|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
the antics of love.
id like to think you broke my glasses to dull
the sharpness of these perpendicular horizons
i am sorry i stumbled through
(y)our disagreement into the wrong car
imagining the subway to ride upon
tibetan prayer wheels (yes my eyes
are that bad) i scrawled on
their tired skin and bumped
into several children on my way home
to apologize and say
union station is telling
god you still look beautiful
1945there was a time he bragged
immortality to be inherent
to his people that hubris
was insignificant (for god
was dead) that this world
did not belong to a people
our purpose was to swallow
dis-ease let them cast
lots for our wives heat
his chimney with our
bodies in the winter to
make him think they were
i could go on about horrors
he eats fernandoi.
the devil visits
and i am lured
to feed my soul
i am tempted to call myself
poet, trying to explain
the world without
for it is a wide-mouthed pot
and we are blind at its temple
we can see through this fog
from off our fathers flesh.
as kingdoms are procured,
we renounce our hopes
of power, proclaiming
of imperfection. falling
off the bony ridge,
we are shattered
by the shoulder
I shall give up the world
for an idea, swallow
the blackened sky and spit
out the sparrow planes
into the cloudless sea
I will build upon old Babel
with rust-bent ribs, climb
the obdurate steps to heaven
and turn my face away
Like children, they are tarnished
by the air of the world. Each day,
she scours its love like foul words
from their mouths to a sheen.
All her brass is bent and her silver
poured. I can only wear her children
upon my winded fingers, wishing
they were our own.
dove, i ami.
The ravens mutter over the squalid state
of the world, wallowing in forty nights' of an earth-
curdled rain. The swallows huddle by heaven-
battered walls. They speak
of puddles of land, bared
with the growth of clouds hanged
bodies collecting the wrath of God
in pale willowing wineskins.
I am thrown again to the moaning
jaws of impartial winds --
harsh and unforgiving. The ocean
is a desert of mankind's shallow
love, scattered with corpses, run amuck
with his warring hands, fallow amidst the filth
of time. I sore the sun receding
like pearl-born tides and I soar.
The moon traces the mountain's shoulder
blades, boulder-sharp against the wading
sky. Below, a weeping olive tree sprouts
with verdurous tears out of a skull
white as peace. Her roots embrace the remnants
of a mind. Upon them I perch, plucking
a branch, the echoes of hills in passion
rolling off the wing
The trees are unsettled, their limbs tossing in the violent tempest -- gauges for Natures wrath or love. The storm plays like a silent film as I sit in the cabin of my car. My old campus gym sits in the distance like a stolid mountain.
The world comes to life in stereo as I step out. Dashing down the side of the parking lot, my umbrella mimics the trees. Trying to avoid the rain, I notice an upturned creature on the wet pavement. I stoop to examine it. Its pale legs stick up like flags of resignation. People must think Im crazy, a university student examining some dead thing. He must be studying taxidermy.
Its a baby sparrow.
Its feathers are maturing over its soft pink underbelly, bunched into a mangy blanket by the rain. Its feet shiver in the wind. Dirt, pine needles, and assorted debris are stuck to its bo
a dirt-scraped child, stifled,
clocks his life on the sidewalk
with chalk. dinosaurs,
superman, wishes upon mooring
stars for a corvette
or providence for the poor.
breaks into the forest
a thousand saplings
choking in the cracks.
manhood approaches while
he waits for rain to shine
his windshield -- sun
only a wind
wears at his hardening cheeks
as the less fortunate
tug at his collar-
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It Saving...
occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More