Fantastic Feature Tuesday #36

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I have created a group for National Poetry Writing Month, so if you're participating, join NaPoWriMo!
:iconnapowrimo:

And now onto the features!


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


InkI wish I could inhale ink,
that it would infuse my fragile body
with the ichor of inspiration,
marking me as its own:
a beautiful child of the Muse
born to wield ink and pen
like a jagged sable sword;
with the ability
to sing truth and spin epics,
I would be the quintessence
of a writing-imbued soul
I wish the ebony liquid
of the poets and great storytellers of old
would seep its way into my veins,
cloaking my blood in thick shadow,
coloring my hair with dark secrets,
so that every glimpse of me
would echo with the whispers
of spider-webbed story
and lilting poetry,
every reflection of me shrieking
the screams of unuttered truth
my eyes would shine with dreams
full of wonder and glorious chaos,
whirling with the intricacies of humanity
and the conundrum of eternity,
the simple beauty of nature
and the unexpected depth in children,
the epics of ancient time
and the words of the new,
the complexity of emotion
and the raw surge of knowing
what life might mean
what else would control me bu
binaryI am so bewildered.
I write about this often, how I am
stuck between the fingernails of
zeros and ones,
and how the eulogies go
dim and gray when you want them to,
how the only death I can really mourn
is my own.
I want to find a frequency between
rows of numbers and your breath,
a rhythm in the product of a phosphorescent gasp
or how I once found vibrancy in a painting of
water lilies.
They change as you walk back and forth,
someone once explained to me.
the focus shifts.
far away, an elegant scene is painted in
reflections on water.
but when you get close, it is all brush-strokes and
turbulence and the dissonant symphony of
a hundred thousand points of light all meeting.
and this is how i realize I cannot be near you,
the texture of your paint reminds me how much is
yet to be converged, how many numbers beyond
the binary compose you,
how many things must orchestrate
your seemingly natural oblivion.
Drugdeath.Of too many things.  Of copper and of beast.
Of martians and tv.  Of the nice things you say.
They are sometimes too nice, too soft,
like gum that has been chewed too long
like a country it falls apart in the mouth.  
Of 20-foot waves that want to relocate to lungs, stop breathing,
stop everything else with its own solemn dance.
Of death, disease and diaries.  
Of the lame, of love, of lambs.  
Of the similarities  in the colors in our veins,
of the drugdance, daytime television.  
Of the color white  inside a mouth,
of the desert in your thirsty, pill-filled heart,
of the couch where you leave your smile and your smell.  
Of dramamine and dopamine, and the large mouths of rivers,
like gods.  
Of closets and all that they hold in:
repression and ghosts and the bodies of ghosts.
Of trampolines and degenerative discs.  
Of family time ruined with cocaine
or slamming bathroom door

it may be the wrong decision...ix. drive
loving you is a car crash.
and i'm not wearing my seat belt.
the quiet before the storm
and the speed before the crash
and the hand-shaped bruises on my back
were premonitions of our hate.
it's funny how the shattering of the windshield
reminds me of the first time we kissed.
then, too, i could swear i could see my life
flashing before my eyes.
the shards of glass embedded in my skin
felt like your nails in my back and
your teeth on my neck.
if i could go back in time,
i would step on the gas.
:thumb329979013:
OrangeWhen the planes hit the World Trade Center
on September 11th, 2001, I was sitting
in my grandparents' kitchen,
fluorescent lights flickering above
and the sweet smell of citrus wafting
from my hands. I was eating an orange, balancing
it between my fingers like a miniature world
that could come crashing down, catching
the drops that would fall if I squeezed
too hard. After the planes hit,
fire fighters attempted to catch
the people who jumped after their fluorescent
lights had exploded
out and the only brightness came
from the flames licking at the bones
of those already consumed, and the only
thing they could inhale were the ashes.
Sometimes I wonder if any of them were eating
an orange at 8:46 A.M. too. Maybe they had slept
in, hit the snooze one too many times
and the only thing they had time to grab
was an orange. Maybe
they weren’t eating an orange,
or even thinking about one,
but perhaps it was the last color
they saw as the blazing inferno engulfed them,
splintered in on it
unreasoned woeI did not turn to watch the storm
instead I placed pennies on my eyes
and heard flowers fight against the wind.
In regret I blacken, scorched like meat
and milk spewed on the street for midday sun.
I turn from blessed rings to float in
and out of almost forgotten sleep.
Its relief, like tulip tips, green
and piercing the snow, like sneakers
hanging from power lines, like my father
's voice, low.
slumpon the couch with a human trace
     he moans.
     sluggish in his
leaving. tired
but awake.
the summer tongue licks the steam
on his window, begging;
    but he showers
with the light off.


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wispy-blue's avatar
:+fav: i find it hard to choose which i liked most among these three:

binary, slump & a pile of bones.