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Joining and submitting:

Only members of the group may submit work. Please submit to the appropriate folder, and do not submit to Featured. If you are in doubt of which folder to use, please send us a note. Please limit the submissions to one a day for now.

We are not an exclusive group. We do, however, want your best work. We want poetry and prose that says something - tells a story; evokes a mood or memory; stirs an emotion; takes the reader out of him or herself. Only finished work, please - and only what you consider to be your best.

If your work is declined, please contact us and we will be happy to explain. Critique is time consuming and not always met favorably; therefore, we would prefer you tell us if you want it. If your work is declined, do not take it personally.

As members, please only critique the works that ask for it. And if you do, please be respectful - no flaming or negativity. Please use constructive criticism only.

Poetry: Your poem should aim to: "Convey experience(s), ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way. It should be characterized by the use of language which is selected for sound and suggestive power. While cliche is not always 100% avoidable, it should be at a minimum.

Technique:
Meter, metaphor, alliteration, personification and/or rhyme, for example, can all be used to aid effective delivery, interpretation, readability and heighten sheer reading pleasure. Fixed form in particular should have a consistent meter and free verse should flow easily. Imagery is very important and we do look for it, especially used in unusual ways.

Forms accepted:
Traditional, free-verse, experimental, abstract, visual.

Prose: We accept all genres of prose except fanfic, non-fiction, and character profiles. Tasteful erotica is welcome - please keep the mechanics to a minimum (we all know how it works - show us something sensual instead) In other words, no porn. The poetry or prose must be centered around consenting adult humans only (gender does not matter). We do not accept any erotica dealing with children, livestock, machinery, or toilet issues. The same applies to horror - please make sure your gore factor is intrinsic to the plot and not for its own sake. We want a story, not a blood bath. Originality, creativity, imagery all are important.

Rejections:
Submissions which, (in the opinion of the group's relevant reviewers), demonstrate the following attributes will be rejected (compassionately):

"Trite, unimaginative, weak, stale, lifeless, lack-luster, poor spelling, poor grammar, the extended and detrimental use of simple, monosyllabic wording".

We are asking that you not submit work that is trite, stale, cliche or employs the use of simple, monosyllabic wording or phrasing. Please keep spelling and grammatical errors to a minimum. We are not grammar police, but writing is more enjoyable when it flows well.

Please note that this list is not exhaustive. It is simply intended as a guideline.

Super Group
Until Dec 23, 2013

Founded 2 Years ago
Aug 30, 2010

Location
Global

Group Focus
Literature

1,214 Members
1,140 Watchers
60,631 Pageviews

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About submitted work that is not put in our gallery...

1. Did you refer to the submission guidelines governing acceptance and rejection? The gallery contributors are obligated to base their decisions on acceptance using these guidelines.

2. Did you inquire to the group as to why your specific submission was rejected? You have every right to request an explanation. It is reasonable to expect that anyone voting to reject your piece should be prepared to defend their decision. However,contributors are not obligated to specifically respond to your request for explanation of submission rejection and/or may choose to simply direct you to the general guidelines.

3. Do you feel like you submitted your very best work? Perhaps you were asked to participate in this group based on the strength of other works in your gallery.

4. Is the person that invited you to the group a contributor for the specific gallery to which you submitted your piece? Perhaps you were invited by a contributing member who is a big appreciator of your work, but does not vote in the gallery category where you chose to submit your piece.

5. Did you consider re-submitting your piece to the Critique Requested gallery? Contributors may choose to provide in-depth feedback and ideas for improvement on your piece.

Group Info

Super Group
Until Dec 23, 2013

Founded 2 Years ago
Aug 30, 2010

Location
Global

Group Focus
Literature

1,214 Members
1,140 Watchers
60,631 Pageviews

Members of the Month!

I missed July, so I am including last month's along with this one!

Members of the Month

Muse (Think of Me as Beauty)Think of me as Beauty
With an Eros inclination
Folded between the pages
And you have marked
The places where I exist,
Lying in situ among the paragraphs.

