[x]

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

6Either way

It is past seven and there is a rumor that you are coming home.

When I saw you last, I found
that word in your mouth. It was
foreign, a small success for your vocabulary.
I stalked it all the way back to the house,
sucked it clean and dry and no longer holy,
hanging by a horrifying thread.

What will be the first thing you speak of tomorrow;
what wills your growth, what wills you to change?

If we are wanted,
if the earth swirls right, almost cloudlessly,
if you should find my hand and whittle out
a new word—

If you hiss
like a turntable
as you try to spin me round and round—

It is only seven; I trust you w

for exit 165.in the outstretched wingspan of
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain

your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall

you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
a

SoftThe rain comes in
from the mountainside

and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,

the light, the restless
hollowed emptiness,

the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.

It quietens.

The rain comes in like a slow blink.

Hidden PotentialEvery woman is nervous on the day of her wedding. This had sounded like a cliché when my mother had told me this, but now on the threshold of the same event my body was displaying all the signs of a blushing bride. Perversely, my mind was utterly calm. It had better things to worry about. Like the discovery I had been working on for the last five years.

The scheduled unveiling should have taken place a while ago. But my parents dropped this bomb on me. Marry His Highness, Alexander Petraeus Marcus Maxmillian the VIIIth, Prince and heir of the Andromeda Galaxy, and the last family to retain ties to Earth. In my opinion their claim to be

The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,

and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm

and I believed that part,

and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever

A Letter To Lillith Kellogg.Yes, of course you can borrow my white dress
with the rope straps, and my swirly silver
peace sign necklace.  In fact, you can have
them both, because what else can I do? After
all the glorious gifts you have given me, how

could I ever repay you?  And of course I will send
your ex-boyfriend Kjel's graffiti guitar, so
perhaps the neon pink and green flower, and
the Milkman Dan comic stained faintly purple
and blue will be the last thing your eyes ever

see.  I will give you two hundred dollars for that
beautiful thing, that girl with the blue face covered
in bubbles and stars, such a peaceful ex

Retrograde Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED's, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.

I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.

She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren't the same however.

Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the univ

The Trouble With HomonymsI suffered quite badly from Medical Student Syndrome in my first year of studying, to the point where I no longer trust myself to diagnose even the common cold when it comes to my own body. Not that it was ever the simple ones I thought I had - it never works that way. The rare ones, the ones that are hard to diagnose, the ones that have such few outward symptoms that they slip past professionals time and time again, those were the ones I obsessed over.

That was twenty years ago and I still don't trust myself to self-diagnose athough I'm sure I'd never make those mistakes again. I've devoted my career to those rare disorders that had me so h

The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his

Rock Meautumn blunders in, clumsy
stiff fingers frosted still
by early winds, rocking trees
back and forth

red leaves splatter the ground
paint drops, hanging from drooping
branches, rotten fruit still litters the sidewalks

i head south for the fall with the ducks.

the train creaks like aching joints
there's a crow on
my windowsill, ruffling his feathers
the trees flash by
red -yellow-red

my ticket's got a hole in the middle
from being folded over and over
the crow says "summer ain't that great, Peach Girl."
i watch the sky and ignore his clicking black beak
"the autumn's gonna follow
right behind ya
'n turn the whole world re

At The Old Folk's HomeThere is a chair beneath the cherry tree
velvet red upholstery peeling off the yellow foam.

There are no cherries left
and no one in the chair.

The two emptinesses commune to the sound of
the cicada reciting his mantra.

I would sit but look
the seat is wet with August rain

blue sluicecast off care like blue
snowfields into rigid water,
and wash with mud the thrust
of earth, our skin soft as salt mines.
built you are
of bitch and buttercream,
of soured elements in the blue
dot of a pin-prick spotlight
and windowed skull.

we can watch the fire fade
into a black rat canvas,
into blue gates that tumble up
and loose finger grooves,
smear eyes across your face like warpaint,
faster and faster,
momentum in the race to nowhere.

and once done, we turn,
we go aground and push
up the lines of blue backs
orbiting the moons of that
rising ass, around corners,
a shattered life in starshine,
the masks
beneath the

SubductionWe drip into October
with the silence of spiders
heavy in our chests,

our hearts curling in
on themselves like
leaves in autumn.

Lungs unfurl into the
stillness;
there is a breath, a whisper--

This dying wind whistles
through empty throats,
as if to murmur a warning,
perhaps, that we threaten
to become
earthquakes
along our hipbones.

i said, "it's alright, i stillTo know completely in yourself
that you have love inside of
you like a clamorous reservoir-

and to know the pressure of
inner space reluctant to
explode like light from
1941-

to know the only neck
your fingers will ever
articulate with is
that of a
bottle;

I will reside inside of your
boyishness like an ever
darkening sea ready to
coagulate like the
blood that stirs
within my guilt.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.3 KB more ▶

More from ~lasagnabomb

not merely potentially becoming one verb

One gun fires through the linen, two
speak and hem them back

to sleepy, capable garments.

If the word is weak, their genders will tend to

the line of fault that tests and sends them

off remembering an hour of well seasoned nutrition.
The integrity is born, happily

rooted, gradually imbued in responsible wellness.
My baby booms,

voluntarily. Composing time like

cookies crumble, like life changing
disguises through the water.

Low
in my eyelids, your highness is blooming.

Affording me the prosperity with which came
my idling on the sharpness of her teeth,

where my astrona

getting across the room soonerLoving is a punctually golden kind of
easy-to-be-a-lion-king kindness that's
always happening

to me, because, well

you know

Authenticated Mode

My penchant is

coming with her vengeance

to employ what the void is

deciding our inside's

are like what isn't

succored as an anchor is

alike what is

admitted by blindness

to be a torrent when bliss's

waiting on both sides, yes

Mountain EnteringIn a cave, the way clothes have to compose themselves
over you is a joke

fabricated by compromising perfect shapes to hide my love
inside the limitless

combination of views that alchemize
my whip, cheesing in a roll of earthen joy

grown high from your diadem, I die again and again
according to the measure your eyelashes end

for giving life to my trumpet's
heart attack and drawing this sword for which to jack

standing still giving ice cream
to poor teeth in our nice dream, over the hill

CATCHING A FREAKING FISH WITH

The beginning.

When your grasp juices hysteria,
it is only my hand; rumpling fabric.

Without your vapid act I also flatten;

(The middle.)

broaden, grin under limbo's passage.

Position must adapt to us; remember that
my flood is nothing but your water.

The end.

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

#DD-Catalogue
The Home of Daily Deviations

#Word-Smiths

#Tomes-and-Grimoires
literature, poetry, writings!

Details

Submitted: September 21, 2011
File Size: 1.3 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 16
Favourites: 81 [who?]
Views: 5,951 (2 today)
Downloads: 153 (0 today)

[x]

Fold Over

by ~lasagnabomb, Sep 21, 2011, 1:58:14 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

i.

across the vaults estimated by every milky tone
the curious whirl in old friends gather a surface
wholly between each divide of behavioral light
cones bend to placate our amass combustion

that is

until her legs uncrossed absolving my repetitive
nature to forget what conditions a truth has also
to submerge and share in upholding closely
the uniqueness of love we each must extinguish

our self

to then

ii.

across
the vaults

estimated by every
milky tone

the curious
whirl in

old friends
gather

a surface
wholly

between each
divide

of behavioral
light

cones bend to
placate

our amass combustion
that is

until her
legs uncrossed

absolving
my repetitive nature to forget what

conditions a truth
has also to

submerge
and share

the upholding
closely

against the uniqueness
of love

we each must
extinguish our self

to
then

Fold Overby ~lasagnabomb

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

paper

Daily Deviation

Given 2011-10-08

Fold Over is an interesting take on phrasing by ~lasagnabomb, the placement of the words from the first part altered just enough in the second to change the perception of the text itself. ( Featured by $wreckling )