*disrhythmic

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lovesong for sailorboy

lovesong for sailorboy

by *disrhythmic, Feb 21, 2013, 9:00:11 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Read aloud and explained (somewhat) here.

i have always loved words as you love the sea

but i have grown to hate

prepositions

because i have always had words

about you

with you

to you--

but never for you.

words for everything

except you.

but i have words for this, so

i'll take them

one by one.

about.

the ocean was your first love and

i could always see it in your eyes.

most would call them blue--just

blue

like a swell over a sandbar

blue like the spring sky over a poppy field.

but i don't think anyone

got as close as i did and they're not blue

not shorebound and

safe--

they're gray like the steelbellied sea itself

like the horizon at dawn as it

encircles you

hems you into an impossibly vast canvas

like a demarcation line

or a promise.

one you always chased.

with.

maybe i had a streak of oceanic wilderness in me

something a little beautiful

and a little dangerous

(maybe i'm flattering myself)

but you found your landlegs for a while--

your shorelegs

at least--

and there were blue-black nights with yellow-white curtains

fluttering in the salt-scented land breeze

and the low liquid wash of your voice

and the way you took from me the words you didn't have

and i stole from you the feelings

i never understood.

to.

when you were with me i listened and listened and when you left

i wrote.

seagulls and shorebirds

masts lit on holy fire

waves and tides but mostly

letters letters letters--

handwritten and unsent because you left

for the only place my words

could not reach.

for.

my sailorboy

as much as i'd like to think otherwise

my veins hold iron

not ink.

and maybe i can't bleed out volumes for you

but darling

you will always be

the dedication.

Random from Literature

OmegaIn the hollow of my hand, I hold eternity

Cupped between dicebox bones and meatslab muscles,
Piano-string tendons and chopstick phalanges,
Shimmering black mercury, meltwater-cold, pools in my palm.

Here, standing at the rough seam of the world
Feet in the ocean, waves breaking on my knees
I hold a microcosm of realities

Here, where shore meets sea, where sky meets land
Where the stars flicker out, one by one,
Leaving empty night in their wake

And darkness, seeping in through pores and mouth and ears and eyes,
Curls tight and scarring round our bones
Leaving curlicues of black burnmarks,
Like ink from a demented writer's pen,Omega by *GentlemanAnachronism

#723time stops and suddenly everything begins
to sublimate.

it's finally over!

the world is now a great big commercial for
auto-insurance and banking,
you've never seen smiles like this;
and we're all of us leaving together like
funny neighborhood friends

and gracious gravity, so weary
loosens its ancient grip;

and the final moment is a gift:

we ascend as a vast polychrome fleet
up, through an atmosphere that seems to shimmer
and sing;

up, surrounded by all manner of things:
books and cars
newspapers, television sets, balloons,
and the finest works of art;
tigers, lions, bear#723 by =holyolyoly

wide glacier eyeswhat if I told you
my heart was made of ice.
what if you knew
I'd been here
for years

and years,

thawing,
freezing,
moving too slowly to see.
no one can know the things I've seen
with my wide glacier eyes.
don't you know how lonely it is
when you're not here?wide glacier eyes by ~AmazingGlideh

dear emmalove is a person.

he is a man with cocoa skin, writes with weak hands and a strong mind, tuned ears and speaks in a placid voice. it sounds of ivory, smells of coffee, and is music in a silent world with unmade beds and the typing of keys, the quiet hum of black and white re-runs speaking to the crook of his back.

he is a boy with fine, chapped lips and a thin cigarette between the thin cracks of his teeth, a being seen in dimmed lights and close things under stars, the ripple of cars passing by, the tapping of cooling engines. lit, green eyes under night sky hair with a starry shine.

she is a girl with fireflies to dawn skin, a burned nosdear emma by =back-bones

AD - Drown"I've had this dream before," he says, "you see?"
Right now you don't fucking give a shit. Right now, you're six stories up and shoved over the railing, his hand on your shirt and his knuckles digging into your collarbone and the wind ripping through your hair, screaming to drag you down.
"It was just like this. Just like it, really. My hand on your neck and you hanging out there and me about to push you off and watch you splatter below. Just like this."
"Fuck you, let me go"--
"Shut up!" he snaps, shakes you and you're grabbing at his arm and his fingers but you can't pry them off aAD - Drown by =Laitma

you enter and close the door behind you by =vvolatile

Treasured In SilenceI might know a girl who would have been better unborn.

