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Our Better DaysOur universe is the memory
of god in passing
She moved through
fat ass quivering
with an energy we might
on our better days
recognize as love
that, when translated
into physical property
These traces of history we detect
in the deep black memory of space
the subtle microwave vibrations
and quantum signatures
we trace across spreadsheets
smudging cheap ink with chubby thumbs
are all proof of her passing
her fragrance lingering in the room
long after she's gone away
This tenuous web of breath and bone
this slippery synchronization of motion and sound
are no more than the waves in her wake
the moraine of an ancient glacier
the path of god-in-passing
moving in the absentminded fury
of blind love and accidental creation
ConfessionIt is hard to speak out now
when so many believe the stories
and the grand exaggerations of my action
and my grudge against the gods
It is tough to move my tongue
against the weight of myth
stacked toward heaven in my image
but I must
I am not the hero you believe me to be
Nor am I justice or redemption
leading you out of darkness into understanding
torch of truth held proud and high
I am a thief
dirty hands and tangled hair
who stole through shadows and snatched the flame
because I was tired of being in the dark
Jacob and the Angel
ankles and elbows intertwined
breathing angry and labored
there was nothing graceful in their grappling
no beauty in their movement
just ugly knots of muscle
tensed and straining
beneath hairy, mottled flesh
mercifully disguised by the darkness
They lay together this way
each the others equal
until the stranger,
weary of his heavy flesh
(so different from the weight of wings),
took the others thigh and twisted
The sweaty silence was broken by a scream
but the injured man would not relent
He clutched the tired stranger close
and begged him for a blessing
Listening for Trains
Listening for Trains
Sitting in the darkness
listening for trains
there's nothing but the hum of the machines
and a melancholy lament
for the ghost of Tom Joad
A song composed
in the colors of bruise and bone
set to music played on strings
as long and clean as the tracks of trains
rolling through the late spring evening
too far away to hear
Talk of Snow
Talk of Snow
It's cold again
and there is talk of snow
The neighbor, come for her packages
stands chatting in the wind
more out of obligation than interest
I am only half out the door
wishing she would go away
so I can close the door to the cold
It seeps in through my skin as if
I am no more than a paper shell
a wasps' nest or a folded boat
It all seems
There is little money
and less food
and it's so damned hard to stay warm
I want for a place to rest
a place to settle for a moment and escape
to dream a little and forget
this bitter, haunting cold
No temple but this house
filled with the clutter
of two tired parents and one happy child
No scripture but these thoughts
jumbled and clumsy
on an otherwise empty Monday morning
No prayer but this movement
drawing my body gently
from the discomfort of its dormancy
No sound but this breathing
lying near the fire
resting in the emptiness I created
No bell but this pot lid
ringing as I lift it
to scoop cold oats into my bowl
I saw you
in the photograph of a friend
and fell in love
You are smoking cigarettes
wrists wrapped in bangles, neck draped
in delicate loops of metal and leather
It is clear from the angle
of your eyebrow and
the delicate tilt of your head
you do not care
what anyone thinks
It is a large part of your charm
My guess is you go to parties
in large houses
owned by the parents of friends
and small rented apartments
filled with smoke and lisping intellectuals
wobbling from the wine
You sit, ribbons in your hair
and smoke and drink
thinking it is better
than being alone
Out of the house, into the darkness
the snow is wet and sharp
and pricks a bit against the skin
Down the street, through the churchyard
across the freshly fallen snow
untrammeled by boots or shoes
I think of my footprints
a crude articulation of my trip
written on a sheet of common paper
Coming up through the alley
I hear a child's wail; plaintive, forsaken
desperate for something it cannot explain
Rounding the corner, there is something desolate
about the nearly empty parking
Snow falling in long, choppy lines through the yellow light
In and out again, clutching a kilo of penne
deciding which hand should bear the burden
of carrying the food and suffering in the cold
Back the way I came
head down into the wind
I spend most of the walk
looking for myself in the fallen snow
Leaving the stale warmth of a house that is two-thirds joy
there is an unexpected cry through a closed door as I go
and the stab of something that is at the heart of fatherhood
Around the corner I watch the butcher's man hacking away
at a piece of meat as thick as my leg
steel cleaver chewing at the red flesh
The butcher's face is pink against the rumpled white of his uniform
flushed despite the cold of the air through the open door
and the cold of the meat through his thick, chapped hands
Walking home through the cemetery
I admire the perfect sheet of white snow
laying across the top of the old stone crypt
and the slanting afternoon sunlight
painting a thin coat of honey over the snow
A quick duck into the residual warmth from the morning
a quick draught of binary brew and then back out into the cold
to recover wet laundry in a plastic bag, a wife and a child
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Evil or kind?Negativity makes me smile
My poses and laughter
Suit the best villains
But I care so much about my friends
About their emotions and well being
And I always cheer them up
Am I evil?
Am I kind?
Maybe a little bit of both...
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
death of a sweet sixteeni found my house on
the market the
other day -
- it was 2011 again,
but the sun had set
on my nights of terror
nose to the barstool and
two black eyes, a dish
towel caught in my throat.
i keep trying to find
pieces of myself that
no longer exist - a dead dog,
baby blue walls, whispered
it sold for six figures,
and i can only wish
that i could sell my pain
for that much, but no
one would be willing to buy
it, as i am it's sole host,
the only one who
one of these days i will
drive by that sad eyed
grey house before we are
gone for good, and i will set
up with my camera, snapping
photos of my whitewashed hurt.
and if i linger too long,
so be it, as i've spent so
many nights ruined,
scraped away like the stars
once stuck on my
the bank may own my house,
but it will never own my heart.
A Cup of TeaCome on in and
Take a seat,
Sit with me a while
What you are and
Where you're from
Have a cup of tea,
Stay a while
To learn about you,
To know you
Your pain and
I will listen
Reveal to me
Your origin and
I will accept you
For you are me
You are my demon,
A part of myself,
I will never reject you
Care for a second cup?
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
Blues Run the Game
There are no more mysteries tonight
and I don't give one good goddamn
There are no more secrets left to keep
no more whispers hidden under tongues
or Latin chanted sub rosa
in high-ceilinged rooms
thick with smoke and shadows
There are no more moments between men
silent except for handshakes
no quiet confusion between lovers
mistimed glance or fumbled caress
There are no mysteries tonight
no hunches or half-truths
no lies, rumors or omissions
no signal slowly separating into static
just the unrelenting light of truth
pulsing against my aching eyes
Dead Man's SwitchIn control, then not -
Sudden loss of grip.
Headlong to where?
Details lost, smudged, streaked.
Careening; no system of
No dead man's switch,
On a fast track -
With or without a god?
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