Fantastic Feature Tuesday #25

Happy new year everyone! It's still the 31st for me, but I figured I might not have time to post this tomorrow and it must already be Tuesday for someone out there. And so this can remain Fantastic Feature Tuesday, not Monday.


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!



Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!


Suicideconsider this
poem a
warning:
to love
is like
suicide;
put your
heart to
your
head and
pull the
trigger Haiku #4 TenshiWind speaks with your voice,
You are made out of thin air;
Perfect illusion...
Heart beats excited;
You evaporate again,
Love shall never be :thumb333100880:
:thumb333100880: where the buffalo roamin the
fantasiatic forests
of gold-leaved
auburn
& marble-trimmed
montainesques,
beneath a
comet-strewn cosmos
spilling infinites:
there we find
peace, pertinence,
& a polyester
scarf, scattered
across leaves of fire
& hobbit-holes;
where prudence
is but a woman
so little acquainted
to so many of us,
& the fireflies flutter
in the imagination
of waldened ponds-
an aura of
flatiron & sunshine:
smiles are no more than
crescent moons,
spiderwebs
to catch your dreams,
& the world is
yours & mine
to save.
:thumb324422653: TransitionMy blankets are knotted around my limbs, tangled and sweaty, mixed up with limp hair and cold, coiling skin. The pillow is smashed between the headboard and bedframe. I can hear my eyelashes scratch on the sheets.
I try to untangle myself with cold fingers, shuddering arms. It's hopeless. Tugging the corner up to my forehead, I shield my face.
The blankets on top of my face are being plucked, the threads skimming my nose and cheek.
"Hello?" I whisper. I try to force my legs out of their skeletal curl, but they stiffen against the cloth resistance. The silence stretches but does not break. "Hello?"
Pluck.
I push the blankets off myself, heaving, the bones in my elbows pushing towards my eyes. Finally released, I pant, focusing on the blue, night-lit eyes of my childhood self. The bruises around her eyes and down her neck highlight her pale hair and the untarnished portions of her face, turning her into a strange nighttime mask of pain and innocence. I have no pictures of her, we took no Propheta ArenaeAlways have a book on hand
Leave the pages blank and bland
    Give your book a title that
Only you could understand
Follow me to lands unknown
Act as you are my shadow
    Pay no mind to the cawing crows
Blind to why we tread below
Always have a book on hand
Keep it close throughout life and
     When they ask you why you do 
Answer with the same commands
     One day they will follow you
What are you doing?You with the motley heart
of patched together prayers
      to other people's gods,
of quilted love songs from lovers
      you never loved,
what are you doing
with all that flesh
that body
held up
by hunger in the morning, by hunger
the limbs lifted
into the posture of industry
and all those words,
whispers that wander
and give up
in the air between us
and the flush
of ambition, of ambition swelling
with pleasure
like pus
until the pop
what are you doing
with this poem. things i must do before i die:Learn to Fly.  Travel Europe
with my soulmate.  Sleep on
top of the Eiffel Tower.  Wake
up naked in a Greek truckstop.
Tell a gondolier my life story in
Venice.  Ask his.  Swing dance on
the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  Tell
Moscow "good morning".  Smile.
Learn the waltz.  Perform a
valse in the Himalayas.  The
Swiss Alps.  Nepal.  Pretend
the sky has a second job as
a ballroom.  Befriend a star.
Climb Mt Everest.  Jump off.
Survive.  Throw a snowball
at my past regrets.  Laugh.
Learn German.  Learn Dutch.
Learn every language in the
book.  Become a translator.
Quit.  Become the world's
best lover.  Quit.  Become
a God.  Get fired.  Look up
apotheosis in dictionaries
labelled Keep Out.  Shake
hands with Zeus.  Discuss
religion, drink wine, throw
a A Ceiling Bas-relief (the Fontaine House)1.1850.  To typhus, the only boy
of a tinsmith, lost.  Off to the side
of the mourning, swinging its
neck, the child's pet swan rejects
food, follows its small master.
The smith resumes work.  Borne
by river Natchez to Memphis,
across years he labors, ornamenting
the homes of the wealthy.
In 1870, to this house, comes...
2.Atop a scaffold, face uplifted,
  Kneeling.  He applies
  A thin base.  An oval frame
  Molds.  Hands floating,
  The curved outline of wings
  Forms, feather by feather
  Details.  Now, between the wings,
  Eyes, a delicate nose--
  Stare:  the smith's hands
             long since air,
  Lively, this face with his jaw.







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