She lives in the flat beside mine, and we cross paths about twice each week in our building's lift on the way to our respective lives. I don't know where that was for her though, and have never brought myself to even hazard a guess, seeing she never seems very ready to go and accomplish much of anything. She has wispy hair and isn't gorgeous. She carries a book—a new one each time—, and I never bother to ask about it, although they all seem very nice and well-loved; as if she would either have had a lot or nothing at all to say if asked about them, since some books are meant toTreasured In Silence by ~MisoBunny

The Flower of HopeIt is perhaps one of the quintessential good deeds that one must experience at least once in their lifetime. As the kind of person who believes that 'what goes around, comes around', I'd always counted my experiences and actions with their due weight in karma.
So one fine sunny day, quite a few years ago, as I was about to cross a big roaring traffic cursed road,I found myself beside a tiny wisp of an elderly lady. Clad in a simple white saree which stated that she was a widow, she was standing there beside me with a frazzled look on her face.
As I spotted a pause in the rush of the traffic, the old woman along with me put a foot out in the venture of crossing the road, but were rudely scared back to our spot on the divider by a speeding car.
Mind you... it is a sorry state of affairs one gets to see on average Indian roads - the lack of traffic signals and blissfully careless pedestrians.
By this time the traffic sergeant who was on duty suddenly appeared on the scene. OThe Flower of Hope by *tanya3286

Let go ControlPiper honey, play me a song
full of hangnails and heartache
and a promise broken on every note
that walks away, to leave me wanting

Caterpillar sweetheart, show me your wings
those spines of snow and silk not yet so full
of lust and colour, too vibrant that the masses
beg in awe, for the relief in locked doors.

Lover darling, teach me to dance
with powerful strokes and tender tips of
fingers glancing and dancing and teasing
lead by the lips of an angel, a taste
and a smile, of saccharine love,

that hangs Adam for being a man.Let go Control by ~Khiri-543

Coin 27i helped you cut
your hair the night before
music was playing and
none of your windows
had curtains
they let in the timid air
unhindered
your hair fell
stiff and silver
little needles piled
in the bathroom sinkCoin 27 by ~PelicanDeath

Beautiful words.

Browse Collection

Featured

nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--
feversongs,
songs of boiling thoughts
and broken muscles.
their lullabyes.
they sneak so quiet, and
somehow,
you can't quite
dream
anymore.nightmare by *disrhythmic

Raven Does Not Give a Single Crap by *disrhythmic

I'm a Grandma! by *disrhythmic

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.with thanks to frost by *disrhythmic

rapid eye movementi am jealous
of my birdwinged half-sister.
later, birdwinged reapers--black,
looming quiet in every doorway. they
followed me from my hemmed-in waking terror
to the free reign of my subconscious.
far better suited to their purposes.
thunderstorms like supernovae out at sea, and
empty little boats tossed on emptier shores.
it rains, and the sea advances,
cresting the saguaros. someone is lost.
i don't know who. i don't know why i
care so much.
cliffs and skyscrapers. tightropes. sometimes
i am afraid of heights, and sometimes
afraid for those who are not.
the skinny girl
with the long dark hair is
always worth dying for.
sex. i am in turn
bemused, and indifferent, and bored, and
frustrated, more often than anything.
i like that i still remember how it felt to hug my dog,
right down to the cool wirecoat
and the warm fluff beneath,
and his immense
patience.
sometimes i wake up with misty
recollections and the overwhelming thought:
i wish it could be like this.
jungles with ancientrapid eye movement by *disrhythmic

sun worshipand we, the broken-winged disciples
thrum closer, closer--
seeking warmth on our dust-drenched backs,
and reflections,
and a landmark in the wide and open
dark.
we breathe,
together
(closer)--
moths among the fireflies.sun worship by *disrhythmic

Continually Surprised

I am continually surprised, humbled, and honored that people enjoy my writing. <3

My DDs

The WeekendI show up unannounced, like clockwork, and when you let me in, the act of opening the door flows smoothly into the act of pulling me against you. This is our weekend. We won't leave this room for another forty-eight hours.

