|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
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.
Childish FearsChildish Fears
Doesn't it scare you that you're growing older, growing up? In days, months, years, you'll no longer be teenager. A fifth of your life will be over, and you'd be all grown up, stuffed in a suit with a tie around your neck, a briefcase in your hand and your whole life before you. Some people may think it appealing, but I don't.
I'm scared of leaving everything that's familiar behind.
I'm scared of having to fend for myself, for having to always be in control yet never really having any control.
But most of all, I'm afraid of being changed, of no longer being who I am.
No One Who Wanted to be SomeoneWhat did you want to be, Grandma? I wanted to be a veterinarian. Why are you not a veterinarian then, Grandma? Well, let me start from the beginning. That is what she said, before she told me her story of how she got to where she is now.
A farm, a large farm on a small island. A small island in the middle of the sound. That is where she grew up. On that farm where there were a lot of animals. There were sheep and cows and pigs and chickens and horses that she helped take care of. Those were the animals her father, my great grandfather, owned. But she also got to take care of the wild rabbits. There were many rabbits, and they were numerous. One could hunt rabbits all night, and not make a dent in the rabbit population on the island, she said. Her father would catch some, just enough for her and her friends to have over the long summer days. Helping the animals from their birth, living and being well taken care of, and nursing them back to health when they got sick, despite the fact tha
Dos frenos, dos alicientes ante el mismo conflicto«Era una idea sumamente atractiva, pero también infantil. El joven Scott, según decía, quería despertar de su "adormecimiento vital" desafiando las leyes de la cordura, actuando sin atender a razones. Ante una idea como esa, solo existen dos obstáculos: el freno del miedo o el freno de la desilusión; y dos alicientes: la ambición y la desesperación. La ambición entorpecida por el miedo es el conflicto antagónico que se desata en los que empiezan a vivir, en el sentido pleno de la palabra: aquellos que se atreven a despertar del sueño de la cotidianidad para lanzarse al mar bravo del mundo.
Mi conflicto era distinto: la desesperación como medio para escapar de la desilusión. Por un lado, la falta de motivación y la desgana echaban por tierra mis intentos de cambio; por otra parte, la desesperación causada por la rutina constante me instaba a romper con todas las cadenas. Pero e
The MarketEach morning the vendors arrive before dawn. As they set up their kiosks they hear the songbirds rub the sleep out of their eyes and start to sing groggily. As the sun rises over the horizon of the tiny African village, the pinks and purples that stain the sky lightly kiss the pyramids of fruits set up on squalid cardboard boxes. Mothers in long dresses and wrapped heads fill hand-woven wicker baskets with red peppers and green chiles, damp with morning dew. The forenoon fog, not yet burned away by the sleepy sun, twists and furls over saccharine apples and astringent grapefruits. As customers first arrive, those vendors unprepared engage in a furious boondoggle; some sew small swatches of perfunctory fabric together, or hastily place bruised fruits under tables, to make their products appear more lucrative.
Umbrellas striped with vivacious colors are set up, one by one, to shade the delicate products being sold. Behind the men and women that run the market, entire walls of jars, baske
Good Writers Make Bad WivesGood writers make bad wives
Who ever heard of a good wife having an opinion? Good wives are seen not heard. Same goes for good girls. It sounds crazy since we are decades passed the feminist movement and the world preaches equality, blacks, whites, men and women. Apparently what the world doesn’t preach is the unspoken rules wives and girlfriends, for that matter, abide by.
Seen not heard makes you remarkably attractive and to your man’s family desirable. Talk and share your opinions less than his mother does and you will be set.
I thought women like these went out I the last century. That the only reminisce of them were southern belles and the characters of books like The Silent Woman or The Good Wife. The women that never fully embrace that sort of life and either end up in unhappy marriages or with their heads cut off. The stupid ones who speak their minds in those books always end up headless.
That’s why the writers, politicians and women’s rights lead
Desert WorldAmid the throng and hubbub of city life, he saw the face of a young girl stand out. Hers was a friendly face, oddly serene given the time and place. She was garbed in the finest shades of blue and turquoise with accents and trims of cream and ebony black. How could he have never seen her before? Every morning for sixteen years he gazed upon the city's people and learned their routines. And yet, this girl was one person who was entirely unknown to him. Her grace and fluid movements spoke of summer oceans and dancing moons. The stars of far-off Rome and Aegypt flew within her deep eyes. In his mind's eye, he had catalogued the names and faces of everyone in the city. Was this girl new? Had he somehow never in sixteen years seen her? The notion was unthinkable to him. In a moment of passionate resolve, he took off down the stairs to try and meet her on the street before she vanished from his sight. She couldn't be hard to find; in a desert world of dull colors she stood out like a parrot
Come, have a drink.Come over here, dear. Reality is bleeding and all dreams are real. No, don't worry, it's quite alright. Come, sit with me and watch the wounds in the fabric of time and space grow deeper. Yes, of course they'll swallow all things, what did you expect? It's the entire universe. Did you think anyone could prevent it, reverse it? Did you think I could? Aw, poor little optimist. Really, though, it's quite alright.
Come. Sit. My cave is large and the fire burns against the cold rising from its ancient waters. Outside, there is thunder roaring across the vast deserts of insanity, but it's really pretty comfy in here. The cave is just an idea, of course, just a fantasy, but that is a somewhat unneccessary distinction these days.
Can you see it, over there? There is a fire blazing across the skies, every sky in every world. It's not so big now, don't worry. It's burning away the night just for a few moments before the neverending darkness starts. We won't be there to see it, of course. Do you
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.
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
Keep in Touch!