|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
girl on the bus Open sewage and cigarettes.
She stinks of smoke, stalks down the aisle and slides into her seat like a cat. She is dressed in contradictions; thick-soled pink leopard loafers covered in spikes juxtaposes against chestnut brown ballet bun. Her posture argues with her pea-buttoned coat and straight-legged blue jeans; she perches on the edge of her seat, back curved and legs crossed straight out in front of her. She forms a literal question mark. Que pasa? (I wonder if the spikes on her shoes dig into her ankles like that.)
The smell of menthol cigarettes wafts off of her in waves, an invisible cloud that dissipates into the air with every breath--Virginia Slims, maybe? They would suit her. Tiny hands grasping a long, bright blue cylinder. Hands that slide out of her pocket, tracing circles on an ipod classic. Round-round-round-click. An unknown song makes it's way out of the spinning hard drive, makes it's way through brightly soldered joi
all that glitters is not goldwhen i was in junior high, i use to stare out of my window during the quiet bits of night, everybody in their beds and not a sound in the air; even in a busy city
and sometimes i'd think; maybe i want to fall in love with a girl one day, just to see what it would be like
then the night wind would come and carry my whisper-sighs away into the trees, and i'd fall asleep on the sill dreaming of lakeside cottages and opalescent hues of odd colors
when we went to art school together, we shared a tiny dorm room with ornate iron bars on the window and a single bed that looked up on to a smoke-stained ceiling
an old bathroom that was beautiful once, dirty glass and pink marbled tiles; a cracked vanity mirror in a frame of tarnished silver
the only things we had in the world were suitcases full of cigarette butts, inks and paints, sheets of paper and canvases that we tried to splatter ourselves onto
fine white dresses give to us by our mothers and aunts, that were ruined by paint stains o
the wire peoplethe wire people came, in all their electrical glory and beauty in black screens filled with white flashes and white text
and beneath them and their screens, the grey city never sleeps because it's filled with the insomniacs and depressed , the whores and the lover all the same who take their love in both corners and tiny apartment beds
so then they wash it down with tequila and whiskey, the sleeping drinks that put you to bed with all the glory of forgotten humiliation and loneliness, and the wanderers that have lost their legs and forgot what it is to sleep out of reach of the world
and so the people of the city lie in quiet awareness, in all their melancholic sorrow and ethereal nostalgia, or maybe the crushing emptiness that slides into being with the exhausted sleep of insomniacs who have the black ringed bag eyes of those who yearn for the relief of sleep
flowers for eyesyou're an odd girl
because you stand with that awkward straight-backed shyness that 11 year old girls have, those little ones that haven't yet been cracked and beaten by the world
do you know them? they're the ones that still have white lilies for hearts, purple-magenta ladyslippers for eyes
and bright yellow daffodils woven into their hair that look like the trees in winter, snow covered, untouchable beauty
it's some kind of sweetness that everybody use to know, but one by one we forgot how to see it
how to laugh the same way that children do, after running on rolling greens early in the afternoon
and when they run back in through back doors as the sun begins to bleed orange, dripping wet and full of brilliant, extroverted smiles that only children remember how to offer
picked wildflowers that cover the table half forgotten, from the laughter drifting down the the stairs that accompany high voices, talking in stories and riddles unbeknownest to the tall people
there's no order to the
the moon and the oceanshe use to take me walking on the beach like we were in some kind of cheesy romance flick, but I loved it because it's just like they say it is with a bulging sun like a giant hand is pressing down on it, popping like an orange and spilling liquid fire over a gleaming ocean
and you had the moon in your eyes, bright and dancing and gentle all at the same time, in looks given with laughs and delight, with guilty pleasures hidden away in some white stuccoed villa for a night away from the world;the looks that gave with all her heart and yet none of herself
if you took the sea with all it's soothing rage and beauty and smooth imperfection, with it's folds and underwater unknowns; if you took that and made it into a woman, one with white skin like the moon and eyes that never stopped changing, that was her
there were dances in moonlight, of wild unnamed emotion and the kind of gaze one only sees in those with a wanderlust that is never satisfied;in those that can never stay tied
melancholy bluesthere's a cello being played, in the downstairs drawing room
it's slow and mournful; like the blues that my father use to put on tape
while him and my mother would dance around the room;
eyes deep and arms full of things and people they once were
they're never off step; but it's graceful and quiet and full of things
that once were sad, too-- like the music they dance to
the blues devil with it's melancholy and sadness and regret
it has a home here, too. with all our faults and cripples;
we are sleeping outside in pearl-white snow, where everything is dulled and cold and blurry
not because we have nowhere else to go, when the oppression of our own thoughts become too much
but because in the morning when it's quiet and everything is far away to tired, sleepy minds
the lover, prostitute, the homeless man-- we're all the same, then; out in the snow
the tape-player in the drawing room is crackling still, a little more then it use to
it's old, like everything else in this worn out world of m
quiet chaosyou once asked me why i stayed up so late;
why i tormented myself with the lack of sleep the next day
it's the exhaustion, see. it always gets me --
even though it's all the harder, eventually
i like the numbness and oblivion that comes with exhaustion
it gives me a legitimate excuse to evade my own reality
while the quiet chaos blocks out all my problems;
sometimes i don't even have to try because it does it for me
when you suddenly discover that you're sinking down and deep
all the way into that blessed quiet in the depths of your own mind
which means that it's you and you alone, and you can forget everything else
forget the voices that scream at your from in and out of your head
this, is finding yourself at 3 in the morning
without the hacking and coughing up blood
and the complexity of getting through the day
the farthest thing from anybody or anything
and so to answer your question, darling
it's because when the world is fast asleep,
and it's quiet.
