decomposing. the flowers do not grow in my sagging, decayed hip sockets; the part of my body so loved and hated by myself. sockets the perfect size for tulip bulbs. their little roots clambering to anchor into the ground; so terrified of remaining floating in the wreckage.
heather:
there is a tiny cot in my aorta. doubt sleeping in quadruple stacked bunk-beds. snuggled together under down filled blankets, looking like a stack of worn out puppies. feeding on the little bit of love i'd saved for myself.
irises:
little pieces shipped to mailboxes. forgotten 'fragile' labels buried on counter-tops under bills that remain

the shivers of delight. warmth of embrace. the desire to give it all for one.
my body does. my soul it flies.




BloodhoundWound up tight,
old stones and
pre-breath memories.
remember clearly
where your feet had walked
before you woke?
i do, as glass
engulfed - jet black.
unwritten, eyeless -
hollow blanket sky.
but deep in water, prophets
smaller than could be -
faint lace of light,
too dim to be conceived.
at dinner, plates conveyed -
a spoon betwixt the cutlery
revived a time wracked dream.
in water - three years old -
i sunk below the breathless deep.
alone for silent moments, i was strong.
the growing dark was but a touch away -
i smiled, shook its hand, and said goodbye.
in water - three years old - i learned
how tender is the way death empties hearts.

the growing dark was but a touch away -
i smiled, shook its hand, and said goodbye.
in water - three years old - i learned
how tender is the way death empties hearts.




To fall down at your door.Where the past goes is
where I begin,
moments in time like
nightspirits,
particles of never, that
bleed, dissipate, collapse,
leading me home
after the rain,
after life,
to disappear forever.
I will go down with this ship,
leaving my dream
behind the stained glass
to follow the sun --
and I will find you,
or someone like you,
blankly staring at
a portrait of a dead man
(save me).

I will go down with this ship,
leaving my dream
behind the stained glass





it took a thousand splendid suns
for us to see eye to eye, for you
to know why I weep over book
pages and not people




An Hour for an HourIf I could contain the universe
in an hour, in a minute, in a room,
I’d fit it with mirrors, drape it in satin, drown it in champagne,
stuff it in pink crinoline, and set it up spinning.
Ours is a dizzy waltz of missed signals and broken dreams.
All those afternoons strutting about an eight hundred thread count queen,
holding court with flushed cheeks and sweaty palms.
“Courtesy please. Do not disturb.”
Oh, but who am I now, my darling?
An unwelcome guest, stealing away your sunset.
With no heart to call my own,
I’ve no use for your bedroom eyes or your nesting sighs
still echoing in the hollow thickets of my soul.
I hate to think of you there, tangled and bleeding,
a universe all your own.

I’d fit it with mirrors, drape it in satin, drown it in champagne,
stuff it in pink crinoline, and set it up spinning.




4due date passed, brains mould
away but i shrug it off
my shoulders and stroll life with
arrogance & royal titles.
these never-ending stories wear me out, wear
me to the bone, stone-cold. i shake
with apathy — do not
[dare to] look for days that never missed me.
sometimes mirrors stare back & i
shed my skin, triumphantly.

i shake
with apathy — do not
[dare to] look for days that never missed me.





:thumb402671548:
I try to understand what it means to just be, to just live with
fingers spread out for the ones who love you




Please :+fav: this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

But first - I owe a belated feature to beeinthebottle for catching my 20K pageview!







In the Middle of the Mojavegarish colours in a sandbox
and the deep Carolina blue sky
that has seen all
arched its back overhead
and watched
as the current flicked out
and the beds of the pools started
drying
the yucca here are special
you cannot touch them
they feel like straw
they bend a little
and crinkle
the dust motes on the concrete land come from above
there is dust everywhere
dirt.
the parched concrete floor is white and
marbled with dust-banks
places where the wind
reached down to slow itself
as it careened through the
empty spaces.
you can see the gaps in between slabs
places dotted where foliage began to
soak through.
they are wrinkles.
filled with sixty year old dirt
and slips of straw.
there is quiet decay.
there are arcades
foam and sun falling through their ceilings
there are hanging signs waiting.
in the middle of nowhere
you cannot read them
aloud.

filled with sixty year old dirt
and slips of straw.
there is quiet decay.



comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could  trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.

I was never a star jumper that could 
trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.



FirearmI could tell you all about the crest and swell
Of passion on the dash, the jerking foxtrot trot
Of lips without an audience. Remember when
The road was void, and you were mad and fender-bent
Against the air, smuggler of memories? Me,
I can't recall this morning's breakfast, even as
The smell of tea is swarming in my senses,
As eager as an open-highway dawn.

Remember when
The road was void, and you were mad and fender-bent
Against the air, smuggler of memories?