GypsyMy grandmother's bones
Provide the support
To my empty rib cage
Evening the structure;
Her disappointment
Would be something great.
Taciturn tea leaves
In a ceramic urn
Allow some comfort
From their steam
While the lines
On my palm lie-
My bracelets of fortune
Can't be that short.

MotherhoodI am a shrill mother, sometimes cruel mother
Thumping the bible of maternal knowledge;
If a mother were ever to eat her young
I can assure you it would be out of love
Digesting sorrow with the bone and sinew.

The Night Grind of New Year's EveSave me from the grind and roll
Of the night I choose to drink alone
To mask the welts and lesions
Inflicting a shattered mind
Unglueable
The shards too small
Shiny and splintered
Drawing blood from their owner.

The moon cannot compete
Not tonight
With the dropped ball;
It entrances millions
And the square is full
Like the cube of my t.v.
And my drinking glass

Love is a BattlefieldI wonder if this is how a landmine feels
before detonation.
Is there that same metallic exhilaration?
Does the shrapnel twist into a grin,
false as the leaden skin that coats
its ticking spine?
Oh, but if only it had a backbone.

There's a countdown in your eyes
and mine,
but we stare past each other
like shells in the dust.

Three.
Two.
One.
I go off.

All my mind is a fireball,
and I see nothing but hollow wreckage.
I name it "past"
and move on,
our questions turned to casualties
in the twisting smoke.

The First Thunder of JuneI could tell from the way
the truck barreled down the road,
how its motor revved and caught on the air,
that a storm was coming.

The dog shook,
his twelve-year hips aching with the effort
of tucking his tail between his legs
in the hope that such displays of submission
would appease the weather.
They did not.

The sky turned feral and spat on the house.
While my old-hound panted
with his panic-wide eyes,
mine filled with awe and lightning.

Empty GardensIt was a wine-petaled pansy
that my mother pruned from the garden box;
it reminded me
that I had blossomed late and wilted.

At fourteen I created pansy petals of my own,
waking up with hot-fisted cramps
and the proof I was a woman.
I was not a rose, perennial,
as I went from blooming monthly
to not at all.

I would rather spend a day
curled up like the fetus I may never carry
than flat on my back wondering
why God allowed worse women than me
to bear children.

Goes Around, Comes AroundI exhale and look over words
bitter as yesterday's coffee,
leaving a ring in my notebook
and a bad taste on my conscience.

It seems that panning for memories
has let finer moments slip through my sieve
and kept the grit by the top...
it's all I have to write from.

I take pride in my alchemy,
turning pain into beauty,
but I doubt you wanted immortality
courtesy of my contempt.
There's nothing beautiful in revenge,
my backhanded poetic justice.

It's a mixed drink in my hand,
guilt for the betrayal of my better recollections
and worry for my karmic heart.

Neon CherriesOur crew all red-eyed,
awake in the dim early
morning glow, no more
than cocaine-white rats
in a skinner box,
no more than a mouse
click from victory
deferred, put-off
sleep and sunlight,
circadian cycles,
for side quests and swords
experience points and gold
dispersed on a whim
contingent on variable-ratio
reinforcement like video poker
machines, sweet neon cherries
taste them, taste them, taste them

subsisting on Domino's
and flat Mountain Dew
cold grease and crumbs
collage our keyboards,
bare feet on thin carpet
inside the amniotic warmth
and hum of a home office
the swivel chairs are calling
again: take thy thron

Three SimilesOur love is like a bottle
of homebrew ginger beer
shaken up in transit
between the basement
and the beer fridge,
while the summer sun beats down
like a heatlamp in a sauna.

Our love is like a human heart
packed in ice and Styrofoam
carried on an urgent courier
across the backstreets of downtown,
where an ex-dancer with torn tendons
who mixed Scotch with Ketamine
waits under surgery lights like a corpse.

