| All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage. So. Here are the dead fathers. Their spirit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides has joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he will subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works seem to us. Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian |
Featured
Time, Tequila, TelevisionThe hands of the clock are two jail wardens and a leashed dog, circling their perimeter, keeping me caged.Time, Tequila, Television
A crack in a wooden table. The bottles are long empty,
the worms are weightless, my vices have saved at least one collapse
tonight. I turn to her,
and she is framed in Chinese black plastic, and feeding injured animals, without her knowing we are watching, so we know it's ok to love her.
I stub a cigarette out in the dark and kill her with a red button and dream of a judgment day
that involv
by *brassteeth
Young WidowerI always slept on my left side and you on your right and when it was late and we had finished our daily tales, I would feel your breathing on my cheek. It would always reach a certain soft cadence and I would know you were dreaming then.Young Widower
Now I sleep on my right side, so the last evening glimpse and the first grey morning scenes are the same, a faceless beige wall, flaking paint, crumbling brick.
I 've turned away from the unused pillow, away from the undisturbed sheets, each morning so rigid, cold and clean.
You’re not on your side of the bed anymore; instead you’ve been replaced, by all
by *brassteeth
DroughtAn incessant wind is blowingDrought
the dying wheat
around my knees. Fragile stalks
clutch at my faded denim like lost and hungry children. My mouth like this soil, perpetually dry.
Out here, the sun is so bright
it lights your sins, here is no place to flee. It has burnt me
into such a broken mirage,
I have become
unconvinced of myself.
I kneel on this seared, sooty land, like a lunatic, praying in
a patchwork perdition. Dusty boots trod this gaping earth, crossing cracks wide enough
t
by *brassteeth
Featured
The Painting's FrameWatercoloursThe Painting's Frame
of finished fisherman, eyes bright with brushstrokes of aqua-blue, given goldfish pupils,
and draining, seeping garments, backed by bursts, salt-watered waves.
No.
I am for the fences,
the stone walled ledges. I am here, like the King, for the gold gilt borders, those intricate
woven edges.
Peripheral parallel, herding back in silence, landscapes of thunder, stampedes of wild Ponies, still life sacks of spilling cornflour,
spotted hay, a sunny bay, and perfect, oiled,
by *brassteeth
by *brassteeth
PhoenixThe dark skies' autumn stars rain a storm of living sparks, of curling weighted, orange carbons, upon this fractured moment,Phoenix
upon this stifled earth.
Out on the crackling hearth, the dancing heat,
a cadent beacon, lights your amber suit, imbues your wintered skin.
Far beyond your kin, long past the unheard prayers that sit on vast, crackling voids,
far beyond the transit of the flickering Venus,
there is the living spirit sitting still and true, in rock, and wood, and wind and gods eyes
a
by *brassteeth
travels in the lower casefull, with a tank of philosophytravels in the lower case
and black coffee. we took back roads, like cheap poets, to places time breaks chains to flee.
tuning radio frequencies. staring straight. avoiding discussions, intimate conversations.
hearts beating around brown axle orbits,
across the flaking continent. tire drones and hums. rotations of rubber.
the sun rises, with mad sightings and camera diaries. coloured buses, country kids kiting, they offer sky-on-red distractions.
crossroads with old droughts.
isolated islands of please slo
by *brassteeth
Newest
Time, Tequila, TelevisionThe hands of the clock are two jail wardens and a leashed dog, circling their perimeter, keeping me caged.Time, Tequila, Television
A crack in a wooden table. The bottles are long empty,
the worms are weightless, my vices have saved at least one collapse
tonight. I turn to her,
and she is framed in Chinese black plastic, and feeding injured animals, without her knowing we are watching, so we know it's ok to love her.
I stub a cigarette out in the dark and kill her with a red button and dream of a judgment day
that involv
by *brassteeth
Young WidowerI always slept on my left side and you on your right and when it was late and we had finished our daily tales, I would feel your breathing on my cheek. It would always reach a certain soft cadence and I would know you were dreaming then.Young Widower
Now I sleep on my right side, so the last evening glimpse and the first grey morning scenes are the same, a faceless beige wall, flaking paint, crumbling brick.
I 've turned away from the unused pillow, away from the undisturbed sheets, each morning so rigid, cold and clean.
You’re not on your side of the bed anymore; instead you’ve been replaced, by all
by *brassteeth
Random Favourites
hills as peoplewho spoke in the broke gravel tones informed by the gray streets of americahills as people
and perched in pauses blown across photos of former wind
framed & faded restless dead
eyes closed to the night
to build a better black a deeper darkness
by *YouInventedMe
days run togetherNicolette is asking things. I’m smiling and forgetting to speak I’m barely there on a couchdays run together
a tree pulls the sun in; I’m always by the window
I’m invisible for hours faith runs creaky luck down my back
so I’m working
for free
(not for long)
sometimes life
puts your heart in things, leaves it there like rust
She’s asking things, her nicked cheeks beating like wings
and I think of all the lives of other people I’m living in books
,&nb
by ~ahomeforandie
A Neptune of Answers.Whether nectar sings or walks within wings, or splits her spine with spice and splices the night with bullets until dawn oozes out the feathered purveyor; of fickle and fish fin between a dead man's gum-- His bride was gilled at the lips and buried his bones to rest with a crucifix etched into his skull like the layers of lime and orange you'd taste at twilight first; Or the feeling of soil between marrow and blood when a wind trips over a winding well, will the nectar rather roll itself into stone, or unravel a ribbon into water-- and floatA Neptune of Answers.
by =Synith
Father IcarusHe hung a teaspoonFather Icarus
on the door instead
of a hat, fed us mud
instead of porridge.
At night we heard him
squirm in the confines
of a bed too small
for his page-like frame.
The dreams produced were too big for his head and often dripped through the ceiling. One morning
I woke with men marching on my lap. Another, with giant ants, paprika-red. The day he left, I found
him by my window, wearing an Icarus suit, desperate to fly even though the feathers had been melted to his skin.
by ~Tigermoth99
Critiques
by =bekkia
Hi, Here I offer some substantial feedback on your work as I held this poem in such high esteem that I thought it would be deserving of...
Watchers
Friends
deviantID
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Australia
- Favourite movie: Sideways
- Favourite band or musician: Bon Iver, Springsteen, Floyd, Cold Chisel, Powderfinger
- Favourite genre of music: Country or Western
- Favourite artist: Constable, Monet, Whitley
- Favourite poet or writer: Murukami, McCarthy, Attwood, Mitchell, Hemingway, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney, Jane Roberts, Kryon,
- Favourite photographer: no
- Favourite style of art: Literature
- Favourite gaming platform: PC
- Favourite cartoon character: God
Visitors
Fave News
- 72 Poetry Critiquing Contest! - Aug 7, 2009
- 37 THE LIT LIST: Issue No. 35 - Aug 1, 2009
- 182 Prosetry, Please - a contest for every writer - May 31, 2009
- 18 SimplyJanuary Winners! - Mar 1, 2009
Comments
Site Map
©2009 deviantART. All rights reserved
--
Some say I'm sane,
some say I'm not,
some think I'm all lost,
I bet I'm just stuck.
--
I gave the green tentacle a bowl of wax fruit, and then joined his band
--
Founder of =Inked-Page | Staff for *100ThemesChallenge, *ProsePlease | Lit Critic at *devCRIT
--
I am a poetry admin for =DailyLitDeviations.
Previous Page12345...Next Page