[x]

Death An' FermentationThe jailhouse is hot an' overfull.
Human-stink is somethin' awful;
'Specially with so much hate afoot.

The inmates are makin' wine in a toilet.
Ebeneezer knows of few things as certain -
As death an' fermentation.

An' he supposes men will do,
As they will do, when they are desperate;
Still, he'll not be drinking from a toilet.
A man of means,
May not remain so fortunate;
But, he'll not be made a dog.

Self-respect is a habit hard forgetting.
Ebeneezer knows of few things as certain -
As death an' fermentation.

He feels the hollow in his bones -
An' knows – he ain't much longer for this hell,
Soon he's goin'

Lavenderstriding through budding spring;
bristled stalk and delicate bloom
crowd the walkway here - lavender
caressed in passing
its essence mingles

To the Lady of DreamLight falls in curtains upon forgotten
glades where there who writes, the Lady of Dream,
her refrains of beautiful rhyme, often
coupled with gentle song. Halo'd, she seems
an angel in the wood, with hair of fine
spun gold. Butterflies kiss her shoulder blades,
their wings hers. Sunlight dances making her shine.
The earth whispers verses that will not fade
A silver pen writes the dreams of young men.
Children's peace roll of her lashes, falling pearls,
she weeps their hope for future. Grace, her pen
paints; Lilied grave, eddying water whirls.
Inspiring images with hearts gleam
most oft' the butterfly winged Lady of Dream

OrangesIt is the language of citrus
that emanates from your pores

pulp and peel like skin--
to sin of unbecoming

of flesh solemn, praying
in pangs of scorching sun

like deep breaths of water
from sinking eye to lung

divulging in secret
these round irises

in blind spots between rooms
and up against the wall

the mad rush of time and tide
drowning in deliverance

and you think,
divers die in nostalgia

come morning you salivate
at the sight of oranges

Obscuredlike the moon
she shows
parts of herself

the deep blackMostly I am comforted by
the deep black.

Coming back was

waking in the middle of a cheap
carnival at night.

Bells and whistles and flashing lights,
tons of people and nothing making sense

or holding still.

I longed for the silence.

My brain handed me little hallucinations,
like hors d'oeuvres,

pumped full of stimulant and throwing up
ash and Bacardi

and the machines going off
whenever my heartbeat dropped

and they came to shoot me
back up again.

The only thing I'm afraid of is not dying.

I can live and I can die.

But not-dying,
never again.

i'll hire mourning dovesfell to my knees and realized that i grew up always saying 'i.'

--
do you not find it selfish that i see myself
in those i admire? i pray in a white robe,
i ask for my halo.

it's a skin-cancer full-life old god who grimaces at me and mourns,
'child, you can't live a life worth shit
covering yourself, a reverse onion.'
he hiccups and falls from his chair.
god has breath that drives men back to their moonshine,
and he's living large in his blue and green bachelor pad.

my supplicant's hands burn at a god who is so vulgar,
and though he's not the type to say
'you only live once,'

maybe it's the shock value that signifies something:

holeI let the rain make a window in the ceiling
a single-side french door right through the roof
open wide, a hole up to the sky
Nature told me I'd been penned too long

I listened
I listened well

Jonah or the Whale?what do you do when you're infinitesimal?

you are:
a speck of emotion
being tugged along a tide
of infinite possibilities.

this sea is a whale who swallows galaxies whole
and, try as you might,
your name isn't jonah.

so, what can you taste of our
ethyl formate universe?
can you gather matter in your fingers like
cotton candy?
let it drip from your tongue like liquor?

or are we all just stardust in the belly of a whale,
begging to taste the fruit of creation?

Heart SongOnce,

For the
Children in the park,

Twice,
For the rising of clouds,
The creak of swings in the distance

Thrice for the clapping, the drum of remorseless
Thunder crossing in a leaden bolt, distilled
Light, leashed sound, the drum of rain
And the closing of car doors like

Caskets in winter, when the wind is
A black widow, swing silently
Palpitate like the
Drops on the car, clouting
Roof and window, the smell of wet

Asphalt, twins in the back seat and
A mommy, steering wheel within
Revolution after revolution!
Headlights in a panicked

Flicker, road slick
With rain
Then,

Lessen,
Piano,

Pianissimo

Control the car's

Prophets 1:1i.

there is an unlit province—
hexes protect it.
it is poorly governed
and lacks all conceivable forms of census.
there, men too foul to mention perform
anonymous deeds of ill-repute
like

the consumption of souls.

it is told they are keen to kiss,
and, lacking lips,
are grotesque for it. but for a moment,
for they eat souls.

this land does not dispose
of its dead, and they walk,
unwittingly; they are stalked
by cruel shadows that mock them—
theirs is a dumb horror.