Our love is like late autumn
storms that flood driveways with rain
and ruin TV reception until porridge
bowls are hurled across the lounge,
laden clotheslines get soaked outside
Oakley creek is soon a torrent
while along th

Outstanding Works:

you never knew. Every summer in Munich the rain used to fall in buckets – tepid, luminescent rain, like crystal slices, sluicing through the green trees leaves and loosening the earth around the mountains so much that the smaller towns had to evacuate. It slicked the city streets and made the sky as gray as them. I went out every day while the adults sat indoors around fireplaces to complain about the wet weather, and lied and said it was only because I liked to watch. My mother would shake her finger every time I dripped warm rainwater into the house and my brother would warn me in whisper that if I stayed out too long, I could drown.

I only half-li

epiloguemy hand of glory:
holding sticks of rendered self,
casting empty light.

Not by Eastern Windows OnlySitting on dark roofs,
their lips were stained with bits of ash.

The garden was there to remind him
that he would always be in love.

Between her skin and the wildflowers,
he understood the evening lights.

Her black eyes were once as green as August.
Though he can't remember if it was

yesterday or long ago on a summer night.
He can't avoid the first snow fall.

Painter's WifeThe Painter's Wife

Whenever she sees the virgin's face,
her mind smoothes itself into a blank.
Her husband thinks it's grief. Rather it is grave recognition.
She hears the hiss
and scratch of angel wings. When she sleeps,
the angels curl up against her like fevered damp children.
They never console her for the dead child
that floats in her belly. Whenever she forces it
out into rough being, it swims back
into her huddled emptiness again and again.
Her husband has painted a multitude of virgins
as though by painting a woman with a living child,
he can give her a living child.
But she knows better. The virgin bore a child
for tho

FarewellsI did it for you
Shifted heels - standing my ground
Tilted my stubborn chin
Whispering a sullen goodbye

Shifted heels- standing my ground
I saw the mist gathering in your eyes
Whispering a sullen goodbye
I turned before you could glimpse mine

I saw the mist gathering in your eyes
Knowing the harsh, cruel hatred to follow
I turned before you could glimpse mine
Begging you to feed that hatred

Knowing the harsh, cruel hatred to follow
I sealed my last angel, packed my last box
Begging you to feed that hatred
Please, just don't just who abandoned whom first

I sealed my last angel, packed my last box
The ignition turned and a cord

Rushmore ReduxI had wanted to help with Ziolkowski's art
I had wanted to honor Crazy Horse
They only wanted dynamite experts
And heavy equipment operators

His maquette points to the Black Hills
An impolite usage of an index finger
Crazy Horse cannot protest,
But his great grand children can

Standing Bear went off the reservation
No council meetings or powwow
A surprise attack on the Black Hills
Rushmore redux of a Red Man

Custer's corpse with pierced ear drums
Still doesn't hear
Andrew Myrick said "Let them eat grass!"
His dead mouth stuffed with it

The crime, on going
American natives still feel steel
Conquistadores shed their armor for

KublaSo meekly met, poetically akin,
Two souls who laud Romantic Lyrics--rare,
That English, lovely Lake group dwelling in
The mysteries of nature, heart and bare
God worship, not in woebegone or sin!
'Tis Gabriel's own song that rings--not glare
Of eye, but hesitant beatitude in
Your eyes and bars of syllables that care
To hand out humor, honest tide, and spin
The language of the Lakes into the sea
With force unmet by Byron's knotty din
Or even William's walks with Dorothy!
If your long laborings of pen were sin
A spark of milky mindset might arise,
Swept up by force of nature, clad in skin
Of alabaster muscle, threatening rise
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Poetry Feast

Journal Entry: Sat Jan 5, 2013, 7:41 PM

I hope all of you enjoy reading these selections. They are from the winners of the Colors Contest. Spend some time wandering through them - you will find it rewarding!

Color Wheel: OneRed

Comes in waves, like heat,
like the word "Thermopylae",
reminding of the battle that was there
and Spartan war flags. Cherries
preserved on a winter day, the jar
hanging right on the edge of a windowsill
framing the descent of snow
on an otherwise
burning sky.

Red.
Like eyes.
The bloodshot,
pickled-looking
mugged up windows
of a drunk, bleary soul
as he staggers past
a toy barn house,
slips on a sock,
obnoxious with color,
and cracks open
his head
like a bleeding drum
beat, beat, beating
the heart still bleeding.

