Fantastic Feature Tuesday #33

Gallery l Journal l Watch Me l Note Me

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!



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Edit: Edit, Erase, Deletei am a dancer in my bedroom when
no one can see
me flowing so awkwardly, a
liquid down the drain,      
sliding down the sink  
for a second
(at least)
until tomorrow when
i am a skyscraper
that you can walk in and out of
and not notice on the side of the street,
and should i disappear,
I’m sure you’d find a new building
to walk in and out of
40 hours a week
every week.
i miss the feeling, boldly meek--
my infatuation with dreaming
(of dreaming of you)
is rapidly shifting
into more of the same,
playing cyclical games. Kitsune WeddingAnd skyscrapers fold so easily, after all;
I'll put one in my pocket, to be warm like a croissant,
tasted gently with the coffee sweet and bitter on our tongues
Under sunshowers I stay inside
I watch the trees sway giddy, drunk with glinting happenings,
and I trace your picture with a thumb, a picture in my copper heart,
a picture of your smile and threads of red within your beard
How we grew: you fit your ears now, a handsome man. I have
some grace, at least. When you tell me I'm not ugly
I believe it
Smile, then. Thunderstorms deserve to be lauded,
a peace to enfold you gently, when you arrive, and I will watch. You
are the fortune in our lives, bound by blood to me, with scars when I laughed through tears,
and the days you cried like you always cry, in honesty. There will
be gold-leaf-sunshine when you come, fresh on our skin, and the smell of a new earth
and home. counting to infinityi.
Capitalization is bad for days like this. When the sky is grey, who needs grammar? Grammar is rules and rules are a box, a great glass box with no seams—seamless, faultless, perfect, unbreakable—like rules are supposed to be. Rules are what kill you. The words are like light; they bounce away from the glass and are lost.
But if you are content without the words then rules are what save you, because too far from that box and you are not safe anymore; you will be shot at, you are a target, and you will never run fast enough to hide from sound like bullets. The box is a cage and a shield. Both at once, like halves of a circle—impossible, unfathomable, like truth always is.
ii.
Sound travels at three hundred and forty-three meters per second, faster than you can throw something even as small as a memory.
To think that I can speak, one word, and before it has left my tongue behind it is already a lifetime away, too far to reach, too far to take back and c
:thumb334690583: :thumb325034656: Sally Discovers the OceanGo pander to your energy whore,
That universe you so adore
Her vast lightless rips and tears
Like beads of sweat she keeps and wears
My body is full with the absence of you
Filled to the brim with lack, "Adieu,
Ne pas m'aider," she'll sing at the end
A gliding temptress of hydrogen
After she goes, push just a bit
You time and space and soul bandit
Push into the next jewelled vacuum's door
Live çe vie et mort once more
mad houseyou are a moan that
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
on me,
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
and i hear someone wail
in the darkness, as godforsaken
as the howl of a dog who has discovered
its owner dead.
i vomit and it comes out black
as ink.
my heart is the ugliest part
of me, but no one will ever see...
and these walls,
oh sometimes these walls scream so loud. romancea thousand feet high
airplanes kiss
people die scrapbooksi.
stand there in the behind the scenes
     (scrapbooked with cinema tape and
      half hearted love letters that really weren't
      love letters at all
      feeling as if it's one step and you're lost)
watch in fascination of all the things that can mesh
bendbuildbreak
into this picturesque scene from something
rather like (a black and white movie;
that first date where she stood on the pier;
blue and how it goes with a person - complimenting them a
work
creation of art) -
rather like something, you suppose, because realization hits you and it says
(holding me-)
describing things is much too hard these (hard) days.
realize
one step and you're gone
off the cliff but you've been gone for a long long time
and this time there are no encores
no repeats
no second (thirdfourthfifth) chances.
:thumb352083066: Comatose RendevousThe narrow spaces
Between typewritten letters
Are just large enough
To lay in.
You and I
Are crafters of flesh and bone;
Our skins,
Made of weathered canvas
And stitched together with
Sweet dreams on lonely nights.
Blood falls from your lips,
Staining those folded
Paper butterflies
You make so well;
I like to catch them
When they fall,
And toss them back into the air.
There are
Tiny,
Crimson-colored pieces of you
Splattered about the walls
And the inside
Of my mouth.
(You taste of melancholy,
And masked, uneasy lullabies.)
I would happily
Bear the red smears
Of your steady fingertips
If you run out of
Tattered parchment.
Allow me to
Spread my ashes
Over your ribs and
In the hollow of your throat;
You would look beautiful
Covered in faerie-tales
Made of soot.
I will sing to you as we write
A few more,
Peaceful endings
Across our
Broken bodies-
Beds of coal,
Disguised in silks,
Promise dirty wordsmiths breath
In the wake of
Sleepless morns
And restless eves.
I can see myself
Blowing melo

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