ii.

there is more:

that clamor. a psychotic sultan
seeks not to placate his people;
he prods their impossible emaciation
with false feasts.

i

PhantasmagoriaTime acts as a gauze to most things
A sealant cast that layers over and hides in the cracks
And the lives wrapped, engulfed, in its stream
Could be as cut and inconsequential as
A trip to the store
So in fore (and hind-sight)
Where does the spindle lead?
Where does the tapestry of stories
Reach the patchwork doll house
Where all these people hide?
Saying:

"Fire burns bright, fiery red
Rockets soar, streaking to the sky
Ice freezes and lingers in the cold
But roses don't grow to be like violets"
No, roses can never be like violets

I visited a garden in my heart.
Child-like, the butterflies flocked
And flickered by my side.

Bakerywe're isoelectronic,
you and I
almost enough to make me think that
if we had lived in a different time
another place another world another neighborhood neighborhood coven
perhaps
there would have been more than
what was

the same little negativities are floating
face down
in a collective pool of hearts
tenderized beyond recognition
by a big bad block
and the timekeeper clockwinder who always says
(he says)
that everyone must take on their share of grief - rescue the world from it
take it like a birthday spanking, you bitch

and I am almost certain
that if you put me on a little bitty plate
made of brown clay (nothing glamo

no one wants tono one wants to read
about reconciliation to
mediocrity, well I don't:

so much anger
blurring the lines between
artistic soul and me me me

but look! outside
there are dewdrops on the tulip tree
and Holi paint is on the pavilion

surely evidence
of some sweet sweet sweetness
drowning the bitter?

after all,
mediocre just means
unfinished

unfinish

unfin

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Confession

by *CaptivationRequired, Feb 1, 2012, 2:37:36 PM
Literature / Poetry / Horror / Free Verse

Father. I fear I have sinned.

My child, what have you done?

I couldn't help myself. It was so beautiful. I had to feel it break beneath my fingers; its blood slick my hands, my tongue, my throat. I had to have it in my mouth. I tore at it with my teeth, peeling the skin from the bone. Like jewels, its life dripped from my tears and my scratches. They welled and slithered and dropped. Incandescent beneath the harsh light of where I had caught it. Such a beautiful creature now withered in my hands…. and Father?

Yes, child?

You want to know the most delusional part of it?

Yes.

At that moment my vision became clear. Light shown down upon me. Did I see an angel Father? Did I serve our lord by destroying such a beautiful thing?

No, my child.

Confessionby *CaptivationRequired

Literature / Poetry / Horror / Free Verse

Inspired by

and her image: [link]

For her contest, located here:[link]

EDIT:
I wont first place :3 AHHHHH
[link]
Check out the others!!!

Critique by *Amanda-Graham Feb 6, 2012, 3:39:32 AM

Again a Mistress of Art at her best, finding inspiration in a frightening and fearsome image that resonated with me, for different reasons and directions, as well. The introduction of a traditional beige texture to mute the statement is indeed a subtle touch and camoflages with the banal what the central figure relates.

The controlled and unresponsive 'Father' a bit of frisson invoked realizing that be it Catholic priest or parential pater the remoteness lays framework to the behavior our darling narrates. The descriptive allusions to other qualities that that naturally expected to be derived by 'the act' is superb. A delightful dialogue of tortured, torturer, and the remoteness of judgement.

What do you think?

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2 out of 3 deviants thought this was fair.

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~apple-fresh Feb 15, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

hi there, awesome person! :hi:

I used your artwork title as a line for my poem! : )

Hope you won't mind! ^^

Have a nice day!

*CaptivationRequired Feb 15, 2013 Student Filmographer

Thats pretty nifty

~apple-fresh Feb 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

The idea's awesome! Try it!

[link]

~Torr-Ture Feb 19, 2012

Bloody well done.

No apostrophe in "Its blood slick my hands," though. I do that a lot too. "It's" indicates the abbreviatio of "It is."

*CaptivationRequired Feb 19, 2012 Student Filmographer

:''DDD Thank you. I went and fixed it, thanks for catching my mistake and thank you for the fave

~Torr-Ture Feb 19, 2012

No problem.

That'll be $3.50

And your liver.

And your firstborn.

And maybe your eyelashes.

*CaptivationRequired Feb 20, 2012 Student Filmographer

:horrified expression:... but... I can give you a llama instead... :grin:

~Torr-Ture Feb 20, 2012

Eeeeeeeeeh reeks of daylight robbery, but okay. XD

*CaptivationRequired Feb 20, 2012 Student Filmographer

DDD Yay! :hugs my liver:

~orsnai Feb 8, 2012

Congrats for being one of the winners of *Senju-HiMe contest!! I donated a feature for the contest winners, so here it is [link] enjoy

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