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Day 15 - SiltThere is a downward pull that begins slowly –
Forty years of fine red silt cease flowing through your veins
And settle like sedimentary rock.
Things, and you, begin to taste of copper.
Lavender mists condense as you walk out to fetch the paper
The kettle is whistling or the coffee roiling when you return to the kitchen.
Your lover is waiting, his beard and hair greying slightly:
Sometimes he still kisses you like he did when you were twenty three.
You start to spend your evenings in the ochre light
Of sloppily-painted sunsets which begin around the time the theme for Final Jeopardy fades out.
Coffee cups are washed, sinks drained.
Everything smells of earth and book pages with a hint of Pine-Sol.
The window is filled with the amber radiance of marigolds –he likes to garden,
While you are more careless, killing houseplants by neglect.
You promise to stop disassociating yourself, and to write less in the second person.
You get drunk less often and even jog once in a while.
Day 4 - QuietAutumn began and ended quickly
So now the sun sets early and I spend my evenings in the dark.
Today’s thoughts are quiet ones -
Where we love is where we live and die.
Day 3- North StarIt was dark when I left work today,
And I shivered as the wind slid around my bare legs.
(shouldn’t have worn a dress today, says the voice in my head.)
I try my best to ignore it. I always do.
I swear familiarly, angrily, when traffic is backed up at the bridge again –
This traffic congested tangled metal thing spanning the river
Like some kind of urban jungle gym.
But still it is the northern star of my commute and points the long way home.
I’m perched on a stool in his mother’s kitchen
With a mug of orange tea in my hands and a bowl of chicken soup with dumplings in front of me.
On the way home, my debit card is declined.
I try not to panic.
Day 2 - DetritusI squint my eyes as you kiss my freckled face
my sunstreaked hair out behind me like a banner
As I emerge from the lake with foam and seaweed clinging to my calves.
I make a face. You laugh.
Longing is a savory dish we must sit down to dine,
even as we cling together
in a tired knot with mouths that taste of lemonade and alcohol.
I whisper in your ear “I don’t want you to go.”
The night before we left a storm broke
with rain and thunder, and lightning webbed across the sky like lace.
I came to where you slept,
weaving myself into your arms.
This is the detritus of summer:
pearlescent driftwood grasped in hands worn down by sand.
Filling up our pockets with stones, memories.
A wall of tiny meaningful things we build to keep out the coming of the night.
There are no secrets here but many mysteries
And subtle, half-veiled truths waiting to be made known
Day 1- Cold HandsEveryone said a storm was coming but I did not prepare.
Perhaps I was too flippant or afraid to acknowledge?
Probably the latter –
Avoidance is my middle name.
The storm’s precursor:
Grey skies, and rain hissing its way up my windshield as the wipers, groaning,
Flung it away.
A low front settled into my chest midafternoon at the thought of leaving.
Now, I sit on the couch by the window, watching the rain fall
As the cold gradually seeps from my limbs and my fingers thaw slowly.
But isn’t a blanket a small comfort compared to you,
Immediate and present, mouth tasting of
Sour apple and blood?
Cemetery LaneDriving down Cemetery Lane
Steering wheel gripped tightly, top and bottom, taking sharp
As the radio host mourns the fate of Montana's coal industry.
We'd go behind the school with the Grecian columns
In a parking lot pooled with yellow streetlights, exploring
The darkness my mouth left on your neck.
Driving and breaking too fast
With the memory of the way each bend winds around itself
Like solemn ribbons around the tombstones.
Lying on a bed far from home
Pizza box kicked on the floor and the television flickering with the sound off.
I cannot forget the way your skin brushed mine.
MineThe past four years, I have been a nomad,
A snail, whose house is wherever her back is.
An hourglass constantly turned over and over, measuring
Time until I leave, time until I return.
I'm packing a bag with my toothbrush, my phone, and my fiancé's shirt to keep me warm
i won't be gone long, i only need a few days' worth of clothing.
Life doled out in miniscule increments like the vitamins I portion into plastic baggies
And forget to take when I am gone.
I've tired of living out of packed suitcases and half empty closets,
With a roof provided, but my heart somewhere else.
Filling out paperwork, what is my address?
When is the night where I can go to sleep and feel your arms around me,
Waking up to tangled limbs, tousled hair and no bed else to sleep in?
Tell me when I can put my bags away, throw out my arms and say
This is mine.
BrillianceI wasn't sure if I was falling asleep or drowning. Pastor Abilay had just reached the third point of this three-point outline and I was fading quickly. "The devil's 15 minutes," my father often called it. He would sit rigidly at the head of the dining room table after every Saturday dinner and warn us that just as the pastor reaches the place where Scripture is applied to our lives, we start to drift off due to the devil's influence. I always did, and it terrified me.
