30 Writers You Should Discover: Volume VII

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Below you will find a new assortment of various writers on DeviantART who are worth getting to know. All of their respective galleries are packed full of tremendous works that I enjoy and hope that you will too. If there is a writer that may not be listed in this edition, you may wish to read the first six articles in this series.  


Let’s Meet A Few More of Them:



Amriah
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arliddian
dancing on a tightrope
I am dancing on a tightrope,
springing toes eloping with
the gentle slope, the soft incline.
My hands are warm, entwined with air
that faintly shines (still echoing
with your delight). My fingers smile.
And as you sing, your sunset words
now send me undeterred to meet
the height of birds. And step for step,
no fear and no regrets have I:
my safety net--it is the sky.
The Reader
She liked sad stories best -
the ones that ended (naturally)
in hopeful death and loosened souls.
She grew cold with little matchgirls,
grim with fairytale endings
and read Oscar Wilde
tented in bed on warm afternoons.
Her story, she reasoned,
should end like these -
wreathed in the simple beads
of prose, stark and enduring.
Reasons for the Weekend
Because human nature zig-zagged in reverse
from wand-waving mornings to night,
plucking on harp-strings with bitten-down nails
and mud-trudging through kitchen floors,
Because we ignored the blue neon signs
that smiled Enter through the gates,
and monkeyed up the glass walls instead,
with the grace of a bullet-filled car,
Love grew a shadow, and splashed Friday with ink
when he dived from a springboard of leather and wood--
but the spectators gave him nil out of ten,
though Perfection had wrapped him in white.
Because human nature keeps sliding down driveways
without elbow guards or mothering smiles,
because we attempt to feel more than our skins can,
stuffing ourselves with reflections of stars--
Sunday grew taller, for Love re-emerged
and de-plugged the pool as he skipped up the side.
His tattered grey scarf soaked the last of the flood,
and he left it behind as he walked past the sky.


brittlejacks
SecondsofDragonflies[I]
days of disgrace;; secondsofdragonflies,
an HOUR in YOUR emaciated blondearms
a rustic(forlorn)hope;;for we can only live
in fortnights accompanied the full suit
broken linguistics of Autumnleaves with
deadly secrets to tell...
                             I'll watch your eyes/
painfully plan to predict/fuck this flirtation
up,,americanisations with DCquotation
and a FAIL mark. Duration of my emanc-
ipation is unecessary-unerving-anexity
riddled, like she said;
                           'i'm only ever ham-
                            mered when i sp-
   
27               [I]
    arthur boyd:
she cried 'transubstantiation' -
why don't you eat dirt and
    feel closer to Earth !(?)
i slipped ,jointlessly, seemless
quicksilver ,going downdown
until I wrapped my serptentine form
around the core
                     , a cold static stone
                                 (our thighs)
               [II]
(gently)
      /mornings  are not sunrises,
   and arenot accompanied by angels/donot
   underestimate them  they are
29hair  hot,rough against your face
     the slender velodromes
   ,rushing down your cheeks   (emotional
jetlag stiff,coineyed awake lonely
phones, three doors down, wretched december three ams
we lay beneath the skyline stretched
with winter veins :
breath ,and feel dusk sweep through your organs ,drown your soul
   she always had heavy eyelids


catching
The Dolomite Man        1.
You are openhanded. Of course you are openhanded.
Yours is a more civilized hand than God’s,
a softer hand, a slower hand.
And your mouth discloses the first great secret of the world.
I cannot hear it. It
is a secret for your mistresses and your four wives,
and for your mistresses and your four wives only.
The child will learn it on his own. You may edify him
this way, you may make a lesson out of it—
though I will learn close to nothing.
Perhaps how to make my expressions less vacuous,
my hands softer and more civilized,
my tongue-pallet the purer.
Hand me that Madeira and I will tell you
RUBBER TIRES FOR TANNIN! How perfectly
the aftertaste traipses its tails and trains along behind it,
thick, yes, but gone in the creases.—
You smile.
God watches from the library room, envious
and with locusts.
        2.
        You sat once,
forgetting m
On Things Said in ConfidenceWell, there it is: ever since the scabies
your hair has been falling out—stress, probably—
and now whatever body, so informed,
has you sitting with a shrink on a beanbag
holding your wrist and taking deep breaths.
Oh, it’s a sad story. Oh, I don’t know what you’ll do.—
Here’s a guess, though.
You’ll scratch at the pits until the pits are raw.
And the hair, the hair’ll go too,
by tearing, by force, by loneliness,
and, some time from now, there you’ll be,
all child, tugging my arm
into the hallway, where you’ll unload
your little stories: scabies and baldness,
loneliness and baldness,
deep breaths and baldness.—
I know what I am here for.
You are cured, old man,
cured at last, and
it was magic, magic, magic.
Eviction of Alice CarpenterIn the low country, in the swamp-peppered cradle of Louisiana,
the widow Alice Carpenter trims a potholed lawn made dense
by the suffocating fruitfulness of bayou humidity beyond rickety porch fronts
and the screen door still dewed from morning rainfall.
    She pauses.
    And she motions insincere welcome with a nod
    at the White Man in his tawdry emerald suit.
She watches, blamelessly spiteful, as he steps proudly over cracked cement
and into her peeling kitchen to speak of business with the Brother.
When he leaves, he stops and glances at her baby in the rocking chair
while the boy stares back with Ebony eyes, glaring black freckles.
    And he will judge.
    And he will judge.
Until, borders affirmed between man, between boy,
the Suit descends the fractured steps and smugly walks
the trail through the lawn.
And Alice Carpenter spits away her fury at his unknowing feet.
Wh


caveatLECTOR
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clownscape
:thumb97948121::thumb261964249: The Causal PrincipleHe had painted the picture of nothing but a solitary teardrop on a piece of black carbon paper. On the other side of the paper he had laid down the river.
Night bloomed in the river, that morning. Reflected onto the air above. Paintbrushed into a random breeze.
She woke up that morning into the dark, tear-strained. She knew at the primacy of her senses, that this wasn’t an eclipse. It was blindness. One of those denser forms of darkness where you can’t see anything even when you close your eyes. For it pours into your nervous system. She’d never see him again.
Standing there on the riverbank, he realized she’d never be able to comprehend his gift. Or understand it.
He tore off his tear.


discocabrado
Accepting a drinkDoes this cloud-maned beauty see
how I ironed this shirt, pressing mercilessly
until the ionised water evaporated? Does he
understand how long it took to shape
my hair this way? To cover the gape
where my once-full coiff's now planning its escape?
Did he notice my choice of a twenty?
I had tens in my wallet. The drink cost two-fifty
but it looks like purples are all I carry
this way. Does this Pan, who probably fucks
his choice of uni intake bucks
see my killer-sweat? The flux
his lick of the lips casts? Of course
he does, but it works. No laws
against flirting, grandpa. Can't force
him to stop. He thanks me
for the double and coke, waits the customary
five minutes in my company,
then mumbles something about a song
he wants to dance to, and is gone,
having left me a number a digit too long.

Mature Content

The Escapologist's Water
Every time I begin a receipt for someone pleasant, I vow to make my handwriting really nice. This is just about possible in theory, but my hands rebel every step of the way. In school, they gave us elongated rubber pyramids to slot onto our pencils, so we’d hold the pen right and our handwriting would improve, the loops of g and y hitting one set of guides, the high poles of t and l clicking into place above the central tramlines. I chewed at least three rubber pyramids to shreds before they gave up and let me slide into holding my pencil like a determined monkey holds a dagger.
In short, the receipts turn out as drunk as ever.
I write a fair bit in my job, but this has, if anything, a negative impact on my script. It’s like tea. Whenever I make tea myself, however much care I try to take, it never tastes as good as when it’s been made by someone else. You become aware of the mechanism behind the miracle: it’s water with stuff in it.
The evenings slip down behind th


EmmyIsAZebra
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gedwaylem
the lovecrafter by gedwaylem

primordialsea

Mature Content

Mature Content

The edge
Sorry to remove this piece, readers.


irvon
FluxFlux
we go skinny-dipping
in iron filings,
revealing the magnetic field
of past mistakes around our toes;
old predators smell tesla.
oblivious, we submerge:
petals to the metal
always coiling north to south -
reversing the polarisation means turning the magnet
upside down (nothing)
if only we could break the core:
the dust returns to disarray
and we are free
the compass that doesn't point north
provides a bearing.
ToastStraight up, my friend:
that's the only way to drink a poem.
I raise my glass,
I know the drink, I know the game.
I don't want
your fancy blends,
mingled scents
a wine that doesn't know how to touch my mouth!
I raise my glass
and when I drink I understand.
My poison knows its purpose
and if you offer me your cup,
yours had better know it, too,
'cause I don't want to die confused,
amused, abused?
I choose
another death:
straight up, my friend,
straight up.
S.S. FantasiaSonnet
You and I are on a ship together
surrounded by a rimless sea of days;
the surface calm is dyed the deepest heather
before it drowns the setting sun's last rays.
The stars appear full bright, unblocked by stratus,
they bid us navigate to safer bays,
but since the heart's our only apparatus
we will forever sail these waterways.
Such fantasies persist within my mind:
in fact, that salty sea's not ours to taste.
The only pleasure we may therein find
is hasty skinny-dipping to the waist.
I dream that you and I are on a ship,
its sails catch time, their sheets in our firm grip.


QuiEstInLiteris
Swing BandPlay your trumpets louder, boys -
Let's hear that trombone sound.
You're gettin' paid to make some noise;
The dames are crowdin' 'round.
The chaps have finished sippin' gin
And now it's time to dance.
They want a tune to dip and spin
And kick up some romance.
A young thing needs a break at night
From white barrage balloons,
From broadcasts, blackout drapes, cordite,
Junkers across the moon.
The music's really pickin' up.
The piano's lost a string.
There's no one in a smoky club
But loves a chance to swing.
It's hard to hear the sirens wail -
The saxophone is grand -
For death is sorry, weak and pale
But life's a big swing band.
SynesthesiaI fell in love with a pianist's hands.
They danced across my skin in minuets, his fingers tripping cadenzas up and down my spine. He brushed sonatas through my hair and across my shoulders, pianissimo. I trembled beneath his trills. The primal, earnest rage of Bach swelled in hot crescendos along my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by his hands --- Mozart, coolly logical, raised goosebumps down my arms --- Chopin soothed the fire and finally calmed my hammering heart.
I fell in love with a pianist's hands, listening from the back of the coffee shop while my lungs fought for breath, making wishes until he was gone.
Judge Not - Chapter 1
The sky grew dark, gestating a winter monster nourished by a cold northerly gale. The first stinging flakes, tiny needles of ice driven almost horizontally by the bitter blasts, whisked across the cracked asphalt and clung to the clumps of parched dead grass that lined the lonely road. The clouds, pregnant and writhing, bulged downward and in a great final heave gave birth to a howling whiteout.
Far below, a tiny convoy struggled north against the wind, racing the growth of the snow banks that soon would strand it. In the lead, a decades-old green Lincoln Continental ploughed stoically onward, its windscreen wipers battling furiously against the snow. It was followed by an articulated lorry, its trailer marked "Anderson and Sons Logistics: Texas' Best Movers!"
Together, the two plodded on up the road toward the dearly-desired terminus of their interminable journey, the end of a seventeen hour drive.
A stile loomed up suddenly in the road, forcing the saloon to brake hard, then swerve t


kittykittyhunter


leyghan
ElsewhereI rode a thought to the edge of night
And met a being, who said
Come with me to Elsewhere...

Welcome kiddo, don't be shy. Tell me, what'll you have?
No I ain't the proprietor but I run the bar and I listen. The stories I could tell you...well, you probably wouldn't believe half of them but they're all true just the same.  
Oh we get all kinds here. Everything that maybe exists, does exist or could exist. It's not so busy just now but we get celebrities in here from time to time. Matter of fact, there's one here right now. See the one in back near the pool table drinking by hisself? Yeah, I'm not surprised you noticed him right away. He's something ain't he? Almost beyond imagining. Careful now. You don't want to stare at him too long - that kind of beauty costs you just for looking; gets to where you can't think about anything else and you don't ever want look him in the eye. Not even Oberon can withstand his gaze.
Yes Oberon. Ya know, King of the Faeries? Bit of an as
The WhistlerThe postman made me uneasy, though I could never put my finger on why. I wasn't afraid of him but there was just something about his presence that set my back teeth on edge. He kept to himself; was always whistling, early or late and it always seemed to be the same repetitive, mysterious tune.  I'd had always envied others their ability to whistle. The best I could produce was a discordant half-blast that was more spittle than sound.  I didn't envy him though. For I knew, as did all the little kids in the village, that it was bad luck to whistle at night.  
I lived in a shanty-like neighbourhood that was called The Alley. This alleyway was really just a dirt track that connected several tiny houses, crowded together in a small space.  Everyone knew their neighbour and their neighbours' business, which was avidly discussed on many an idle evening, across back fences and front stoops. The house I lived in was a two bedroom affair with no hal
Adam and Evelyn"You're late." The voice was soft and without inflection but Adam knew an accusation when he heard one. He also knew he had about ten seconds to come up with a suitable explanation why. There was a Trifecta™ aimed at his groin and he had no illusions that the woman holding it wouldn't pull the trigger. Evelyn had always been volatile and she never, ever bluffed. He opted for the truth.
  
"Silver wanted to meet so I took a little detour. He made me an offer; you, in exchange for the bounty he collected in Beladoni. I really, really want that ship."
Evelyn's trigger finger relaxed a hair. She didn't look hurt or surprised, he hadn't expected her to be, but she no longer looked pissed off. She looked bemused. A tiny rivulet of sweat snaked its way down Adam's back. He and his balls were not safe yet. She had one hard, fast rule and he'd broken it.
"Why is it that some assholes can never take no for an answer?"


linaket
Lifrasir Wars : 01
This is an old version of this work.  I am leaving it up simply because it has been featured many times and I don't want to break the features links.  Please visit the link in the artist's comments to view the most recent version of this story.  Thank you for your support.  
"Camus said that the only true function of man, born into an absurd world, is to live, be aware of one's life, one's revolt, one's freedom.  He said that if the only solution to the human dilemma is death, then we are on the wrong road.  The right track is the one that leads to life, to sunlight.  One cannot unceasingly suffer from the cold. […]The track he followed led into the sunlight in being that one devoted to making with our frail powers and our absurd material, something which had not existed in life until we made it." - William Faulkner on Albert Camus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Massacre at th


almcdermid
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noirre
WintersunIn the beginning of this entity known as 'us',
when you were still but a fascinating mystery
little by little, the soul you opened up for me
brought a spring to my life;
your laughter was the first sparrow's flight,
your whisper the southern breeze
your smile a sprouting daffodil
and your touch
a heatstroke I craved for,
I basked in it – forgetting,
that seasons change because they must
Became summer, became autumn
and now that the house you live in
has grown watertusks on its eaves
you've become the Wintersun
and I am the Earth that revolves around you
on this elliptical track I was placed on
I'm further apart from you than ever before
between us the light-years that no longer carry your warmth
and days that shrink
until they no longer exist
GoldfishYou saw them through dark waters,
glints and glimmers, there and then gone
hoop ready in hand, you reached for those nanoseconds
but after one,
        or was it three?
waves of the fin
you lost your grip
Still, what remains,
memories of nights
colored with honey and blueberry tones,
of days when something warm
made a splash in your chest,
surrounding the muscle they call 'heart'
There is something to be said about rare encounters
and yet,
When you wish upon a star, you always ask
for a net with smaller eyes
GrasshopperIn the sixth year of my life there was a neverending heat; mom told me
that weather like this is what people call an Indian summer
I asked her if that meant that we need to move into a tipi
but she just laughed and ruffled my hair
That summer dad took off the training wheels in my bicycle, he told me
that I have to learn to ride without them before school starts
I cried endlessly after falling and getting a scratch on my knee
but he kissed it better and ruffled my hair
The last night of the vacation we all went to the lake together, they told me
to be quiet, like a mouse, so that the fireflies may dance in peace
that small clearing was lit by both glowing and twinkling lights
and my parents held me tight and ruffled my hair
Another thing I remember is the constant chirping of that heat, someone told me
that it was the singing of a bug that was looking for a partner to be with
the whole summer I tried to find one, but they always escaped me
and while I run across the fields, the


Opus-T
The Rumour of IcarusIcarus—
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell—
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse—
no one gave a damn.
But Icarus—
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri
Rapunzel in the TowerRapunzel in the tower;
Sleeping Beauty at the loom;
Snow White slumbers in a casket;
Girls spin gold in locked up rooms.
Cinderella in the ashes—
O! These stories oft they tell:
How Eurydice's at the mercy
Of a man singing in hell.


somestrangebirds


interzonepolice

Mature Content



queenhrosie


Quemaqua


radiophonic


saartha
AlterAllow me just this:
your hand
my hand
separate.

1.
I fell into a deep forest. My femur
put forth roots. I did not say: oh Lord,
take me from here
like Rebekah, this is another
barrenness.
My mouth remained resolutely
closed. The moss
grew over me,
in me.
Oh Lord, I am scared.
2.
Mother is reading, brows
at half mast. In the kitchen,
Father organizes sardines
on crackers. Home means
this soft quietude.
Five thousand six hundred
miles away, I am watching a donkey.
It stumbles on three legs; the fourth
is loosely curled, like a child's fist.
There are wild dogs in the fields beyond,
waiting. I am a dog, waiting.
3.
The wind settles down
into the moor. The purple heather
lowers its head, then forgets.
It seems natural, as if the wind
was always there.
My neck bent,
I am lost in this.

Wandering, my hands
abandon their shape.
PlateletI wanted to tell you: my spirit
guide is coagulation. Stars put
a stop to the dead black
bleed of sky. Let me be
this holding-back.
And I am sticking to
the sticking place. And I am
bloodied by war. And love, I have
found in you a hard edge.
SoftThe rain comes in
from the mountainside
and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,
the light, the restless
hollowed emptiness,
the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.
It quietens.
The rain comes in like a slow blink.


Snow-Machine

Mature Content

To Be A WriterTo be a writer
Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.
It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.
Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said
"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
eyes.
So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you by the shoulder
And I said,
"You know, we're going to destroy each other."
You didn't laugh but I saw you wanted to because
your mouth was like a tepid hurricane and your hands
were reaching out the window to throw a tree at me.
And you said,
"No, darling, I don't have time for that."
It was spring and all that was in your hands
was rabbit water and flowers.
You kn

Mature Content



SOLARTS
15 Translations of Classical Haiku..
summer's night
from cloud to cloud
dashing moon
                                                   (Ranko)
for me, who leaves
for you, who remains
two autumns
                                                   (Buson)
many many things
come to mind-
cherry blossoms!
                                    
Dick-Laurence Renku -FINISHED-waning heat–
a few bare spots
in the melon patch
(L)
harvest moon–
sweat drips from his
balding head
(D)
termite tracks–
talk of Jackson's death
in whispers
(L)
dusk hollows storm winds resound
(D)
wet newspaper
Iran bleeds
into commerce
(L)
her father's voice
between each gunshot
silence
(D)
hibiscus flowers
in full bloom
morning skyline
(L)
tui song
steam from the tea
on my face
(D)
noon breeze–
the toddler mimics
an airplane
(L)
clear night
the streetlamps come on
one by one
(D)
city dusk–
the strip club's roof
in neon
(L)
red light district
a policeman
undercover
(D)
evening rain...
the working girl
haggles her price
(L)
homeless
smelling of cheap wine
he turns 50
(D)
acid jazz
a string of butterflies
in the crocus
(L)
Charlie Parker
on the stereo
a moth wriggles
(D)
Parker's Mood...
on the flowering cactus
a grasshopper
(L)
rubbish day...
throughout the valley
a child's song
(D)
coming dusk...
the rising pitch
of night hawks
(L)
bright moon...
th
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Tobaeus
Pity     My mother always wanted to be in West Side Story. She was an undiscovered talent, she'd say, and to prove it she'd sing "I Feel Pretty" every time we played dress-up, when we would try on feather boas, wide-brimmed hats, and cake on powder pink lipstick. My brother, Gordon, was always somewhere else once he was old enough to hate girly things, but that was fine. This was our time. Girl time. Dad wasn't around at that point, so he couldn't have "guy" time. I felt a little sorry for him because of that. And maybe in later years, he felt sorry for me, because I was so much closer to her when it happened.
     We were teenagers, but still not old enough to understand. We came home one day to find her at her big white vanity, smearing on lipstick, wearing a bathrobe, pink feather boa and matching sun hat. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels lay near her elbow. She was admiring her reflection and singing in a slurred voice, so it sounded mor
The Culinary Tastes of Aliens"What have you done?"
"The juices on your planet are delectable," he said, as though he hadn't heard her.  She looked around her kitchen.  There was blood and fur everywhere, and were those bits of bone?
"You ruined my juicer!"
He gave the appliance a dirty look.  "Yes. You should probably go and purchase one of higher quality."
She was afraid to ask, but morbid curiosity took over.  "What did you use?"
"I believe you call them 'squirrels'. Tomorrow I shall catch the avian you call a 'bluejay'.  If it tastes half as good as the squirrel I believe I shall stay here for a long time."
Vulcan Seuss on the LooseCaptain's Log: Stardate twenty-four sixty-two.
We're quickly approaching the planet Ka'Snoo.
They sent a distress call to my time and place.
"Captain, please come save the Ka'Snoonian race!
"Our precious home planet is under attack.
We're weak and defenseless and can't turn them back.
So come with your starship, your phasers and lasers,
And make them regret they became stargazers!"
Our orders are certain, it's time we stepped in
Let's help out these people, they're practically kin.
Lieutenant Hizashi, set warp factor nine!
Commander Nadooski, set the course on its line.
I must go study this dire situation
Before we reach the Ka'Snoonian station.
Then I'll brief my commander, Harper's his name
He knows how to play the away party game.
And so after hours of study and travel
The plight of Ka'Snoo began to unravel
Enslavers had come, made slaves of the people
And burned down their churches, every last steeple.
The away team was ready, we beamed them all down
They'll take down the bad guy a


venturus

Mature Content

Small talkTapping the baton of her teaspoon
twice on the saucer, a bright start:
'You've dropped out,' says his mother.
Her vision of a career in White Hall
crushed by his arts trifling, not one
to acknowledge the legislative clout
of poets. She's a resurrectionist,
keen to deliver him to Society's
scalpel, 'What's wrong?' through
chat and china's light percussion,
a uniform hum he hears as Om.
Black BirdI've told you I'm staying in tonight,
you, as usual, haven't listened.
Negligent out of pain, perhaps –
a thorn lifted off some nightmare
flower. You ask me to remove it,
have tried a shower. I'm thinking
if the water can't free it, how will I?
Besides, I've seen a bird, which,
as it starts to trill, suggests were I
such a thing, I'd rather be dumb.
Still, my not singing like a bird,
does it mean you can't call me one?
Again, you're not listening. And
it's flown off now into that gloom
where everything feels heavier,
but I don't suppose is. It presses
like the sloping walls of a Gallic
town, spied from an odd angle.


longslowclimb


YvesMB
Collected TrioletsThere are some stories I can’t tell.
You are too old for fairytales.
You are too old for carousels.
There are some stories I can’t tell.
You father said he wished you well.
He said the card is in the mail.
There are some stories I can’t tell.
You are too old for fairytales.
It’s hard pretending not to care.
Your smile is worn on mannequins.
I’m sure I saw one wear your hair.
It’s hard pretending not to care
That you are standing, silent, there
And separation is glass thin.
It’s hard pretending not to care.
You smile is worn on mannequins.
You didn’t hear me when
I said I loved you. Once
I mentioned it again.
You didn’t hear me. When
You laughed I knew right then
I had to change my stance.
You didn’t hear me when
I said, I loved you once.
The bees attack an orchid bloom,
The hornets laugh and then they glower
And then they start mixing bee tombs.
The bees attack an orchid bloom
But merely buzz their foolish doom,
The hive descends on pur
Is It So Absurd?The thought of you and I
Is like a chimpanzee
Shouting French at me,
"Vous etes un singe",
With each swing by.
The thought of you and I
Is like the measured laugh,
The type the short giraffe
Has learnt will fall
From those up high.
The thought of you and I
Is like a lion at rest
Trying to pump its breast
For one last roar
Or one last sigh.
Our IssuesYour heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
                    its world of
                    right angles,
                    wood grain,
                    and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
      always crawling
                under any
                    box it finds.
I kicked it                       
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
hated by everything:  pigeons swerved to       on it
                                                         shit              
wasps went kamikaze on it, black widow spiders
dropped   e      
              g
              g
              s    in its ear while it slept, wild
horses made love to its rear,
trees lashed it, roses
turned their scent away, woodpeckers
pecked at its



This Article Series Is Inspired By…



An undiscovered gem I found while browsing DeviantART. I took intrigued notice of MonsterBrand’s 25 Deviants You Should Know and thought that would be a brilliant chance to spotlight  writers I adore in proper fashion. Of course, I had difficulties keeping the feature limited to only twenty-five writers. I realize there are still a great many deviants who are not on this list, but it is far from complete! I do urge you to take a look and get to know some of these writers listed – as they help to make DeviantART the wonderful literary community that it is – but your journey is far from over.

Yours,
LadyLincoln

:heart:

© 2011 - 2024 LadyLincoln
Comments79
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clownscape's avatar
I came to find a few new gems and found my own name. :blush:

Smile. :thanks: