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dear teen meDear Sarah,
Remember that time you tried to top yourself by hiding under the covers? That was hilarious. I remember you tugging at the edges of the blanket and praying, without a shred of scientific evidence, that the lack of oxygen would be enough to kill you. You sat under there for something like fifteen minutes before you gave up and went to make a sandwich. But while you were under there, choking a little on your pillow because you never washed your sheets, I remember you thought someone was watching. Someone who understood your suffering. Someone who understood you.
Kid, that was me. And I've got two words for you: man up. Life can get a whole lot harder than this. Before too much longer, it's going to. And by the time you get to my age, you're going to be glad.
Why were you
shoppingGod, I found you at a wet market in China
between a trussed up duck and some heavy hunk
of fat that was going cheap, stinking with salt and flies;
you were lying on your side, a landscape in fists and thighs
and not one of them there could moan the way you could,
that peevish bloated howl. I looked at you, slick jowls
amongst the rinds and ropes and toads, and thought
about the shops in San Francisco:
rows of jars, neat shelves and every aisle
mopped hourly, a pert teenager standing to scan
your bottles and bottles of wine--I thought about you
loitering in the toothpaste section, breathing in the gloss
and promise of it, while the long hours before close sidled
aside: beating out a pale refrain on the milk cartons,
half-drunk, arms out, shouting away the darkness
like that one toad in a tub who wouldn't run.
the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:
take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pages
out of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaper
until the last of the phrases are gone; shake it
until it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.
I will give you new words.
cloudburstinggirl, go slowly in the yellow evening:
old man thunder's got a grumble on
downtown and the hot drops of rain
are ready falling with a whip-smack,
a whistle horn of storms singing low.
old man trouble's gonna blunder on
despite your twirling skirts; despite
your pretty hands the flowing spits
of wind will wander on, that steady
summer song will blurt a sharp note
and bring the showers down again.
but you, I hear you hear the growl
and match it, sing the crackle-hum
and dance the water down as well
as any purple sky, and maybe you
could catch it sleeping. get it loud
and stalk the streets, girl, shake it
out of hiding; let your totems drop
where the worry stops and gyrate,
spin, clap, slap your shins and sing
for sun to come and melt the haze.
ahead is unashamed; behind is just
an empty brolly tottering in the rain.
from long poollonely bells
and the twist
of a fairground morning;
you call and I list
all warning and frill;
and the twist
of a morning,
Naxi and still.
All About AsymptoteGeorge Bernard Shaw once said: "If you have an apple and I have an apple and we exchange apples then you and I will still each have one apple. But if you have an idea and I have an idea and we exchange those ideas, then each of us will have two ideas." Asymptote Journal embodies this sentiment, battling bravely against the two tyrannies of distance and every beautiful and irritatingly different language on this planet to bring you the best literature in the world. They've just celebrated their second anniversary with events in Barcelona, Beijing, Berlin, Chicago, Islamabad, New York, Singapore, and Taipei--and, seeing as how deviantART is practically a separate country in its own right, I thought I'd bring the party here too.
So why have I come out of the woodwork like a bookworm that lost its way to spout at you, spit and glittering eyes, about this great magazine? Well, you may not know that one of the past heroes of t
The Village Bicycle Project
The Village Bicycle Project
Pet projects. Groups, prompts, contests, news serials. We all have them, whether it be one, or two, or ten if we've got a premium membership and a largesse of time. We start them for various reasons: to make a change for the better, to provide an opportunity that wasn't there before, or simply to make our mark on this wide and diverse community. Of course, it wasn't always like this. When I was first kicking around deviantART, News was still in beta (heck, beta-testing was still in beta) and Groups were nothing more than a glint in the ninja milkman's eye. What few projects there were were run out of the forums, individual journals or dedicated accounts, while the vast majority of contests came directly from the Gallery Directors. But now, thanks to these new features, anyone can be a community volunteer. You might not get the hat or the tacit permission to fling poop or rend innocents with your dinosaur teeth, but you are a community volu
where are you
and tum fat, the sum
of grain? did the rain come
slapping at your itchy head
in jealous drops and scare you
once again? tell me, as you wiggle
by the piggles snorting in the barn,
tell me, little yarn and button-eyes:
did the crows come and pick at you
like mutton, scratch your fat bum,
stomp you with twitchy claws
and hollow out your brain?
and when they'd finished
chomping it, were you
just the same?
clark kentSilver eyeshadow and a blush; smack lips
and sway hips. The nail file's on overtime
and the glitter's out sick. Snap bra strap,
winking at the mirror; stars could get lost
in this cleavage, and these cups could be
flowerpots for a healthy crop of petunias
or baskets for hot air balloons, if I chose.
Tonight I'm juxtaposing crepe with Lycra;
all those stubborn parts sedated, yielding
like cats before the leap. Skirt the colour
and size of a blackbird's wing and knickers
tight enough to make me sing. Peep show
smile; big hairstyle. Just the faintest smell
of wine. And I close the phone booth door
without a single sound:
tonight I don't fear Kryptonite.
I'm going on the town.
