This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my
travels across deviantART. this is only a small sample of a vast amount
of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic
writers. Each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!
Life Wrote Us a Bad CheckI send for you
and all your
glitter spitting lips,
passion burnt hair
I care for you-
the little bird
nested in my nights.
The sun has
to the Cheshire moon
in handmade casts
are the X's
and the neon signs
You are waiting
that taps your
We are two
apart from billions,
and into each other's
I'm ready to breathe
have us combust
into a quadrillion
pieces of star
and find our
in the sky.
dancing there possible.
We are sad
as cherry blossoms
and saying goodbye
seems like vertigo.
SilenceOf all the ugly she'd seen scorched
into that Georgia red clay
she remembered most the teeth-grinding silence
as the old man stepped over
his boy's hunched frame;
all the weakness beaten from his bird-bones
and milk skin.
He never screamed, that sweet child of hers -
just bit his fist
til blood burst forth
and took his medicine like a good boy.
They laundered his sheets with salt tears
his chalk cheek pressed tight to her breast as
she stitched his battered skin;
and if the night grew crowded
with his quick-stifled cries
she'd croon lullabies into his damp hair -
songs of boys who walk as lovers
like lawless love
and bottomless joy.
UnshackledMy Dear Peter,
There is a masterpiece: internal and wicked, laser-scrawled and syllable-heavy. It surfaces slowly, like pond scum. I often scrape at it industriously, collecting pieces and bits in the spaces between periods and capital letters, on the back of receipts, and on the college-ruled lines of composition notebooks.
Were it set to music we would find it minor-keyed and shocking. Yes. Let's make this happen, if only to say we succeeded in a single thing, together. There is room in my cerebellum for the both of us to grow: crookedly, zigzaggedly. For us each to lean in, your left cheekbone will pin that half of my shrug down. We will no doubt find ourselves swaying in circles as if we were cut out and pasted back onto that overcrowded dance floor. I would hold back motions and words for the first time in my life, letting you lead. Ah, but words are not lyrics when they're left to bleed out on winter's bike paths. I wander worn synaptic trails, wringing my hands and h
HagiographyI must admit it's been a while,
please remind me of the passage
in which Eve is asked gently about grief.
And if breathing is a metric you've gasped
testimonies of every beautified settlement after the bang,
every implied condensation of dust,
all the aches of a pre-Columbian silence
I'm researching your heart
I have a list of every sighting, as far as Moscow
sometimes the effigy an afterglow of endangered language
sometimes the memory falls like old lights
In their manifesto there is a twist:
The attraction of particles is really a mirror,
and everything is actually repulsed by everything else.
But a girl who looked like you has supposed this;
we are the burden of optimists to prove all systems obsolete,
to observe ourselves and not worry about the accuracy
of any measurement of the space between bodies
There is distance now, this chaos seems aboriginal,
miracles postdate extinctions and on TV voices coalesce
into some kind of music.
I've read that there are fires in Siberia th
in winter we're tearing wings off sparrows.it isn't half as cold as it should be, but you stamp your feet against the pitiful chill any way. your blood is still running hot and it makes you stir crazy. everyone is 10 miles away, and the distance increases each step you take. further, and further, their faces are blurred like ink smudges. this is how you lose people. there are birds in the lonely park.
and a little less than suddenly, faces peer out from the emptiness. a man who looks like a drug addict, or a gypsy. a gypsy drug addict, you decide. and his two shy daughters. they look like faeries. one, looks as though she is made of ice- pale as snow, with hair spun from cobwebs and glass. red lips and pink cheeks declare her alive. the other is tinier than even her sister, her skin is milky. her hair and large, bright eyes are the brown of stripped woodlands, her cheeks and small pouty lips the colour of autumn leaves when they turn red. she looks a wood nymph, or pixie.
the odd family make their way out
BoltThe sky never looked more like a broken eggshell.
Lightning cracks and hammers across its surface,
Rain pours, dad laughs, and I shiver, shiver, shiver.
Another crack, closer now, breaks the sky apart.
All I see is unsteady strobelight vision
As we watch a cable snake down a pole.
Dad lets loose a laugh, holds me back as the cable bucks
And hisses out defiant sparks that rain won’t wash away.
It snaps at our feet, vomits putrid light.
Fire babies crawl forward and creep up trees,
Free from mother’s mouth, feeding on the leaves.
Sirens wail through the growls of thunder,
The neighbors holler through torn screen doors,
Red-blue flashing burns broken kaleidoscopes
of color into the backs of my eyes.
Firemen rush forward to sedate the burning backyard.
The cord continues to crackle in the rain,
Before it buzzes tiredly, goes quite still and
quietly dies on the crystallized lawn.
Dad just smiles like a child on the 4th of July.
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