|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The Age of the Wasp.There is heavy noise
in the other room and my head
bounces full of heavy
heavy weighted things
that I wish I could tell
I know or knew. The building
feels flatter and flatter
beneath my tired shoes
and I release air with difficult
pushes out into the still gentle a/c that
tickles over my arms, a goodbye from fair
weather, a rattling doorknob. I kissed
you and then,
for a different goodbye lightly
brushed my hand on your face and neither
could have kept me warmer. I will always
be in the twilight even if the sun somehow stopped
the earth and returned me back
to June, to the hopping / hotel rooms and the / rippling island of sidewalks
and dirt paths. the secret green heart I heard shaking its
own trees against the sheet glass
only grew for a time of honeybees and its now
the age of the wasp.
I am stingers and fear in others
and myself. I die on the window
and the death at all points
afterward will need to be cleaned
Fragment 2conventional development of a memorial out of bland symbolism and a "contemporary" sensibility involving phallic steel work + endless dematerializing glass or untreated raw roman concrete like the effigy we were too self obsessed to set on fire we were saving for the long absent libido
SonarHonestly don't know
Where the Hell is
Our light house, stood up
On fallacies of rocky coasts
Awaiting night time liners.
We turn days, years over
Nights that swim thoughts
With wading tidepools
And deep ends oceans old,
Unspecific. Past points
In existence where photons whir
To silhouette Earth's tumbling
Light houses stood up like pins
At lane ends, each of us
Soon ricocheted, collapsed into
Honestly don't know
Where the light house
We eyed with curious fear
A serpent more afraid and prostrate
Than us, than its cobra raise
Or rattle might entail, a tower made
Derelict by global position
The Elderly.cover the elderly in flowers
and go ahead and give them their architecture
their hollowed fluted columns covered in vine
ivy vines and corinthian florets and vegetal
give them doors. closing and opening at their focus
and at their "remember the opening of
the memorial highway?" how they could now
borrow suzie's husband's pickup any old saturday
and be there in half the time
to the endless heaven of open marketplace
can buy anything there
in a peace of mind haven treehouse in the blood
jungles spilt nectar and flies all about
just let the elderly have the joy
infants get coming in
with comfy strollers and
expectant children. with colors
marketed to them and a shower thrown
when the date is set to celebrate
the going out, the deathday
it was not planned, but it was in course
so let the abandoned asphalt fill its cracks
with lemongrass and resilient roots
sing joy to every pillar in its rise or its fall
the presence marked until the marker's overgrown
You Asked for Even More.Here is all I can give
Today the blank hedge of clouds
Pitter-pattered out of the room
On toddler's sticky feet--
Did you ever guess how incomplete
The breathless moments of ardor
Might be?? I labored over the black
Cauldron of love & being
In crimson love with pretending
Do the flags flap around like so?
Or was I without comparison,
Hindered by my blood & sexless
Indecision, my steps not sobered
Not drunk enough yet
Not to say regret out loud
Or to scrape the bottom of the trash
Bag for rancid sicknasty leftovers
Of the clouds prickling behind our kissing
Necks, stretched and strained
Out for the next guillotine raindrop
Lost our heads out of respect
For the cage fight we held between us
The crowds battering the bars
Pouting, snotty lovechildren.
Trajectory EchoesI cannot lose what I have lost,
I’m forced to apple bob
For sinking fruit, dense in vinegar.
Deeper in the barrel,
Until I’m the bullet that makes it clean through.
I still land on the floor,
Ripple my skin until it is metal
Screaming in the night time
Into and back out of the sweaty adolescent basements below.
I won’t make it to the phone
Until I’m retconned
Until a different sentence rattles chains in my chest
Until momentum, until no more
I will always slide toward the valley
In the winter, and feel it coming
Right around Halloween. The horror
Of one year ago: me, being happy and in love
While over one million rotten apples sit in the grass,
The rectangular orchard. The columns and rows.
The perfect was lost well before I had it,
Before it left ribcages and winked
Like the hero through the first set of unlocked lips.
Credits roll and I fiddle with plotholes
To calm the richter of my (I once thought)
.just try not to
that memory, that one
wolf that calls
for the rest
of the pack;
you'll spend all
with them inside
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocating
on the stars of my past
like horny gentlemen
do with innocent looking
wolfgirls at 3am- their bite
fearless as thieves.
My lilac lungs are breathing in
dust and the tears of Saturn’s
while the rest of me -
well, shes warm off wine
and poems left
gossamer loveyou will love a woman
who uses the word
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
they say his bark is worse than his bitethe lime green telephone
demands to be answered,
its bell-biting voice
a wolf in sheep's clothing.
she picks up, yawning,
invisible to prying payphone eyes
in her blurred lipstick
and last night's dress.
"who's there?" she asks,
and the man just laughs
because he knows she's already
caught in his fishing net,
the poor discounted mermaid
flopping in the moonlight.
she can't remember the last time
her mother called, or the last time
she rode a bike.
one day her childhood got fed up
with her wicked ways and left
without a trace.
for some reason, she keeps looking for it,
the convict joyriding down a nostalgic road
closed off by orange cones.
the phone call lasts thirty seconds
at the most.
she bites her lip and stretches,
slips into stilettos by the bed.
her joints creak as she stands,
warning her, telling her
she's too old
to be breaking her own heart like this.
she pretends she doesn't hear,
purse noisy with quarters.
outside, a mosquito
hits the bug zapper
she shakes her h
crooked kissesAn old man sits at a bus stop,
his ragged clothes soaked
through to his creaky bones.
He grips his beggars cup
tightly, but instead of coins it
overflows with rain water.
Passersby pass by without
giving a second glance, brief
cases clenched in swinging
hands, Bluetooth plugged into
their ears. A little girl dressed
in pink polka dots prances
to his side. Her mouth moves
quickly and his takes time to
form words. She giggles,
drops coins into his cup, and
gives him a kiss on the cheek.
He laughs a crooked grin.
CatatoniaShe scrawls life line tallies on her wrists in scars
to mark each year passed
and haunts bars looking for the love of strangers.
she finds malt whiskey and vermouth; strange mouths to kiss
she tips them back the way a lover might tip her chinny chin
She whispers slurs and looks into the abyss of gin.
He inhales death with the smoky kisses of cigarettes
injects life paraphrasing echoes of love with hypodermics to keep
the hypothermia of loneliness back
but it creeps and creeps
a slow paralysis
under the windowsill, rain falling bleak on the pane to drip
into her veins
soft dark over the threshold of the doorway to her soul
writing ink into her shadow, there -
melting behind the lidded stupor stare of dreamless minds
it stirs and wakes,
invisible monsters sleeping in her chest
they bare their teeth and bleed
pain naked in the light of morning
ugly and beautiful in the honesty of strangers unable to turn
from a car crash in the dusk.
walking in darkness
searching for touch.
Cigarrete Smokesometimes you want to
kill the world inside you,
but you can't
because you're too worried
because you can't see the consequences
because you don't like modifications
because you can't make up
well you're excused,
excused from giving a damn,
for the cigarette lighter
(I'm too tired to stomp out the ashes
and blow the smoke away).
leash.I am a homosexual with three pet dogs.
One came home with my mom from work;
the front leg already broken and amputated.
A mystery shih-tzu, large for her breed,
now hops through my house many years later
arthritis, cataracts, and rotten teeth.
She may never die, may she never die;
her crooked spine and visible ribs
may make her whine and snore,
but every guest loves her novelty.
The next is mine, a beagle from
a large puppy mill, who did not know
grass, ceiling fans, or people.
She craves love almost as much as food.
Spayed too soon she filled out fatter
than her hips could always move.
She cannot jump into my high bed.
She is soft and my hands will pet at her
as she trembles to lick my skin.
She is patient and kind, but steals
socks and the other dogs' food;
What favorites for good behavior often do.
The last followed me home on a sweaty summer hike.
Her breed was unknown, exotic and new to me
with shining black fur and golden eyes blinking.
I closed my front door on her that d
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More