|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
a secret oath.a secret oath.
"madness need not be all breakdown; it may also be
break-through. it is potential liberation and renewal
as well as enslavement and existential death."
- r. d. laing
imagine your bone structure collapsing in on itself, birthday sticks in the mudpie of your flesh, and eyes like glass, blue as all the oceans and glinting as the light curves through them, odd little chips of endless third dimension. imagine as i do, these separate features animated. an awkward caricature of limbs at impossible bends and intersections, levitating in the space between worlds where your half-body splinters, the shards of your bones are swallowed by the earth and i wake to the familiar sense of a gaping, yawning loss.
sundays run fluidly into one another until suddenly each moment becomes a disjointed struggle between will and sympathy and some sort of hybrid, a collaboration in soulache of disappointment, anger and the guilt that drags itself after, a crawling heavy sense on th
caro levarecaro levare.
i think of you in carnivals, a tale of teenage existentialism in a
city by the sea. celestial star-empire stretched calm above gaudy
circus lights, wrong in their stillness, where you are at once a storm
and a silence. suspended in a ferris cart above its lawless city you
speak of fire, lionboy, of freedom, in your mind an oppressed radical
aching for a dream to come to pass. in secret, you were born to do
this, inspire and impact and fight your tiny wars with words. and even
the cosmos itself stops for you, we stare as one, in awe of the lionboy
shifting earth's momentum as her people sleep below, unseeing.
you beneath the sun, you are a caged hurricane of rage under
your skin, a thin façade of cool apathy. catatonic schizophrenic on
your back in the grass and you see something hazy that escapes
me in the depths of blue, but i see the gears of epiphany finally
churning for you and for the first time it strikes me that we pass
these messages in s
-: there is only so much others can do to help you. you know this. don't you? you know. and yet you do nothing. you change nothing. in the pit of your eternally whirring mind. all that ties me to you is guilt. i don't understand why you keep coming here, to us, to me.
+: the night children, my father.
-: i don't understand. you.
+: he who comes after, beelzebub, all things to all men. i cannot tell her i am her brother. she deserves to be happy.
-: you do not think she'll be happy to find her long lost sibling, whom she has been searching for her entire lifetime, whom she left behind the ice for? you don't think she will be happy?
+: i am black inside as coal. i have died and yet, i am not dead. how could she be happy to know her only living family member is a convicted felon, outcasted? i will care for her from a distance and she need never know. it's the way i want it. an act of love.
-: love, by its nature, desires a
in the mountains, i feel free.in the mountains, there i feel free.
Q: i think, if i do this, there will be nothing left of me.
X: it's the push and pull, your gears will grind and scratch together but everything equates in the end.
Q: it's not quite so easy, not as simple as you make it sound.
X: except it is. there is one key difference between you and i:
you wallow, sorrow spat you out.
i believe happiness, not achievement, is the measure of success.
Q: i am dead to me.
X: you know, that's not how the play begins.
Q: i think you think i have lost all sense of direction in my life, and so you drag me around all sorts of detours keeping your eyes peeled as potatoes for ways in which i can be used for your benefit.
and you think i am unaware.
that's not it. that's not it at all. i am not oblivious to you and your motives, i just stopped carrying myself long before we met.
i am not oblivious.
i am dead to me.
Q: there will always be questio
nemo sine vitio est.nemo sine vitio est.
and alaskan winters cloak themselves around
my bare and boney shoulders no matter
where my current location happens to be.
the skies are going black at just four thirty in the afternoon
and sometimes it can be another's past you cannot escape,
their curse may be yours just as your sorrow can be theirs.
he was a boy who found loneliness in all the corners of
town, crooked little side streets where suns of summer
could never quite penetrate the back walls and shadows
would stalk from end to end, he believed. cosmic shadows
that could be magick doctor know from some unexplored
foreign galaxy if only anyone would dare approach them.
secrets, from a life forgotten.
i forget sometimes that nobody is without fault, and this includes you
too. i guess i'm scared that you'll disappear if i don't make a conscious
effort to recall all the trivial and menial things about you.
so i compare you to australia the earth deity
or paris the city of love
or new y
father faust.father faust.
you are listening to the heartbeat of the child you left alone.
