Fantastic Feature Tuesday #56

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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.

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


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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