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. Each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!
PAPERsoft spouted tears-
airplane wisps, sodden note,
walk the writ maze,
burnished letters glowing-
smoke and mirrors
letter at last
-cold token of an end-
blurred ink and mind
sheets of comfort recoil
-words of demise
mine from afar,
swirling into your heart
life isn't soft paper;
why should we be?
harmonizei'm built on broken bones and metronomes
her alto trills, his hollow tones
a second verse she'll never know
so sweet and sweet and down we go
the cords stretch and scratch but never match
the off beat tears he'll surely catch
the droplets lead a song of their own
recorded on heartstrings, a song i know
his words they ring and the hurt they bring
it's been so long but i choose to sing
and maybe he'll hear the music we make
( it's been so long but i choose to break. )
tu fui ego erisif you wish we could play connect the dots
with my skin. run your fingers across type-
writer ribbons, mar shady silk with prints.
drift freckle to freckle, make port wine stains.
black out these eyes; accent the dusty blue.
ink doesn't fade as expected. viscid,
oozing into the crevices to stay.
burning maps, enjoying being unfound.
choosing to camouflage. bruise twisted joints.
i have covered up everything for you
making sure that the game board does not change.
walking slowly and washing carefully.
as not to move the pieces from their place.
Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Inside we mourned, but outside we laughed about how silly this all was. As if the way he wore his hair determined his newfound spite. As if the pea coat was a rite of passage, a ticket to better things.
But then Breakfast Blend, Peppermint, and Earl Grey followed, sweeping locks of hair beneath the rug and buttoning four years inside their pea coats. (It
shooting at the stars.he won my heart at a carnival
while i held the moon by a string.
a thousand miles high and we're
still on the ground, catching dreams
between our fingernails.
we held hands on a carousel
while shooting at the stars. trading
minds for a little while, and my god
his was beautiful.
introslamI guess I'm tired of stanzas and rhyming couplets and they way everything has to flow like birds in the sky when they're going south. So I'm going south. My plan is to build a house out of paragraphs, bricks and cement don't matter when you can capitalize and punctuate. I want to write letters to people I don't know and then weave each fond goodbye into a roof. I want to make your ears pause when you think there should be pauses, I want to make your lips think of every single letter until you can't feel your hands. I fell in love with a boy who had paper joints and a broken back, and i wished that loving people was like duct tape and blu-tack and sticky tape and glue and elastic bands but really it's just like a feeling and it can't heal anything except other feelings.
A Parody?Good poetry, it seems,
Lists of facts.
I love you.
I despise you.
I eat an orange, peeled from
north to south, every Sunday.
Lists of randomness.
An eagle, broken in its nest.
A doll with its arms torn off.
The sound of a man swallowing,
Who has just murdered a cat.
Good poetry, is seems,
Ribs, white, cradling a bloody heart
Like a new-born child.
Love, composed of
The final day of
burning in his eyes.
I shall insert a caesura
(or should it be a caesarean?)
in which the child died
in which the mother reacted
as a 1950s heroine,
with emotion choked inside.
I should end with
1. Your fingers
a mattress on the floor and stained
white sheets, stained fingers from
ink and coffee and grease. Newspapers
in the afternoon, always cigarette
smoke curling off our tongues and
hovering in the corners of the ceiling.
Balcony with a dirty view of city
alive, car horns and grunge. The inside
of my skull is lined with liquor bottles
and i'm always barefoot in only a
shirt, waiting to be fucked. Your
eyes are bleary above the constant
scratchy stubble on tight-skinned
cheeks, a cough, a laugh, blasting
rock from the 80s on a broken green
stereo, bad tv shows at 3 AM, too much
wet tongue kissing and
mildew on the crumbling bathroom tiles.
Celloyou delicately rub my strings
imagining the music within
tighter, looser, finding the perfect sound
that will make me sing
I feel your bow dance across me
releasing my soul
soft at first, ever so light
I'm dazzled by your touch
the need for more aches my body
and stiffens my wood
I resonate all that is you
as you fulfill my demand
you play me harder and faster
making such noise
as would make the gods jealous !
you've made me a fountain of notes
bursting in the air,
waxing and waning with your motion
I feel your every thought
as you pour yourself into me
the last note echoes for a moment longer
as you finish your song and cradle me in your arms