and you may not know it, may
find yourself in the car down some
deserted street at eleven pm
with speakers singing soft to you
but you are hearing my heart beating
from someplace in the north where
we do not speak and seldom love. and
you may refuse to speak of me or my
latest life, how far i could have come in
just three short months, but you think and
you hear and i beat along inside your chest
in the quiet car moments or right before
you fall asleep.
feel the cold up here in the nighttime.
i bear your name and maybe your eyes too,
your disease and your disillusionment but aside
from these we are poles apart, we are strangers
we are each a bundle of terrible mistakes and
misconceptions and fatal flaws and we fight
those few fleeting times we exchange more than
maybe three utterances between us.
night terror.night terror.
a crash course on human nature:
discontentment, lust, destruction.
we rinse and repeat.
i knew a soul like it was my own, once.
we were in perfect sync throughout our
years of discord. shells, we were, buried
in sands the colour of ash and we found
eachother through sheer coincidence.
one and the same, two rings of silver
worn over time until there was no shine
left within us. we would walk our paths
of dust for days
[never running. our lives were chasing
a short space behind, but we never ran]
until there was no grey dust left to walk
on. carried eachother when our feet bled
and lay down in the smashed glass shards
at the end of our almost-desolate journey.
i loved him, once.
more powerful and encompassing than any
love in all of history, but along the way his
jigsaw pieces got misplaced and he was
left with no eyes to see and no mouth to
speak. a portrait never to be regained.
a trained iris will see all,
just so long as you know what to look for.
you may see as
my sweet, my songless.my sweet, my songless. my caged bird.
phaedra has strayed from the path of good sense.
i know a place in which there are no questions
no tongues to speak, no eyes to explore
and in its dark centre there is a puzzle that will not be reassembled.
there is a spiderweb stretching from east to west in which i lie
and knowledge paralysed.
i am the ugly duckling of truth
(read as: i have trouble expressing myself
things i know but cannot prove,
an endless spray of saltwater against the gaping holes in my soulmeetsflesh.)
in order to get an image, you must know sympathy
another way of listening
on the sea, the sea.
in order to listen, we must learn patience.
oliver, the sun won't rise for another three hours or more and you
have me rapt until she wakes the treebranches and windowpanes.
do you have the time to teach me love?
i am not so well versed, but i've heard it means the following things:
staying cocooned in the bedsheets until noon has passed.
notes on the fridge door reminding me to use the opened milk.
letting me think you forgot my birthday,
and surprising me three days later with lindor chocolates
and a pack of morinaga sweets
and a night curled up on the couch with the foreign movies i love so much.
talking honestly about our histories.
forgiving my past mistakes.
worrying for me every single appointment with my therapist,
knowing that it wears me down talking about these things for hours on end
and running your fingers through my hair when i flop next to you with the weight of sorrow clutching around my shoulders.
admitting you've been wrong and trying your hardest to change your ways
and apologising from the ve
asked me why i
love you, and
i was lost for
words– which doesn't often happen
to a writer– because i couldn't
the way you look
smile. it's something
that a hidden part of me lives
for; that one tooth
out of line, that
one dimple on the
of your face.
i couldn't tell her
how i often lie alone in a big bed and
miss the way you smell, the
way you b r e a t h e.
and, oh, i couldn't tell her
how i had never
wanted someone there
with me to
pull me out of the
dark– you taught me that someone
doesn't have to
understand your pain; they just
be there to try and
so i couldn't say
why– i just smiled and said that
it doesn't matter
why, because, for
once, i have fallen in love with a
O Teleftaios Stratiotis
Ο Τελευταίος Στρατιώτης
Ο κόσμος είχε αλλάξει για πάντα.
Κι όμως, μετά απ'όλα αυτά,
οι δυο στρατηγοί
ο ένας απέναντι στον άλλον,
το ίδιο αλλαζονικά όπως πριν,
σαν να μην είχε συμβεί ποτέ
cosmic lattesmall town diner jukebox
casts 90's pop songs on a loop
across creaking hardwood
and paisley-print cushions;
there's a mustard stain
on the waitress's checkerboard apron,
a run in her hose
and fingernail polish flaking like dandruff
into the burly corner booth truck driver's
scrambled egg whites and hash, hold the salt.
if this were wednesday, the perky brunette
would be disheveled, sobbing
into her on-again off-again's embroidered handkerchief
while your food waits, forgotten, in the window...
but it's thursday and they've made up
and his breath is only slightly tainted by his addictions.
instead, she flits a smirk at you
over the pages of the novel
you hope you're hiding well behind
and fills your cup to sloshing
free of charge.