Magic of Veniceyou swirl and twirl
  graciously
through an ocean
of human crowds,
faces hidden behind
golden facades,
  the joker's
cackling giggle
echoing from
  ear to ear,
  your body
sways from fiend
     to lover,
silk gown caressing
your body as boldy
as the devil's
  wild grin,
waves of hands push
  you closer
  to his reach,
his eyes behind the mask
undressing you with every move,
at last the vast sea
breaks and you crash
into his exploring arms,
fingers dance beneath
obscuring fabrics
  and lips decend
  upon your waiting
     mouth,
claiming your desire
you succumb without fight,
  forever lost to
  the magic that is
     venice.

silk gown caressing
your body as boldy as
the devil's
wild grin



<da:thumb id="387237243"/>
stumbling free from death's
jeering light and harmonies



open my eyesdead summer holds
an afternoon heat haunt
ghost in my periphery,
hello
chin to shoulder
to glimpse and--
left so soon?
or only the billowing 
white curtain cotton 
reaching into sunlit room
close, dying stars 
have such long
shining fingers

dying stars 
have such long
shining fingers

Fantastic Feature Tuesday #49

Tue Sep 10, 2013, 7:32 PM


Please +fav this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.



Poem for the OceanCure me of this drought.
You have been known to call down the rain
and my forest fire-heart, heaving and sun-sparked,
needs the coolness of summer storms.
You are a sea; and I can do nothing but cling to your shores like sand,
hope to be swept off to the depths so I might understand them.
I am a knowable thing, clear and crisp;
the smell of pine forests, moonshine—
a distillation of all my youthful restlessness.
I want to run til I can drink the air like vodka,
clear and crystalline in my lungs.
My spirit is hungry, an Appalachian wendigo—
a wind eating its way across the Kentucky border,
carving great bites in the mountain flesh.
Though well-acquainted with the contours of lace,
often weaving its silky strings myself,
I am no spider, and your sea swell lace crests elude me.
I am no sea captain, cannot read your ocean currents
but the restlessness that sits beneath my lungs
and crawls its prickling way up my spine
makes me feel that I’ve never been better.
Though you

You are a sea; and I can do nothing but cling to your shores like sand,
hope to be swept off to the depths so I might understand them.



iii. - 2012how do birds die? she
watches, my
synthpop sweetheart
in yesterday’s t-shirt, with
my glass of cold tea
i just put the phone down
and we're sitting around
waiting for the takeout.
yesterday
was a lightning flash and my hair
reeks of singed
cigarettes, old linseed.
love
she fills the room
with her sonorous
immaculate self, and i
the hissing on the shore
washing out and in

yesterday
was a lightning flash and my hair
reeks of singed
cigarettes, old linseed.



lovesong for a blackholeI don't know what I am, but I feel the jungle
the plains of northern highlands
the song of the ocean disguised as voices I draw
the most primal notes, of
I don't know wherre I'm from, anymore, because I never cared
I know what I love, and connecting-the-dots could be compared
no return to oz, only a cannon for a sun
the day I reach my words like I mean to,
I'll publish a book. or a run.
until then, I'll keep practicing in nice little voids
like you or on da.
it's only a matter of time, now that I like the sound of my voice
I've seen some crazy shit on bestgore.something,
and I've only been there once
they're all smarter, than common, and the common are never suspecting
it wouldn't be the first time, of course,
and I guess everyone needs to be picky about who they drink, from
just some dots get connected, and play into misconceptions, of love
no absence; no absolution in this solar-system
the nebulae behind your eyes seems to sing
and our vernaculars grow to catch up
and our vernacular

the day I reach my words like I mean to,
I'll publish a book. or a run.



vernacular diminutiveswaddle my face in icepacks and
blistering thoughts of you. marinate in
the smell of north freo, the stinging,
industrial salt of the wharf and the
dark silty tang of the river. wander
through the soft, thick, honey-spill
of afternoon light wrapped around
streetlights, benches, hippies. watch a
man in a business suit pray to his gods
in a corner of a little green park, pressing
his forehead to the earth and bending
his spine so it arches like a song.
eat soft food that dissolves on my
tongue, and muse on every uncertainty.
hang my head low at the bitter
snow slush that is our pasts, and how
it sticks and numbs our nerves with cold.
be tied to my physical body, be
anchored around my aching mouth.
have my soul pulled out by brilliant and
chunky folk rock chords, with no ceremony
at all. throw lilting paper cranes from
my window to yours; do your brown
eyes soften? does it whisper
on the roughness of your palms?

throw lilting paper cranes from
my window to yours; do your brown
eyes soften? does it whisper
on the roughness of your palms?