concrete townswe're the ones with the hacking and stumbling words
googly eyes that stare stare and stare again
monsters that live in your mind diggin' deep into grey jelly
you don't need these thoughts, you don't need anything
liars and judgers and who the fuck are we to care--
there's a twisted beauty about how we walk down here
with our mumbles and tumbles and shuffling steps
your rhetoric and rose-prose won't help you here
only your tired eyes, grey/white/cloudy orbs
don't bother now, you naive little bastard
nobody cares--nobody can ; who the hell are you?
'cause we're all the same in this ash-grey town
intravenous mercury that breaks you down
bruises and tosses; screams on corrugated metal
rusted bones and oily black-tar blood
roll it up and take a hit, drag deep deep deep
dance on corners, dance in smoke/smog
cause we ain't gonna live long anyways
in this concrete town
no punctuationshe`s a liar. one that lies about everything and nothing and all the inbetweens at the same time, about everything from her pains and intimate aches of the heart to the things she`s done and seen, hear and been, lies about who she is and why
but she can`t stop and she doesn`t know why if only because telling the truth means she has to be who she is and can`t run away with parade masks filled with glitter and feathers.
the lies, the fibs and everything else come to her as easy as a fish to water and she doesn't know whether she`s despicable or hurt or sad or angry or what is it and maybe she doesn't want to
and she`s not a compulsive liar, because she knows when she lies and could probably tell the truth if she really wanted to and later at night while she lies in bed it makes her sick because sometimes the lines in her mind between truth and lies and dreams and sorrows become dangerously thin and she hates what it`s doing to herself and to everybody around her
she won`t tell anybody ab
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
My School Says I'm Worthless (sort of a rant)I'm a criminal because my values aren't their values
And I'm scum to say the least
Because I'm not on their list
Ones who have their lives set out
And drink from molten glory raining down from
School top balconies...
And I have myself left to blame for all the non-attempts
And truancies; the bleak distractions
That help me escape the inviolable test-score stares
Of disapproval that I attract from their
And they're forced to ask me 'Why?
Why are you still here?'
And I can barely say
That I'm afraid to leave.
That I know that no-one knows
Or what they want to be
But unlike those
I gave up
A while ago
And they can't tell me to my face that I'm a failure so they heavily imply
That my lacking presence
And even less impressive
Tendency for slacking off is evidence
That I am stupid and a fool and nothing more than such a waste of resources
And it's a disappointment
That I don't hold their ideals
VesselYour heart is a compass.
Broken, perhaps, but I know
It’s always searching for the North Star.
Which way will your beard point tonight?
DanielYou are vertebrae
reinforced with titanium
that does not make you the lesser -
You’ve got the weight of the world
on one shoulder
sometimes you trip because of it -
you’re still walking
and if things fused wrong
post or anterior
and if things fused out in the interior
your circuits live on
and if your thoughts get circular
or so do your moods
and your mind blanks and you forget -
you’re nervous but strong -
then I’ll remind you.
Because you give me
the backbone required
you’re my Atlas, so I lift my head,
you’re my axis, so I can face the future
because you are vertebrae
reinforced with titanium.
You’re my inner strength.
FallingFailure after failure
A life not worth living
Lost in my misery
Long gone are the good moments
I keep falling
Nothing can save me now
Gone my hopes are
Because He'sHe’s listening
Millions of them.
A flash of red
And a navy hat
No warning – now motionless
With skin turned to shadows.
rough linesi like to draw in circles and triangles
creation in blurred lines and incoherent scribbles
straight lines are so...strange, cleaniness is an option
make people into a style, grace and grime
because that is how i like to see the world
through rose-tinted, soot covered lenses
i love to draw smokers because of their cigarettes
to drag out the smoke in its quiet, graceful, half-circular motions
steaming from tips of perfectly rolled, manufactured proprietors of disease
punctuation is, on it's best days, a tool for the writer
and given free rein-- optional; to be used as seen fit
haphazard commas, Capitals, dashes- and periods.
clean lines and definite borders are so strange...alien to the mind
how? why? hands shaking across the paper, streaking unsteady graphite
the line becomes two, then so many-- enough for army of lines
stand up! the bottle's empty, leave now
but...spinning... staggering to the car and fumbling for the keys
3 year old=- sleeping, drawings that mirror your inebriated bee
Keep in Touch!