when you add creamer,
it looks like the universe
opening to you.
lone wolf is wholesome
as his body is pressed,
pierced, and perforated.
rib cage curls like fingers
as crimson nail polish
paint the tips.
nailed to the wall like game,
sanguine saliva drips
from its snarling lips.
eyes shut tight
as its frame is contorted
like abstract art,
pen his heart in ink
or permanent marker.
knees skinned like a child
his body idle as the soul vibrates
while his inners regurgitate,
morbidity slivers down his legs
white fur stains read by death
as it plays necromancer.
the pack may not walk with you
but the moon hums with the owl orchestra.
your grey specks toying with ivory fur
kissed by red cartilage edges.
fade away as your puzzle
finally becomes wholesome
9.12in a place where
grow, i stole shadows
from a jar of
pen ink. the stars
me; i had to forgive
and with high eyes and a
fire-tongue, the kind you get from
smoking too many
came from the ground and
take them back– but
my fists grew
tight. i fought him like
hell; and he, too
has yet to
you feed raw meat to lions,
i feed raw me to liars-
the crowds line-in like
they’re ready to witness
me eat crow feet like i’m lyin’,
but these eyes are tired
of watching the vultures
masquerade as innocent crows
when the flock is called a murder.
and these crimes are unaccounted for
because we don’t realize what they’re killing
are the lion-hearted and eating the carcass,
leaving souls to float in the desert
while frames play bowls to a heartless dessert.
deserted bones tumbling like weeds
in the dead glass,
and lightning doesn’t strike
in the same place twice,
so don’t expect quartz here.
the law of living has no courts here
and karma is no judge
because there are no sentences
being placed on the objects
that subject you to the adjective of their
their words unnecessary,
excessive when the circle has begun.
wing disks spinning, dizzying,
dazzling, dying down
through dirt tolls
because we all have to pay
Writer's AuraWhat would you say if I told you that paper had an aura?
The interesting thing about it is that I’m telling half the truth.
Paper can only have an aura when it’s in someone’s hands
And being recited by the very person that wrote it.
The aura of the paper comes from the person, strengthening the sheet’s purpose.
Strengthening the person.
But how, you might ask?
How can a person give a flimsy object like paper an aura?
I have done so several times, so I shall tell you.
The people-those like me-that can do this are called Writers.
Every word-every letter-from a Writer’s hand that falls onto the paper…
It has its own life.
Losing one letter can make an entire story unravel.
Make a poem’s meaning drop.
Make a sheet of paper…meaningless.
And by extension, for that moment, the Writer’s life means nothing.
A small mistake, however, isn’t as large a mockery to us as a blank, white sheet of paper.
Both it and the Writer cry out, begging
AnswersI know I am the one that is trying to find answers to all these questions But I am scared
I do not know what the answer is going to be
Am I going to be sad, hurt, pissed, scared
I do not know
At this moment I just know that I am tired of wondering and want answers to my life
A StoryLovely features rest
In a crystalized tomb
Adorned in roaming ivy
Locked in silver moonlight
Approaches handsome figure
With weary leather boots
Having rode his way there
Searching for treasures to loot
Coming to the crossroads
The two strangers meet
One forever locked in
Curse's dreamless sleep
Figure draws near
Pearlescent glass gleams
Stretching out his hand
He sees the beauty skin-deep
Instead of acting as a story
A fairytale kept in time
The figure walks away
Deciding corpses should be kept
Out of the sunlight
Windsor BlueWindsor Blue
I am erasing you, and I am happy.
These roads could be consuming our souls and
would be none the wiser.
I slept on the hard shoulder, in the grass and you
drove ahead, flesh and bone and heart beating against ribs between lungs that work like paper swans
litter the tables and floors in a hotel 300 miles away
in the middle of a place where I've been left before.
There is no other set of co-ordinates on the face of this earth that looks exactly like this
exactly like you as you connect the cables and
let me sleep 'cause you know my energy levels are running low and it's
one hell of a drive, socks full of holes that you press to the pedal to
accelerate this heap of metal and plastic and tacky fabric pulling apart at the seams.
"I can't help you," consonants drifting in and out of the smoke from your mouth, "if you won't help yourself."
I am erasing you, and I am lost between here and Montauk and Idaho and home is calling,
or would be if I could catch it but
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
Keep in Touch!
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