You pull me over to the couch and ask about my week, and we trade stories of minor frustrations and negligible disappointments. The sun sets in a glory of flame, and our weekend officially begins.

Usually these things are unplanned—just a shapeless succession of quiet moments—but you've planned something this time. You have a horror movie. Popcorn for you. Crunchy fruit-shaped candy for me. "You know me too well

The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtains—the arithmetic of her childhood.

"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on each—sixty-four. I counted."

The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.

And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense

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You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

My DLDs

StringsNatalia was, blatantly, a pianist. It was impossible for her to have been anything else. She had this liquid grace about her that whispered sonatas and nocturnes and moody Beethoven. She'd sit at the piano in the college music room, rocking slowly back and forth and making a waltz rumble deep within its wooden body. Her fingers were long but her nails were always cut short so they wouldn't click against the keys, and her hair, long and smooth, was always pulled back into a big, soft braid.

"Daddy wanted me to be a concert pianist since the day I was born," she'd say in that gentle Eastern European accent of hers. I believed her. She could pl

SyracuseAnd the sea rolls on and on and on and I can hear your song calling to me across the waves and waves and waves. This boat is my coffin, the tides my pallbearers, the seagulls my mourners, and your song my requiem—and there are better, faster, simpler ways to die. I could be swallowed up, and down and down and down, with the merciless weight of the sea on my breastbone and the current throbbing in my ears and sinking and sinking and sinking with your song following me all

the

way

down.

And the sea rocks back and forth and back and forth, and the cabin tips and sways and there isn't enough heat in me to stave off the col

Moon Eye Fire Eye     Sit
he says to me, and I sit and feel very small.

     Let me tell you,
he says to me,
     how it happened.

     The creek dried up that summer and
     the crops gave their last shiver
     and bent down to the earth. And at night
     you could hear the leaves crawling down the creekbed
     like goddamn spiders along the rocks.

His face is half winter
pale and sparked with a milky eye like a moon
and half raw summer, twisted

ConversationAnd I've been telling you, you know, how heavy the sun feels and how it makes my muscles jump like a bird's wings as it flutters gently down on a windowsill. I still have those glass bottles on my mantle where the morning light hits them—still there, full of colored water and seashells. And maybe I'll tell you how they light up the ceiling in blue and green and pale yellow just like they always have, like nothing ever changed.

I smell you on the sea air, sometimes, when it rushes in past the thin white curtains you helped me hang. They still bounce with every gust like exuberant dogs. And I've been telling you how the salt has most assu

A Love Story in Four Actsi.
     I loved a blacksmith once, back when the sand still clogged up my soul. It was only far after that I began to love the desert too.
ii.
     Underneath the casual noise--glass on wood, heat-smothered conversation, worn cards slapped down in careful triumph--there was this low, thrumming quiet that wouldn't be broken. He spoke in sepia undertones. "We're getting out."
iii.
     Hot iron smells like hot blood, like blood that's been poured out under the white Arizona sun. It's something you don't forget easy, like the taste of whiskey or the plasma patterns left on your eyelids after watching fire all night. It sticks.
v.
      My childhood was fed on medical books, and I've got this pain right behind my eyes and I wonder if this is what it feels like being lobotomized. Of course the brain has no nerve endings, but the hurt has to manifest itself somewhere.