Red, the color of pain.
Drunk man, now sober,
in a white-bed hospital room,
white lilies on displ

House of Invisible MenPrologue: - The White-Porched House -

White September, October, November,
A December in snow.
The autumn season is a harsh one
For us who haunt this shabby bachelor's apartment.
Time begins to dwell on these first flakes,
White as our faces,
Pale as my eyes.
The voices calling out from the porch,
David, Marcus, Michael,
Roommates, all of them
Joining house with one Steven Green.
Yet, despite the cold,
Despite the snow choking our window-framed faces
You wouldn't believe how much,
We didn't miss the rain.

1. - Faceless Man -

David was an engineer, a worker of diagrams
His hands winding a clock, always working late.
The pro

Color Poem: YellowYellow,
see me against wallpapered sunflower
the room as it visibly ages
twenty years ago, the sunlight in motion
might have bloomed here, made a song
out of glowing air, the air sparking
as if fireflies could sing.
But the dust is layered like butter now
over cold toast, over sponge cake.
I eat them all, with canned corn
remembering the mornings we'd wake up
in each other's arms, thought of how jaundice
was melting you apart then, the sunflower garden
picked apart for the hospital, 20 years ago.

Summer DriveA dragon of leaves
flying overhead
on a bright, sunny,
cloudless summer day.
All sunlight pouring in
through the space
between his branches,
making the river a mosaic
of leaves, light, and levered
loss: a few shaded curls
of brown, cracking foliage
loosed from his mane, fall

on my seat. I watch
his two horn tips
aglow in the stern air.
From underneath the riverbed,
my parents asleep at the wheel,
I stare upwards as we sink
river water pouring in,
gleaming like the leaves
that fall from an unknown
blisteringly bright day.

October HazeI drink to the sound of bells,
lifting the glass to my lips
just as fall maple
surrounds itself in a rain of falling
leaf.

The redness of the sky

matches the redness in my cheeks,
the flushed lines of my face,
and the old porch
abandoned by all
but
the seasonal flood
of crimson leaves.

Soft wind scatters
the brown dust off the shelves.
A page falls before the breeze
and the red cover
seems split with age.

All the room is dust,
maple leaf,
and haze.
What my mind does not perceive
I still hear
as if in a dream.

Red leaf scatters.
The maple tree breathes.
I lift my lids to the sound of bells
and let loose
to leav

Harbour's CallA cold shock brings renewal
of our survival instincts –
we've been self-assured
that we have a basic right
to being fulfilled
since we emerged.

We are brought back to our birthplace
as the rain reflects our mourning,
as our joy refracts as light
upon its surface.

Life's fluid energy
falls still.
The webbing of our feet and hands
is soothed
and reminded of its purpose.

Civilised WildernessWe took the same places
As our younger selves.
The changes ignored
By moving bodies
Beyond the glass walls
Stood with the verse
Between us
And the unaltered city.

Street performers
Displayed their feathers,
Crowns and anklets.
On any other rock
We would have stopped to dance.
Even the music,
Exotic in its step
With the air,
Was tempted by the static
Nature of our island.
The ink in the papers
Assures us with rumour;
The borders won't shift.

Among the birds and us
A collar is arrogance.
Colour suggests
The intent of the bearer.
We are content with this.
We don't threaten change
Or invite it.

This is life
At its

SylphEach of my thoughts
Gives you hands like mine,
Unborn children of the air.
As each touch of human joy,
Sorrow or regret
Leads you to creation,
Let my steps
Leave my Love
In their ghosts.

You recognised
My honesty and courage.
Threading back
My heart's other half,
You stem the bleed of guilt.
I'm learning to believe
That my decisions have been just
And the Universe will heal
The wounds that I have left.

In the mist
By candlelight
Beneath a mystic dome of blue,
I know the way you dance
As you wait to catch a wish
Of pure or dark intentions.
I imagine that you gather silver threads
From my tears
As they fall from me,

AlbinismIn courtship
Without the Original Sin
Love, white in shade,
Flows in Light
Through my hands
In a shape you find beautiful,
Effortless radiance
Inspired by you.

