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my howls are silentI, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.
The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.
I see the most remarkable minds crippl
your song reminds me of swimmingslipping into the cool cerulean blue
unwrapping myself in this u n d e r w a t e r world
until I am mentally naked
beneath the liquid ceiling
my mask m e l t s away
sugar and spices and everything niceness
and all my pretendings drift apart, dissolve
I swallow the sound, and it swallows me whole. The church bells are echoing in my head, their clangs in my heart, shaking me, reaching into my thoughts and rendering me speechless. Your Lolita, your Rosita, a Maria. I want to be all of them for you. The idea frightens me, and the cold fingers of fear clamp around the beating organ beneath my breasts and squeeze, and again all words leave me. Years of ingrained love of tradition and devotion to conservatism beat against my brow, and the threat of discovery and migraines plague my mind. Moths pester me, tickling the walls of my stomach; and coals burn slowly beneath, Hell's Gate, II, simmering. I apply my cherry chapstick with shaking hands, tossing furtive glances towards my family, paranoid that I'll be discovered fraternizing with another potential lover yet again.
And discovery, this time, would prove fatal, lethal, to my stuttering heart, that bird named Moses dying in its birdcage, my ribcage.
Dear , Dear $@&&$@,
I am disgusted by my longing for you. It revolts me, repulses me. My craving for someone to openly feel affection for me transforms me into a twisted, hideous beast; a manipulative, whiny bitch; and a petty, simpering airhead. I despise myself. I detest what I've mutated into, this sick creature. You could have loved me once, but these rusted knives of sentences, covered in my blood and vomit, have warned you away. Beware: Keep fleeing.
For I long to be your little snowflake girl, your petite American muse. I want to bask in your so-white smiles, bathe in your dark and wild eyes. I adore your funny Anwar nose and your Ralph Lauren cologne. I want to be present, cheering you on, when you graduate in fifty days. I want to be standing there when you celebrate your doctor-ship, when you're holding your med school diploma in a de
no, pleaseI think, despite all the objections against love that I so boastfully proclaim, what I crave most is for someone to steal away my gaze, hold me softly by the shoulders, silence me, and tell me quite seriously that they love me.
oceanThe Ocean's tides flow and ebb like the moon's,
Waxing and waning, never sleeping, no,
Thinking they can tame her, foolish buffoons,
Tried to control her, she dealt the death blow.
Drowning in her fury, unwise sailors,
Thought they could rule her, break her, chain her,
Murdered with a vengeance, curse'd horrors,
Their corpses lost, no killer much crueler.
Volatile, barbaric in nature,
Deceptively sweet, secretly sour,
Seemingly benign, not one may conquer,
Poise'd to pounce, waiting to devour.
Violent, unrestrained creature this,
None can resist her luring, deadly kiss.
ClockThe grandfather clock's face turned down, sad. There must have been a bad moon. Time is an unhappy business, abstract, misunderstood. The clock had stood in the same spot for 200 turns around the Sun. And it never became more fun, than it had ever been. Clock remembered the families, the parents, the children, and also the childless, the unmarried, the loveless singles. He was good at remembering; it's what he was for. Happy times and sad times. Times. Time. What a sad business.
Lancelot Price 2014 July 26
Old Thoughts from New PeopleThere's sunlight on the empty road, but he supposes there isn't much to it, really: photons generated in the explosion of nuclear fusion, suddenly flying, an accident of fate to land here, at this moment, where his eyes had evolved to pick it up as visible light. It isn't fake, exactly, but that didn't mean it was real. He didn't think it meant much of anything.
He walked along the solid yellow line on the highway, occasionally putting his arms out as if he were balancing on something precarious, embracing a childlike desire to pretend that the world around him was more than it appeared to be.
He wore a jacket despite the summer air, and his poorly cut, short black hair stuck up in an unmanicured parody of the magazines that stuck out of the bag that hung off his shoulders. He seemed at peace with things, with the silence, with the sun. The road stretched on ahead and it stretched back, but for him, it may as well have not been there. He could have been walking into the ocean. It didn'
To Bruges You know, my mother always told me that I should learn how to play their game, how to just fit in. Not one of my strong suits, I always preferred to stand out. But in this I desired isolation, of sorts; I wanted to exist on the top of a staggered rock formation looming from the seething sea, I wanted to stand there and watch the sky swirl and devour the sun, I wanted to exist in an eye of a storm. It didn’t matter what storm, just a storm, so that, if I am bothered enough, I could eject myself from my momentary haven and out into the insanity of life. I snapped my head back into focus, the stairs, right.
With heavy feet and uneven gate, I managed my way up the spiraling steps, the pulsing red hue of crisis lights swallowing my face in crimson. My hair matted against the pounding rain, lungs aching from the trek, finally I found myself face to face with my door, a little slit of darkness from the peep-hole, the fading 315 hung s
SmallHave you ever felt small? Have you ever looked up at the giants, and realized how much the word "bug " describes you so perfectly?