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

Legacy2:06 AM
At the first insistent buzz of his cellphone, Salem snapped to consciousness. At the second, his brain began firing again. He cut off the third with a tap to the screen and a sleep-raspy "Yeah?"
"It's October."
He didn't wait to hear more.
2:19 AM
Salem strode briskly through the endless corridors of the Underground, the night-dim halogens sending his shadow flickering eerily against the smooth concrete walls. He passed a few technicians on his way--just some nervous, doe-eyed longcoats who immediately stepped out of his way, regarding him with a mix of unabashed admiration and a healthy dose of fear. He was used to this. Salem had the musculature of a jungle cat: wiry, lithe, and deceptively understated.
Even so, it took a huge amount of concentration to keep his movements taut and controlled, to keep the wobble out of his step and the frantic thrumming of his heart contained and out of sight. There was no room for emotion here.
2:23 AM
He finally allowed

the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
than closed.
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
the numbers
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
and go
west.

you need to have a plan...so here's to
conventional wisdom.
1. relocate
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
3. sink
soul-deep into the water and
breathe.
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
i. poetry
ii. and other
selfish
pursuits.

three dogs in the churchyardThe chain link around the graveyard runs straight through an oak tree. The bark looks crippled where it passed through the wire--mutilated in a faint diamond pattern--but you can see around the edges where it's fusing together smooth again.
The kids with the distant eyes always come here to smoke. You've never seen eyes like that. Distant, but not glazed, like they're looking into eternity and watching the threads of livewire possibility arc and writhe before them. The embers at the ends of their smokes cast cherry-red reflections on their irises.
The top of the fence is buckling where it enters the tree. You wonder if they'll have to cut it loose if they ever take it down. You wonder how far the roots have crept.
You wonder why the kids with the forever eyes never stand, vulpine, by the churchyard with its stray dogs and subterranean hum of faith--of vulnerable hope. Maybe all the life drowns out the eternity.
On winter mornings, they exist only in the pinpricks of light from the ends

Webcam

LIFE.

by *disrhythmic, 4 days, 1 hour ago
Journals / Personal

Rather productive day, I must say. Gave the dog a bath, scrubbed her blanket, cleaned my room, moved my bed (and the dog) into my sister's room for the summer, moved a lawn chair INTO my room for lounging on, swooned over baby bunnies, and started to get reacquainted with my piano.

I never got the hang of sheet music, so everything I knew, I knew from muscle memory. It's slowly coming back. I want to figure out Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies again.

I don't s'pose any of y'all might have suggestions for songs I can play on five octaves? Google gave me nothing but snobbery.

16 Comments

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deviantID

*disrhythmic

disrhythmic

I write.

I have geographically dysfunctional bestfriendships.

I don't bite.

www.disrhythmic.tumblr.com

Interests

What's the best pet name?

27%

13 deviants said Sexy Bacon Panda Pie

25%

12 deviants said One-Leg Pete

13%

6 deviants said Love or lovie

13%

6 deviants said Something else! (Comment, then!)

10%

5 deviants said Babe/Baby/Babydoll/Babycakes

4%

2 deviants said Darlin'

2%

1 deviant said Sweetie or derivative (sweets, sweetness, sweetiepie, sweetcheeks...)

2%

1 deviant said Sugar

2%

1 deviant said Honey

2%

1 deviant said Muffin/Cupcake

37 comments Previous Polls

Comments

`IrrevocableFate 2 days ago Writer

Reply

*disrhythmic 6 hours ago

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~brighteyes25 6 days ago New member

I miiiiiiiss you. -puppy dog eyes-

Reply

*disrhythmic 6 days ago

I leave you alone for five seconds...

-tackles- LET ME LUFF YOU.

Reply

~brighteyes25 6 days ago New member

I CAN'T BE LEFT ALONE, YOU KNOW THIS.

I hate FB. D:

Reply

*disrhythmic 6 days ago

YOU POOR THING.

Me too. :/

Reply

~OwnedbyCow May 12, 2013 Student Digital Artist

"The intern rocked enthusiasm, lacked finesse."
HAHAHA ^_^ I love it. Good job.

Reply

*disrhythmic May 12, 2013

Hehehe, thanks!

Reply

~OwnedbyCow May 12, 2013 Student Digital Artist

You're welcome! You deserve it, your posted make me laugh so hard. Are you going to do this weeks Word Prompt?

Reply

*disrhythmic May 12, 2013

I'm gonna try! You?

By the way, many thanks for the watch.

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