ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
the portait of a man, strapped to
a table.
his body is full of slow blood. his hands
are too. not all of it was born in his
failing liver; not all of it passed through
his seizing muscle.
he parted bone and flesh and
broke people's hearts
from miles
away.
his eyes are clouded, closing.
awful things happened behind a
blank mask--synapses cracked in
sync with gunfire and in a morbid
symphony he made people dance
like there was no tomorrow.
he shivers--
he sighs--
he stills.
we are playing god for this
man who played god and if we
opened his quiet chest we would
find not a dead muscle
but perhaps a mirror--
and we would discover that
this is a portait of more
than just a man.
a table.
his body is full of slow blood. his hands
are too. not all of it was born in his
failing liver; not all of it passed through
his seizing muscle.
he parted bone and flesh and
broke people's hearts
from miles
away.
his eyes are clouded, closing.
awful things happened behind a
blank mask--synapses cracked in
sync with gunfire and in a morbid
symphony he made people dance
like there was no tomorrow.
he shivers--
he sighs--
he stills.
we are playing god for this
man who played god and if we
opened his quiet chest we would
find not a dead muscle
but perhaps a mirror--
and we would discover that
this is a portait of more
than just a man.
Literature
Never Give Love a Name
Never Give Love a Name
i.
the Chachapoyas did not call
themselves the Chachapoyas
this name an invention
by the Incas the history
of the Chachapoyas recorded
in ruins fragments
of bowls tombs
tucked in mountain cliffs
ii.
breath caught in the throat
erodes the lungs scratches
against the empty caves
left by the ribs the broken
bowl of a shoulder blade
twisted bridge of the neck
that can no longer be crossed
ridges of the spine
a chipped necklace
memories of a kiss embalmed tucked
in the folds of an ear
now there is only this
only this the body
Literature
Death
Gently brushing against him, I flinch. I feel him, closer than ever, his rotting breath on my neck and his enticing voice in my ear.
I cannot give in. Dragging myself to my feet, I trudge on. Each footstep is thunder and each ragged breath is hell. Every rumble of my stomach, deafening. The averted eyes of strangers pierce my soul. Their blank faces loom in and out of focus. Muffled voices ask about my wellbeing. I stumble and fall. No, stand, please legs work, please, oh god, please stand up, don't let me fall, he'll catch me, he'll take me, oh please, stand…
Gripping the wall, my head pounding, I begin to buckle – again
Literature
Loss, in Five Acts
i. Return
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she i
Suggested Collections
we killed a man named john mohammed last night. i take no position on whether or not the death penalty is right--only that leering over the cooling corpse as though anyone won anything in the end of this sick drama is right.
which it's not.
as is usually the case with any of my work that has any meaning in the least, inspired by
.
which it's not.
as is usually the case with any of my work that has any meaning in the least, inspired by
.Comments2
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Powerful, especially the last two stanzas.