Maybe it was when you saw the girls in the bathroom gossiping about God knows what. They didn't pay a lick of attention to you. You went about your small business while the giants talked about giants.
Possibly, you felt small when your alleged teammate mate the game winning goal for the hundreth time, and that very night you go home and punt that ball clear through the net, knowing those are the only goals you've ever made. Celebration dinner for the giant, another sleepless night of practice for the small.
My favorite is the giant in the family. Their fifth boyfriend just broke up with them, and the sixth is ringing up her phone right now. Ten guys asked her out today. You don't even know what another human being's lips feel like. Mom comes home and laughs with the giant about some little thing at work. The small puts on their headphones and waits for dinn
The JourneyThose first moments as you open the door, and you feel the warmth of the sun beating on your face, are when you begin to realize the journey ahead of you. The birds chirp, not out of joy, but out of pain, as the blistering heat makes them simmer and cook. You wipe the sweat from your brow and adjust your collar.
Those first moments as the subway doors open before you, and you feel the smoke and the black air swarm your lungs, are when you realize it's too late to go back. Your fellow passengers cough and sneeze and infect the air around you, and it's all you can do to take the handkerchief from your coat pocket and shield your mouth from breathing in the filthy toxins of this place. A blind man savors the black air and dances with his saxophone by an overturned hat filled with cash. You convince yourself that his music is in commemoration of your voyage. The doors close behind the last passenger as he scurries to the closest seat.
Those first moments as the subway doors close behind yo
Time and ChoiceThe clock's tick-tock was circular, as was the clock. The notion of time passing, going in circles and repeating cycles, in anticipation of the event – which is bound to happen, has already happened, and is in the process of happening now.
Standing at the crossroads, there's a different nightmare at the end of every road. The nightmare is unavoidable. Even going nowhere invokes its own different kind of nightmare; an unchoice is a choice in its own right.
It was time to choose, and all the dreamer could hear was the tick-tocking of the cyclical clock – a reminder of the unrelenting, unforgiving flow of time; he could stand still forever, but time would not. This was therefore impossible.
Looking left and right, and then straight ahead – even back where he'd come from – which way would it be? He procrastinated, anticipated the unknowable, and finally while gazing up into the clouds, he came to a decision.
Life is not limited. There may well be paths ready made an
Her bad seeds.The gardener had dark circles under her eyes.
She told me seeds need to be tucked away.
"you acknowledge the bad seed and each word is a drop of water that nurtures the rotted thing.
From there it grows from the pit of your stomach.
It branches out until it's filling your insides with the crunch of dead leaves, but this isn't all.
It grows into your now shaking fingertips and roots your weak legs into place.
The stem gets stronger, pushing against your insides until you can feel everything twist and knot in all the wrong ways.
Eventually it'll impale your heart. This is when it's too late to go back .
From here it won't need your help to sustain itself. The seed is now a parasite.
It won't feed on your blood. It needs you alive. Rather it'll feed on your colour.
With every spasm of that weak organ in your ribcage more colour will drain from your gaunt face. Your cheeks lose their glow and your smile loses it's luster.
It's still not done growing yet.
It edges up your raw asophogus, and
FFM 28: Re-CycleIt is 728 BC, and I have achieved the rank of trierarchus in the Roman Navy. The magistrate has given me leave to sail west across the deepest waters, and I have never felt so free or powerful. Then I see the enormous tentacles groping from the depths. The ship folds around us.
It’s 33 AD, and everything is ready for my business to start. I have acquired a junk ship, a crew, and a stock of spices. The Chang Jiang calls to me, and I answer so eagerly that I never even see the rockets coming when I collide with Gongsun Shu’s water barricade.
The year is 802, in the snake month. I have never set foot on a boat, and father won’t stand for it. War scares me, but I will go i viking to protect my honor. Marching toward his ship, my footing slips by the village well. Weighed down in armor, I plummet and…
The year is 2000 CE, and I am done. There’s too much
Quarrel“I really can’t believe you, you know? I can’t believe you would take my poems and then post them up on your gallery and- ARGH!”
“You’re poems are good though. And I already cre-“
“So?! Those poems are my heart and soul and you just shoved them into your gallery as if they were yours. They’re not. They are mine. …Sigh, I know you credited me and what broke the camel’s back was you not crediting the latest one you put up but…ugh. I can’t believe you.”
“You keep apologizing over and over, didn’t you say once that if you say it one too many times it would sound false?”
“Sound fake, yeah. S- …Yeah.
“Are you really sorry or are you just saying that condescendingly?”
“I actually am sor-“
“THEN WHY DO YOU KEEP PUTTING MY POEMS ONTO YOU’RE- …Ugh, right. You hate yellin
unanchorageWhen I write,
I slip into a damp nothingness, vaguely
and shuffling through a smoggy coma,
shedding the individuality
anchoring me to
It's an abandon of the consensual mind that
an escape in to the symmetrical mess of this planet.
I am not my own,
it is only here where I find
buried inbetween my lungs,
and my heart.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More