Pastor Abilay's sermons were an odd blend of clinical Calvinistic theology combined with the self-assured charisma of a leader whose word was law. His sermons always made me feel as if I were boxed in by walls of water and left me with a dead weight in my stomach. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he concluded the sermon and we moved on to the final singing. The presenter came to the front of the stage, hummed a few bars of the next Psalm, and we all began to sing. The song rolled in a rich four-part harmony tha
Come HomeCome Home
The leaves were just starting to fall as Alexander Bartel wheeled his bike out of the garage and left for work. They had been yellow and orange for a few weeks, but red veins had gradually taken over until today, when, at the hands of an incoming cold front, they began to fall like rain. The wind had awoken him early and when he woke up, so did his wife, who glared at him in the dim morning light and rolled back over. Breakfast had been instant oatmeal and instant coffee and half a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Grace liked pulp and he didn't, so they bought two separate half gallons every week. She was just waking up when he left for work but he made it out the door without her noticing.
On the whole, Grace was not very supportive. She acted as if she didn't believe him when he said he was going to work and had taken another job on the side for extra money. He always said he would help her achieve success as a writer but now she had taken the new job and rarely went to her
one track mindthey ask him what about the motorbikes
they ask him what about tossing spray paint cans
to bomb grand canyon
he says fuck you i just want to roll over.
the glue of eyelids and a fistful of cheerios.
rainbow smear on your hands they say.
you would tug at sky’s ponytail why don’t you go go go.
the subterraneans, the subhuman,
solar panel fetishists
scrounging morning dazzle or free passes through the neon
intravenous voodoocrowbar oceanus
a swarm of earthquakes circle
as i'm swimming through the syrup
inch by inch this
but all the pictures come out perfect
a fourteen hour dream
that's about to get sulfuric
steam and streaming
straight into the circuit
u put the blow up U in the i luv Uafter a short all inclusive on the surf face of the sun
ghost of closed down fetus set up shop in the rubber doll's phantom pregnancy
the pyrosome hegemonyretrobate;
there was no dust that night on the sea, awash
with quantum tongues and their spawned
gospel of platitudes
contretemps with live-wires,
but statistically shown to all be the same size
under the amplituhedron
Rubbish ImaginableUnder the bridges waking, there comes a call by all men baking, pleading:
“Please don’t go, can’t you see the break of day
slowly crunching our homes, crunching sighs,
crunching our own frilly highs?”
Smoke stops at the heart of dark horses, leaving behind a trail of beds.
Not too late, the crow marches on.
Circle me, circle you, one thing there he has to do.
Scorned by the flying tide, the wading wallow listlessly.
Trying by the Catholic cross, it’s all around the gaming fence.
Channel thee. Channel through. Channel all things false and true.
Lovely likeness shares no bounds with anything made by you.
Tougher than crystal carbon bombs and dynamite lipstick backdoor drops.
Laser beams catch golden halos on the rising mountain rise.
He won’t follow you down that trail, hiding out those hidden lies.
Like an angel back from work, I tried so hard to fly and fry.
moi, j'en sais rienLe monde est parti en avant
loin derrière l horizon embué au crépuscule des astres malades de lactose,
enfants du ciel. Le monde est parti
En avant, pelerins, peuples de mon esprit,
marcheurs de rêve
nous tâchons de rejoindre ses tours sombres,
sortis des tenèbres pour la première
fois. Le monde parti en avant,
sans que personne ne le suive
d'un nulle part à l'autre.
Drowns out the stars
Follow its path
A streetlight turning red
Reflect their vanity
Drowns out the stars
A streetlight flashes green
No mind, clear
Kill all the stars
The arrows point to the left
But the way is right
A streetlight turns to red
you're gonna love it out therei can see it now:
you painting across a sky littered with fireworks and light pollution
as if to save your life
wishing that this anywhere had never become that "somewhere" that you tried so hard to run from.
sit and celebrate the sound of broken glass
on the sweet day of your champagne birth
live the fantasies of perfection passed
in silent silhouettes
and loaded Russian roulettes
now i dare you not to move
and feel the weight of an atlas born
the son of a man who gave his life to hold the world
on his back, at that,
and after all these years he won't want a dime back.
i can hear it now:
the sound of you mumbling in your sleep
like it's all a bad dream
like what you wanted never came to be
more than you could hold.
you're gonna love it out there, i know.
PurgatoriosI have sat in the mouth of Satan and heard his words,
Tasted his fear.
You also were there and rushed headlong into the black hole.
The sand caught fire and we ran,
Naked, noble, slicked limbs and flashing eyes.
I rejoiced in my torment, and still I ran.
"Sorrow, not loathing has fixed itself so deep within my heart.
It will be long before it is stripped away."
Time slowed and we were forbidden to run.
They ran around us, but you grasped me from behind
And I could not kiss you.
Higher we climbed, past greedy and virtuous,
Lovers and killers and tyrants, all
I am not sure if lingered long in the place where sins are burned away,
What penance we made
Or if the time for making penance was long since passed.
But when we reached the peak of Purgatorios,
We drank of the river Lethe and forgot.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
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