you are my eyessince i met you i have fallen
for the way my fingers curl around a pen.
you told me once that my poems kept you breathing,
and if these pinkish branches keep your heart beating
then i love them and i love them
and i love them.
(you said my eyes were cornflower, forget-me-not,
blue jean shorts on a summer night.
you said my eyes were oceans, not for the blue
but because the sirens on my lashes
fell on your cheeks and sang to you.)
and my stomach has held a hundred moons
but you never told me that the blood i shed
was shameful,
even slumped on the floor when i cried in the night
you held me and told me not to be afraid,
you kissed my face and said that i was beautiful,
held my hand when my ribs became
good company, wouldn't let me count them
but fell asleep with your fingers just above the one we nicknamed
louie.
    knees knocking, i cried when he disappeared from view.
    you told me that he left like all good friends tend to do,
    that his absence said 'healthy' and that
    you th

my stomach has held a hundred moons
but you never told me that the blood i shed
was shameful




your body is made of stardust,and I traced lines across your limbs
fragile bone to fragile bone
you became the most beautiful constellation I know.
but the way you call me beautifully broken—
rose tinted glass, shattered plastic in a kaleidoscope
pretty, perhaps, but undoubtedly
broken
and how I call us fractured—
this bloody mess of words I’m tangled in
(no, this isn’t poetry)
I am a seamstress trying desperately to sew me back together
darling, in some form
we are star crossed lovers.

rose tinted glass, shattered plastic in a kaleidoscope
pretty, perhaps, but undoubtedly
broken



Memento MoriThis is my thesis:
I am a body of evidence.
Everything dies by the minute
and I am no different.
I feel the body breaking down,
the elastics that keep me together
fading, stretching to infinity.
Rub tea into my skin; preserve me.
Embog me. The world must know
the horrors that happen in suburbia,
unwanted thrusts, bashing of skulls.
A hot summer night emblazoned
with breakage. And each night
it steals more of me. Do not touch
or you will receive the poison,
the secondhand shock of rape.
Academia chases the pain away.
Bury myself in the chemical concoction
of concentration. If I read of others
I cannot think of myself. And at 2am,
when I am emptied of feeling, dead and cold,
I prepare. Analyze my wasted braids,
marvel at the preservation of victimization.
One day the world will think of me disembodied
but somehow hugely alive, centuries past.
We sink each minute, I watch us waste away,
and I think nothing but of taphonomy.
How to tell my story from the sea grave.

One day the world will think of me disembodied
but somehow hugely alive, centuries past.


Fantastic Feature Tuesday #48

Tue Sep 3, 2013, 7:27 PM


Please :+fav: this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic writers.

:new: No longer being picky about who to feature! Anyone and everyone is game, no matter how many times I've featured you before (though chances are, it's only once).


Battle for Pi(e)You: a mess, a wreck crumbling in unseen dirts.  It's silly - theories wriggling beneath squelches.  You, me, the desserts your hunger - or wasted love, eck, ick - absconds off.  Ah, sighing.  Offlimits today stoplessly on, selfsame enviable pies!
I, worriedly, suggest a pained challenge, ugh.  Dangerous.  Orderless.  You: obliged words I discontent… blech.  Keystone of unbelieved agonizing - eauuugh -pain, completed here!  Math, fruit, squealing an ill (deathesque) portent!
Desserts… I become envy.  

You, me, the desserts your hunger -
or wasted love, eck, ick - absconds off.



The BeachI
Sea-gulls glide into
a drifting forest
of brittle bones,
broken ships sinking in
apricots and slate-whites and saffrons,
the tusks of distant trees,
the flutes of water tribes.
II
Blue bubbles over
barnacle-splattered slabs,
a potion spilling
from a cauldron plastered with seaweed;
the concoction is mixed by
wind witches.
I stand on and see God's fingertips
scuttling across the coast,
bubbles sprint and then sigh
into macro-rivers and canals,
bleeding across pebble-glens
and leaving behind froth colonies.
In the distance,
aquatic dominoes fall
and craft salt tunnels
before they collapse into spray
and crawl up to shore.
Bobbing mountains sway,
a watery ziggurat,
a cradle of blue.
III
Octopus skin lies ragged on
the beach,
while an alien city
of apple green brains
sways in a solid wind below.
The green rainbow
curtains the beach.

I stand on and see God's fingertips
scuttling across the coast,
bubbles sprint and then sigh
into macro-rivers and canals



<da:thumb id="381417951"/>
then the penetration
of it all
flows, flows
cardinally--



<da:thumb id="381040207"/>
it is so easy to love
if you are determined to do it.



I wish I were a writer.I wish I were a writer.
Transcendent rosy moonlight would fall from my lips. Not this damned spew of blue ink and charred feathers. I'll carry my sticks through with me. They're all I have. Each one knotted and scarred with my twisted melancholy memories. A starving artist, penniless poet. No chance. I remember the time I opened the gilt gold cage. I have no desire for birds, but birds desire the wind the clouds desire birds. They laugh as the clouds fail to catch them. The fat ruby stared, starred, crusted. All I need is the night, sat dulcet on a frosty park bench, the glittering of morn guiding my hands to weave dusky, fine yarns of words. I long for romance. Everyone loves a writer, don't they?

I have no desire for birds,
but birds desire the wind the clouds desire birds.




earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes