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About Literature / Artist here I dreamt I was an architectIsle of Man Recent Activity
Deviant for 11 Years
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Statistics 151 Deviations 1,116 Comments 13,291 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Cigarette Run
You only picked up and sustained your smoking habit to support a deeper rooted addiction to solitude. The freedom of social void, that respectful distance between oneself and the easy breathing bodies of the greater public. Society's segregated smoking section at least 30 feet from operable doors and windows allows the anti-social smoker the freedom to give oneself lung cancer on the outskirts of social obligation.
And then there's the cigarette run. As in "honey, just going to run to the store for some smokes" aware of and smothering the temptation to drive right on by that seedy little stop-and-rob and embark on some epic Thelma and Louise style shenanigans. You recall at least a dozen broken-family quasi-fiction tales of some dead beat dad whose story ends upon grabbing his keys to step out for a pack of Marlboros, leaving his litter of hungry urchins watching expectantly for his noisy old truck to pull back into the cracked driveway, watching and waiting and growing old.
Think of y
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I'm thinking sleazy girls
with mockery grins and
nicotine stains, their
imperfect lips curl
nicely around militant profanity
and new age feminism
like an unpublished novel
from Portland or somewhere.
My domestic self-consciousness impeding
this endevour as my fingers curl
'round the open mic.
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Given to over-analysis and addictions
You litter your careless words
to collect like debris in mental tides
ceaselessly beating my silent poems to you.
Nicotine withdrawal ravaging my fingertips
metallic creak of empty playground equipment
and that feeling of adolescent foolishness
My entrepreneurial pointless affections
patter at your heels and wither under
your attentions.
And a drawn out vitality lingers
in you like a heat that
warms even a memory.
And my preposterous shyness and
a chasm of then and now
So old at twenty seven
crow's feet and tax returns
and standing in the welfare line.
Needing that something
that stops my dreaming.
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I peck at your flesh, birdlike
and grimace
Domesticated woman.
Rehearsing stale touch and
this ritualistic march
thinking of the red wine you never drink
and dream of sweet Minerva.
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Pulmonary flesh congeals quietly
darkly nestled in a box of tin
a phantom organ keeps the beat
on heart strings
under a lose spring
under a bed
Next to that shoebox
full of mismatched buttons
and a thimble or two
you keep from tossing in the bin
only on a chance
you'll find a use for them again
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Mature content
Untitled 2 :iconsapph0:Sapph0 1 0
Untitled :iconsapph0:Sapph0 3 0 Lovers :iconsapph0:Sapph0 2 1 Old Woman :iconsapph0:Sapph0 1 0 Rhino :iconsapph0:Sapph0 0 0 Two Dogs :iconsapph0:Sapph0 2 0 Woman with Bowtie :iconsapph0:Sapph0 0 1 Horse :iconsapph0:Sapph0 1 2
Wooden Ribs
a regimen of tobacco smoke and despair melt flesh
like wax off my aluminum frame.
and when your face crumbles beneath my alloy finger bones; stale bread
I'll feed your lips to the pigeons and the gooses
to watch them squabble over the bigger share of your chin.
remember, when I used to polish my elbows in absinthe and
your bread dough lips would frown, yet I laugh,
stumble over the knuckles of my big toes
and tenderly I walk, for the sores on my thighs from the overscrubbing
of household comet and volcanic ash; the sake of naivety
and denial.
the clattering of your wooden ribs reveals your deception and
like feral dogs the paranoia splinters your bones
you are lost to me,
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The Temple
I haven't pined for the death of the sun
or for the lost side of the moon
turning her face
and for the way my pillars fade
and crumble to dust for
the loss of your faith
small goddesses in the wood and
the stream; your interest wanes
your devotion  crumbles like
my heart and guts of stone,
and now an echo in the marble
I hear you hammers erecting
cathedrals and your voices chant
for new gods, and O, if my pagan walls
could weep.
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As a Fly
on the windowsill like a housefly
your ten thousand faces buffet in my
compound mind and my
index finger recites my lines
in the fog on the window left
by your breath.
in the window with plucked wings
like a beetle I uselessly fail to climb
the empty slickness of the glass
and imagine your imprint
fading like fog in a window.
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Random Favourites

foot painting :iconshyborg:shyborg 30 19
Heartache has nothing to do with the heart. It crouches in the
center of the chest. You don't fall out of love. A switch is thrown.
The light fades.
You wait at the end of the fireworks show. Will there be another
You've thought, This is it, before. You try to make it come back,
make it hurt the way it used to, try to bring it into focus, feel the
heft of it. Were you ever really in love at all?
A dampened orgasm. A stifled sneeze.
You replay things in the cinema of your mind and search through
your love notes.
Human babies die if you don't hold them.
:iconanarchypress:anarchypress 43 90
Natasha - My Vodka Virgin
I dreamt a visa dream last night,
and vodka-driven, sent the cheque;
within a week I checked her out:
Natasha, my Vodka Virgin.
Her face could launch a herd of yaks
her bust could bust my spine in two
I'm relieved to still be calling her
Natasha 'my vodka virgin'.
My visa card was sorrowful,
my vodka bottles fully drained,
the pantry filled with eels bought by
Natasha, my vodka virgin.
It's eels for brekky, eels for tea
Eels served at half past three.
Fucking eels like sushi by
Natasha, my vodka virgin.
Her cooking's driven me to drink
and drain the local liquor store -
I'll always hit the floor before
Natasha, my vodka virgin.
But it's alright, and it's okay -
I'll never try to leave her.
Or else I'll be castrated by
Natasha - my vodka virgin.
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goldchamber :iconbluefooted:bluefooted 1,228 90 spaesati :iconkugiokine:kugiokine 5 4
Mature content
Nudo e Informale :iconinsulla:insulla 59 10
My secret :iconmyvictoriansecret:MyVictorianSecret 37 5 Caperulobo :iconjonjacobsen:jonjacobsen 2,086 439 Furor :iconjuabrahamson:juabrahamson 19 2 hoarse hair :icontrance-orange:trance-orange 268 41 Composition of Red and Blue :iconalphaii:AlphaII 3 0 musician :iconmandragolaa:mandragolaa 10 6


:iconthewrittenrevolution: :iconprosepoetry-elegance: :iconword-smiths: :iconwriters--club:



here I dreamt I was an architect
Artist | Literature
Isle of Man
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
~Mark Strand, "Eating Poetry," Reasons for Moving
Hi DA. I miss you. I've been so stupid busy that any free time I find is spent sleeping or watching Game of Thrones, when really I should be doing something creative. But on the upside, I just quit my rather good, steady job so that I could go back to art school and collect myself a nice chunk of debt. So that's exciting. Hopefully I will log on here more often.


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Myneweyes Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
thanks a lot for the watch! ;D
shigureisasexybeast Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
you are an amazing poet. like i really can't put into words how much you inspire me as a writer. you make language flow together in ways that are just utterly perfect and completely capture raw emotion and abstract thoughts. your work is so beautiful and inspiring - major major kudos!!


//sorry about the random DA stalkage
Kamyl2139 Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2012
thanks for the watch !!
ellamarie25 Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2011
i miss you so much.
CyneNoir Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the watch. It means a lot. :heart:
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