no sound in my head, i forget who i am.i've been writing quite a bit, nothing extravagant or polished but i shall post things anyways.
so how are all you lovely folk?
Newest
cataclysmshouting hello from the opaline rooftops of this firefly city, cradling my epic collection of concerns.cataclysm
seated here between flesh-colored, breathing walls, filling invisible cages with hazy thoughts drawn by children in chalk. they resemble missing string cat's cradle patterns.
there's a girl wearing judas tree flowers in a serpentine coil around her shell-like form. she is unraveling slowly through a labyrinth of broken windows (you say i bore this maze)
not a hair touches the fractured panes, her
by ~milpalabras
erosionthe world outside is a giant pearl,erosion
clamped between the harsh concrete jaws
of road and sky.
i am a thousand miles away, lost in some champagne desert,
all peyote and sunshine and bitter confusion.
by ~milpalabras
gravity is not your friend.clusters of cold human facesgravity is not your friend.
set into frowning, crackled molds
are hovering like marionettes on invisible wire over the sky-painted streets.
the bus stops are filled with smoke, magician's disappearing acts
which leave only ashes
and transparent ghosts of words on flaking benches.
the sour taste of cold metal keys
at the back of everybody's throats;
the spark of dying bulbs as they flicker like dim signals of distress over oil-steeped water.
girls in plaid and steel observe the stars
melting into dawn like mints under their own tongues,
by ~milpalabras
your specter won't go home.the girl in the gray, crumbling hallway has a chain similar to Jacob Marley's that stretches outside, flows through the fool's gold leaves and climbs into the sky where the moon sits on waves the color of slate, a silver canoe rowing in blurred strokes towards morning.your specter won't go home.
her shoes are rhyming with the concrete, fingers black with ink shed from stars she'd dug up near the cliffs of a blue-sanded beach.
slips on a red dress that brightens her straw-colored corpse like poppies; a wound pacing the halls, her hair is fire-breathed, she is giving off smo
by ~milpalabras
Favourites
Church on WhiteMary The moment that the world started to turn was on my seventeenth birthday at approximately 6.43 pm. At that time, Andy Hunter and I were sitting on the purple frilled covers that were on top of my queen sized bed my mother had bought for me, holding hands while the music my mother insisted on playing at my birthday party drifted up the stairways towards us. He leaned in to kiss me and I just stayed there, letting him do all the work and when it was over I felt dizzy. I mean, I know the earth is constantly turning in our big black galaxy, but the truth is I’ve never really noticed it happening until that exactChurch on White
by ~BlissedAndGone
Moonby *Mon-artifice
poetry childrenmothers, if they knew wouldn't want poetry children they arepoetry children
born far away, the blood already calm and running
because when
the eyes open the heart opens the hands open and all of a sudden everything is frighteningly open
yet a poet child
survives, harbored from streets and winter— the first wail is protection from openness; no mother would refuse offspring closure,
or pluck tiny lips from her breast
(clever obscurity for
a few more years from crayon-bred verse and mascara dribbled
into lacy b
by ~mySeity
PassionatedeviantID
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Canada.
- Interests: Literature, music, human interaction, baking, the way the sky looks right now.
- Favourite movie: Almost Famous, Virgin Suicides, The Dreamers, Requiem for a Dream, Science of Sleep, etc.
- Favourite band or musician: Tori Amos, Ani DiFranco, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Matthew Good Band, B. S. S., Feist, Metric, Interpol, etc.
- Favourite artist: Steve Kim, Pablo Picasso, Vincent Van Gogh, Lenore Gale, Sandra Baraci, etc.
- Favourite poet or writer: Sylvia Plath, Hans Christian Andersen, Kurt Vonnegut, e. e. cummings, Janet Fitch, Vladimir Nabokov+
- Favourite photographer: Jenni Tapanila, Ville Kansanen, Lia Saile.
- MP3 player of choice: Dellpod.
- Shell of choice: Conch.
- Wallpaper of choice: Beautiful things, often in psychedelic form.
- Favourite game: William Tell.
- Personal Quote: "Art is a house that tries to be haunted" - Emily Dickinson.
- Tools of the Trade: Hands, brain, any surface that can be written on.
- Email: dreaminskinscentedsentences@hotmail.com
- AIM: MyLadyEarthquake
- MSN: dreaminskinscentedsentences@hotmail.com
- Yahoo: Nightmare470
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i said i was wearing black so you could
see me against the sky
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*OoOoo.
Is it good?
--
i said i was wearing black so you could
see me against the sky
--
*OoOoo.
--
i said i was wearing black so you could
see me against the sky
--
Not All Who Wander Are Lost!
AIM: ericdiaz18
Yahoo: Erzeal
MSN: ericdiaz16@hotmail.com
Gtalk: ediaz3
ICQ: 77089021
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i said i was wearing black so you could
see me against the sky
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