|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyes
are still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,
and there's a softer curve to your waist
and freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,
and I think,
What have I missed?
You tell me about the weddings
the divorces. You tell me
about the babies
and the losses, and how last year
your dog died--easy, in his sleep--
and there is a hollow lack in you,
a space reserved for things that won't come back.
Long ago, was there a space like that
When did it collapse--when did it
fold in on itself
under the weight of things that matter more?
I tell you about Cambodia. I paint
the jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heat
of it into your lungs. I tell you
about the kids in Africa
and how the heat is different there--
belligerent and fierce.
I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,
and how much you would have hated Rome.
And I remember all the things I
can't tell you--all the things I don't hav
pyrite girlNote: Pretty please listen to the audio version for the full effect.
you noticed things
little things that came sneaking slyly in
smiling crooked like good children
with bad deeds freshly done.
of course you loved her all the same,
your little lighthouse among the tendrils of east coast fog
she tasted like mineral water
and you lived in soft, sweet depression
gazing out at a broken world from a tenth-story window
and breathing in the cigarette smoke.
your little pyrite girl
bright eyed and dark mouthed
a tiny dirty moon, dragged through the gray city snowmelt
and left to dry in the glare of rooftop suns
"who would live here?"--
musings from the tenth floor
and you knew the answer.
broken cities feed on broken souls
and even they need angels.
.:Sweet Everythings Two:.
jumping at the light, consumed, by *enigmaticsmile
#723, by =holyolyoly
I read and adored this so long ago,
and just found it again.
The Gold Watch, by ~Ja-mes
It starts with a bang and a snap
and pulls you along
for a breakneck ride.
sunshine streaming, by =HillsOfMyst
Soft and sweet
fifty shades of blackout, by ~flawedfairytale
Beauty from the ashes, perhaps?
Date a girl who draws, by ~Enn-Chan
There's so much heart here.
Tips for the Messy Writer, by `LiliWrites
Messy writers unite.
A Portrait of Suburbia, by *sydnerella
"Deb has a big gaping hole in her f
turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,
lying halfway underwater;
pouring your palladium hopes
down your hands
looking full of shale and broken glass
half lighting whiskey-paper on fire
with that sun tossing in your chest
and all of you rattling
in this thin-skinned pineapple percussion,
the things you're so very sure of, sweltering under
callouses, under sea-
a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera
twisting into your human frame;
but when i say something of protests
you break in,
with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,
how lucky how
lucky we are
to be alive
Blow Up The Sun"Blow Up The Sun"
At last I have accomplished the impossible
So glad I have relinquished the inevitable
Don't scamper trying to outrun the light
I have blown up the sun and all of its might
I blew it to bits, tiny fragments of stars
Scarring the skies from wherever you are
Tore it to shreds; an explosion so loud
Darkness is the aftermath of what will be found
No more heat to beat down on your fragile necks
No more sweat to wet your beautiful heads
The sun makes me angry, can't you tell by this rhyme?
Agitated and irritated and often very blind
I can get vitamins from the store that rests on my corner
And honor the moonlight from
all that hasn't happenedPretty please listen to the audio.
i want to remember
the rumbling piano baritones
high notes like hailstones--your hands
running soundless scales.
i want the summer seas
the vineyard overlook, the olive
trees and sunwarmed coasts.
we filled the empty pages
with whole notes and halftones,
oceans and lovesongs.
we lived, we live
inkstained and drowning
through nights thick with words
and days shot with sound.
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 curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-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
ShayI open the door and the apartment is dark and musty cold--that antiseptic not-lived-in kind cold. "Shay." I fumble for the light switch, then hang my keys on the hook with practiced finality. Door locked, backpack dropped, and I'm in the living room. "Shay." Nothing.
There's piles of assorted belongings everywhere: books resting on crumpled sweaters--a belt and a plush toy--empty picture frames on dusty shoeboxes--glass jars full of colored oil. It forms a trail, sharp-cornered and lazy, to the bedroom at the back, and that's where I find you sleeping belly-down on the floor.
I should wake you up and make you dinner because I'm sure you forgot to fix yourself anything, but for a minute I lean on the doorjamb and look at you. Your shirt hiked up a little bit around your narrow waist to small to hold up all but the skinniest of skinny jeans. You're always been thin, almost dangerously so, without seeming to try. Your hair curls in tendrils all over your shoulders, down your back, across
PilkunnussijaHere's what I think:
There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel li
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.
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."
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.
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.
lack of optionsIt rains, and you stand in the hall with the front door wide open, smoking and watching the slowly sodden carpet. I sit at the kitchen table contemplating death and all its cliches. Whenever I look at you you're always turned away, gazing out into the downpour. Reflections of the cigarette flame dance in the vast bloodshot whites of your eyes. Your shoes are soaked.
The dog sleeps on the mat by the stove. He is old and gray. I think about these things in the monosyllabic sentences that adorn books for children. See the dog. The dog is old. The dog is list-less and has dif-fi-cul-ty get-ting to his feet.
I get up. Stoop. Pat the dog. Turn the oven on to keep him warm. And you stand in the chill of the front door, smoking.
The carpet is gray, and grayer still where the rain has spattered onto it. The rain is gray. You are gray against the gray outdoors. The smoldering end of your cigarette is bright red and surrounded by a tiny sphere of light that weakens and collapses just befor
Meditations of a Girl Adrift :2:I was up with the sun. Before the morning mist had entirely burnt off I was down the cliff, across the rocks, and around the bend in the beach. A narrow strip of sand doubled almost back on itself, curving out of the way of a jutting promontory in the cliff. Tiny wind-hollowed caves offered refuge for the crabs I stirred up. Their legs, clacking all at once, sounded like a downpour of marbles.
Slowly--almost imperceptibly--the strip of sand widened out. I catfooted cautiously up and over an outcrop of the black rock, lungs screaming, and found myself in a cove. Arms of stone encircled a quiet bay and the pristine sand it lapped against. Smooth. Inviting. I kicked off my shoes and set a trail of footprints to the innermost point of the crescent of beach, where I sat in the early morning sun and watched the tide come in.
The light was so thick and warm that I was sure I inhaled some, feeling it pool somewhere in my insides with a strange sense of lifting. The sea snuck up on me and snuff
Meditations of a Girl Adrift :1:One muggy Tuesday afternoon, the day I beat my personal record of six spine-shaking coughing fits in one day, people told Mum that I was wilting under city smog and that she should take me to the sea. Concerned family members and neighbors of the inquisitively kind sort provided the finances, so Mum packed up the house--it didn't take long--and me along with it, and we set off for the coast.
We set up shop in a soft, quiet little cottage perched on the edge of the ocean, separated by a baby cliff still quietly dreaming of height. Rocks--big black ones, pitted and rough--tumbled themselves out into a small beach just below it, with a narrow strip curving around a bend and out of sight, stretching into unexplored territory.
The air was so clean. My lungs became sore almost immediately, as if, after being squeezed tightly for years, they'd been released. It was such a beautiful pain that the first day I didn't leave the rocky shore until the sun did. The next morning, I was decked by an o
lovesongif you've got the time, sweetheart,
i've got the love
and no one needs to know the whies
the whens are up to you of course
and we can be beautiful together
and if we happen to be tone-deaf, well
there are intervening seas, love, but we are oceans of ourselves,
and through tides and inlets and streams rushing headlong
from the peaks
to fall in veils and land catsoft
and tumble through the subterranea
collecting gold dust and all the
little particles the light has never seen
and somehow connecting
somewhere inside that hungering expanse
because you see, love
voicewhen I say
you can tell me anything
I mean that you can tell me anything
and I will hang tight on your words
follow the curve of them up and down
I will be the enraptured audience you
or never wanted
and I will cling to you
just to listen.
Keep in Touch!
`ChewedKandi has certainly gone out of her way to keep the vector community on the right path. Always making sure that her talents are infinitely scalable, Sharon has put her bezier curves to excellent use, and firmly anchored herself as an inspirational leader. We're absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for June 2013 to `ChewedKandi. Congratulations, Sharon! Read More