To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady grey
you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.
i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astringent, fine-boned cheeks seeking nothing less than perfection. your tiger soul knows your worth, seductive and mysterious; in the autumn, you remind me of leaves ripe with color, falling from my desperate touch: a distant lover.
you are the sun's daughter birthed by soil, a celestial soothing who blooms
Tramps like usYou can’t take me far enough away.
I can’t stop thinking about leaving. I can’t stop trying to pull my feet up by the roots, trying to rip up the radicles I’ve been setting down since birth. I can’t breathe in these small towns, suffocating with friendly smiles, church bells, and the last fumes of exhaust from the bus transit hub, but these whitewall tires are flat. Those long drives with your feet on the dashboard always end in damp motels with thin blankets and half-hearted kisses.
We’re following the birds because they know where they’re going – they’re going somewhere warm. They’re going somewhere happier. They’re going somewhere because they don’t have any choice, because instinct won’t let them be still, because what’s the fucking point of wings if they don’t fly?
There’s poetry in parallel lines and perpendicular horizons lying across the highway like an asymptote. When there’s
Why Peter is not a poet.Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Cole:
1. His eyebrows are the most expressive arches his body has to offer.
2. He's so terrified that his very expressive eyebrows are threatening to take up permanent residence in his hairline.
3. He does not have suicidal tendencies, and later understands--for the sake of his mother's heart and Officer Roy's bladder control--that his strategies for
love is coming home--i don't write about God.
i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.
and who else are you going to blame?
it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.
it's not easy to believe.
believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's letting go and falling back with your eyes closed, your heart in your throat because you can't see whether there's anyone waiting to catch you. and what if you hit the ground? what if there are no hands waiting to embrace you? what if there's nobody waiting at the beginning, when you finally turn around ready to try again; what if there's
The Importance of Gold FlecksHereditary.
I learned the meaning of the word when I was young on a summer afternoon. Too hot to play outside, I was sitting with my dad on our blue couch with the small white polka dot fabric. In retrospect, it was probably a tacky piece of furniture, but love is unconditional when you are small, and I sure did love that couch. I remember my dad watching Winnie the Pooh with me every Saturday morning on its spotted cushions. That day, though, we had a conversation about eyes that I never forgot, and even then, its deeper meaning was not lost on me.
"Daddy, your eyes are green like a cat's," I said.
He smiled, and told me that mine were also green, but unlike his, they changed colors. "Sometimes they are blue. Your eyes were so blue when you were a baby! Big and blue.... Someti
Five Seasons (Alternate) There was this moment, early last May, when I could have glanced up from the book I was reading at the breakfast table.
I could look out my window and see you standing on my lawn, this waif in a windbreaker grinning at a daydream you're probably too old for. I could bring you an umbrella. I could invite you in for coffee, and we could lose the whole day debating questionable Scrabble plays. We could take to the streets after dark and try to find an all-night diner that will feed us both for less than fifteen dollars. I could fall in love with you.
But I don't.
You go home with nothing but a story about how springtime leaves you feeling lonely. Your roommate blows off a dinner date to take you out for drinks. You send a Chardonnay up to the stage between sets and the singer takes you home.
The new girl at work works up the nerve to ask me out.
I don't have a reason to say no.
Writing FairytalesI told him, "I think I'll write a book."
He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."
"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."
"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story," he continued, "And you'll smirk like you always do because you know the answer but no one else has a clue."
I laughed, "Everyone will cry when they read my book, because it's the saddest story that's ever been told. Everyone will cry but you and I won't."
"We can't cry. It's your book, and I can't cry for you. You can't cry for yourself either, it's ba
Hardback TextbooksIn retrospect, Gender Studies wasn't the best class for a non-confrontational student. But it was too late to drop now; there was no way she'd get her deposit back. She pretended to study her textbook very hard, trying to filter out the class discussion going on around her. Why did the professor have to use discussion circles?
"I'm just saying, if a chick is, you know, wearing fishnets and a halter top, mini-skirt halfway up her knee, slinking around all skanky, you can't really blame a guy. She obviously wants it - if she looks like she wants it "
The book snapped shut. That was enough. She gripped the textbook in one hand and threw it with all the strength she could muster at the obnoxious misogynist sitting directly across from her.
Her aim was good right in the nose, and hard enough to knock him out of the chair. He grappled about on the ground, trying to hold his now bleeding nose and push himself off the ground at the same time.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?!"
the Chandler's Around the WayThe hose slipped out again. Chan cursed, and shoved it back into the incision he'd made, adjusted his mask, and bent over the pump. He yanked the cord, and the pump started to life with a cough of biodiesel. It bounced on the sand as it grumbled away. Chan kept one hand on it and held the hose in place with the other.
If fucking Fathers would spend the bone on a new one, I wouldn't be all night at this, Chan grumbled. He ached for a smoke, but didn't have the hands to spare. Plenty of hands here, he thought as he glanced at the riverbank. Some of them even had a pulse.
"Hey," he said to whoever was closest.
It was a sunbather. A walker who drew enough bone to slot time on the beach without having to fight for it. She had each arm draped around a man, both of them tattooed in the same place with the same sigil. Chan was jealous. Someday he'd have his own numbers, but they'd be women. All of them. He was old-fashioned like that.
The walker answered without raising her sungl
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More