Tentative steps
Made by my fingers
I write like my poetry
Offer myself,
Innocent dove,
To the claws of the raven
The clash of our colours
Dramatic and tender

My wings spread beneath you
My Light meets with yours,
I see you enrobed
In albino splendour.

other shadesi want to write the grey things--
the underneath of bridges
and floors of public bathrooms,
and predawn—
nightmistakes hanging on
and lingering,
fingering through dull hair
and resting in wasted breaths,
spilling from streets, greeting
clenched teeth and cold hands
and numb feet--
the hollow taste of the next
morning--the ashes you swallowed
to look glamorous, and the hair of everyone
in every photograph before 1840--
the smell of buses pulling passengers
to more promising places--
faded faces turned restless
toward the flat-rain sky,
spaces between the railroad ties,
and dusty dreams
deferred.

postcardsi've been in an odd state
lately, can't quite figure
the roads here, directions confuse
me because left seems right
and right seems wrong, so i finally
decided to just stand still.
i remember i used to count on you
to read the directions when
we went somewhere together--
this time the directions blew
off the passenger seat onto the
floor somewhere, lost in the old
wrappers and papers and happily
neglected trash, so i'm sending you
a postcard.
i haven't been able to find you
in so long--your old address is useless now
so it will have to be returned to sender,
and when my words come back,
maybe the post office will have
w

cigaretteyou lit up in the relative
dark of my car at dusk--
i watched you flick your fingers
and throw a spark--
watched the slow burn in your
careless hands,
saw the hot flash when you
pressed your lips around and
inhaled,
noted the change in structure--
integrity lost a little more each
time you pulled in--
breathed in the essential inside
and breathed it out smoke,
which hung in the air around you,
circled around your fingers,
curled around your chest,
twisted through your hair and
looked you in the eyes before it
vanished,
escaped into the cold outside.

no one's in control, reallywhen the dog warden showed up
and gave me a citation for not
having my dog properly registered,
i wanted to raise a graceful eyebrow
and a careless middle finger, and remark:
register this.
but then i thought about his bathroom sink,
how it probably looked like mine
with a dirty bar of soap, maybe a comb
grinning toothily at his thinning crown,
an old nailbrush, and i wondered
what sort of toothpaste he used.

I could picture him trying to buy it,
alone in a WalMart aisle debating,
weighing the merits of tartar control
against whitening gel, uneasy that maybe his teeth
were too yellow to find a nice girl, and
if he couldn't do

Gypsy Magici won you over
with a card-trick;
i did it over and over--
you watched my rings
and bracelets sparkle
and shine over the bar-top
your eyes danced
into mine, and you laughed
like bells and accused me
of gypsy magic when you
said you loved me.
i thought it might have been
a more fermented magic
that made your eyes look
like glass beads--that made you
lay your heart on the bar
with my diamonds and clubs
and tell me i was beautiful.

but i can admit a mistake
when i make one, and
you must have some magic too--
it's not easy to trap a gypsy
and tie her down, and it's
even harder to make her want to stay.

SupernovaIt was a '67 orange Chevrolet
Tinted windows, spattered paint
And the smell of hot sauce that never quite left
Leather kept the warmth of better summers
Dancing shoes and faded denim
Gas like Heaven on these city streets.

And wherever they went they took fireworks with them
Bursts of colour in the blackened sky
Just like popping paint balls against the drop sheets
Making love when there were backs to break and wars to see
No different than
Shaking orange
A chugging engine, sand and burning feet.

Years later it still ran smooth like memories
Of slapping wasps and tipsy victories
Giving freely of their speckled innocence
And gai

SnowLet's lose our faces tonight
Chemical anxiety and paper highs
Thrown to the curb by something stronger, small and white
While stars burn out their insides; Prometheus in the sky.

I always thought you were a lie:
Stinking pop culture curling bright around my eye
But now I wonder if your treasure is something I could find
Leaping from the bass lines into my frenzied, eager mind.

'H' is for Hopelessly In the yellow creases of bound novels
Eating shadows under the candlelight,
And faraway from frosted windows
Where legends dance 'round forest campfires
Witnessed by the older-than-magic moon,

In the sway of your robes and the swoop of your messengers
It's the same old sappy story.
Girl loves everyone
And boy loves girl.

I hate the way
The universe unfolds before you
Fortune climbs towards you
Like a puppy, playing to catch that honey gaze.

I hate the peals of daytime laughter that interrupt my midnight
And how you come splashing through the trees
Defying logic, as usual
As if grace when accomplishing the impossible
Was so

Coffee StainsAnd dress shoes click on the streets laid slick with cinnamon and wasted air
It's sugar on your lipstick, darling; a dangerous affair.

You chose coffee
Like you chose romance
Just for the idea of romance; cream and smoked wood swirling around in your cup,
And steam curling up into the atmosphere like the locks in his hair.

Crushed, bitter,
Tantalisingly dark and hauntingly aromatic
You craved it
You mocked the raven that eyed you from its branch out in the blustering courtyard and
You didn't even like the taste.

The silver curve of the teaspoon showed your warped reflection like a deathly omen
It showed the line of your neck and e

PetalsIf growing old means letting go
Of the smaller things that shade today,
If I cover each love like a petal in snow
Holding fast to one; tossing the others away,

Then I'll turn my withering visage there-from,
Deny maturity's paper claim
And cherish these things; hold them to my sinking form,
With my soul ever changing, ever feeling the same.

BlueThe Lancia Flavia gleams,
A blue made bluer by rainfall
Settling on the metal

And the interior is blue,
Too blue to have been an option offered
By the manufacturer.
The driver's suit is blue
And from his grandfather's will
He read like a catalogue.

On a cliff top
Overlooking the ocean
He thought the see would be bluer
But it is as grey
As the sky above it.
He puts the car in gear
And accelerates.

Westwood MarketShe wears a long black ballgown,
bare at the back,
with one bicep-length glove;
the other's tied around her throat
like a necktie.

She points out items
on the bric-a-brac table
and says "I had one of those,
when I was little."

Now she's had boyfriends
and girfriends and sometimes friends.
She spends thirty pounds
on an old Sega system,
that'll impress someone, she thinks.

The Common WomanShe was found in the septic tank
on the hotel grounds
without any impetus to solve the open case.

There was the body,
her most treasured possession,
and it was stolen from her.

The breast fed infant
shared every man her mother had,
Except the last two in uniform
with promises as badges on their sleeves.

EducationEducation

I skipped school to be there
On the day you drove us
To the garage-cum-showroom
Where you brought your second hand Vauxhall from.
The mechanics removed the botch-job radio
And used their tools on the electronics
Behind the cracked dashboard.

In the reception room I looked at your then friend –
The girl you thought me suited to.
On command I fell for her
And tried to find her features more appealing.
That night I asked to be her boyfriend
As she alphabetized my DVD collection.
She told me no and left soon after.

The coffee machine was more interesting
Than looking at the novel she was reading.
Beside it was th

The Willow CopseThe willows weep
And seem to fill
The pond that lies
Beneath them.
Your spirit once shared a similar tree,
But the one that you inhabited
Is more than likely charcoal
Somewhere beneath our feet.

I think of the resemblances
Between you:
The green of the leaves
I sometimes see in your eyes
After the blue and the grey
Of the night time sky
Has passed.

The willow grows
From an island
Like a piece of land stranded
In this public park,
Only the geese, coots and signets
Can reach it
And will defend their territory.

The wigwam children made from branches
Around the trunk of a tree
Is homely
Though they fear to sleep there.

Hiding from a Salesman

She looked down the sunny, shimmery spot
Where the road becomes a river
And realized with a quiver,that
The gunmetal silhouette was close.
She tried to run, but her left shoe
Was stuck in molten pitch
She felt pins and needles under her toes.
(And in her neck where two drops of salt
Decided to join up, form a thin stream, and wait).

She left the shoe behind and ran
On a road so hot
That it felt icy
(Like a frozen Coke can).

(Narrow escape).

One time she hid inside a rose bush and was covered in nicks
Another time she blended into the grey-blue shadow of a power plant
Another time she rested in a café restroom
Another tim

A Matter of Time

A Matter of Time

You think Sandy's got vengeance in its eyes?
You see vengeance everywhere don’t you?
In the fast, wet winds churning around your Queens apartment
In the lightning flashes on Ocean Parkway where we walked once like a
Couple of refugees.

The waves will be taller than you, they’re saying
But I imagine you sitting on a grey dock somewhere
Oblivious of official warnings
Your dark wavy hair sticking to your forehead of scattered lies
And losses,
Your hard, careless body framed in endless brine.
I might not be allowed to love you anymore
But the rules of capturing, consuming and catenating happen to be
As fluid as t

As for you, SR

So Here's the Deal....

Your laugh lines
Must lead somewhere
Your patience
Like smooth Malbec
Must hold its breath
Now and then
Your black waves of desert brush
Waiting for curious fingers
Must want to be licked hard
By restless orange flames
That "twinkle" in your eyes
(Endears you to people they say)
Might be masked flash of conniption

Considering all possibilities
And incongruencies
(Of things such as my childlike smile
that you once pointed out)
You should be restrained
Really
Chained to that tree
Of art, knives, whips, and time.

© Debjani Chakravarty 2012

Cytokinesis

10.08.10
My insanity
Is seeping into the night
My insanity

My prayers
Are rare
But not tonight

My body
Is alien.
Avenging
The
Loss of meaning you
Imposed on me.

02.09.12
Looking at the above
Sitting in a rattrap
Licking my knees
Tasting the shipwreck
Remembering how your long dark fingers
Played on my neck
Drunk with the desire to be Althusser's wife
You do realize that I am lurking like a lizard in your life?

I am changing colors, but somehow
It's you that remains hidden.
New myths subdivide
Like unknown shapes floating peacefully in
A dim sea of formaldehyde.
Poor you, busy painting your escapescape
Plateau

A Cavalcade of GoldA cavalcade of golden horse
Alights from out the maples' grove -
Abreast the unsown eastern fields,
They march a subtle, rising slope;

They share in banter at the square,
And ask the baker for a taste
Of breads and sweets all freshly pinched
And cooling on a window-pane;

They greet the maidens tending yards
Along the velvet uptown rows -
As if to beg a favor, knelt,
With tresses tied in buns and bows -

And press on further, slow and sure,
A touch of leisure in their gait:
Their laughter calling mockingbirds,
Their easy songs delighting jays,

But where they near, I turn them out -
I close my blinds and beg their leave -
Their

The Many Roads BetweenI glimpsed the specter of a small, but pregnant, pond,
Concealed behind a line of august firs -
A glimpse, and just as sudden, gone;

Keeping no destination, I chose a different route
Across the pale palette of a quiet countryside,
Too early for the yawns and sighs of Sunday blooms,

Where further on, as the sun did boisterously intervene,

I dreamt, once more, that tiny pond - and the many roads between.

Daffodils by the Hibiscus TreeI've lived more long and sweet than I deserve -
On whose authority I cannot say -
Perhaps my name is drawn afresh each day,
A whim of chance among a teeming herd
Of billions; each day, to be born again,
My blinking eyes agleam with naked rays
Of light sojourned from traverses of space
I scarcely fathom; light and life sliced thin
And incorporeal; a world of old,
Serpentine dunes made liquid gold and fire,
Consumed as much as fed - a grasping pyre,
Dissolved by leagues into the disc that holds
My warmth and zeal atop the firmament,
Abreast the silent gods of ghosts and men.

Moonshadow in the Failing LightI drank of dust, and parlayed dust as wine,
As velvet-rich a liquor on my tongue
As honey to a babe - that thirst, my drug,
And as I thirsted, so confessed it mine -
I morphed into the gnawing void that shook
My tepid dreams, 'til I could no more sleep
Than take to wing over canyons deep
And wide - all I might ever own, it took,
And pleaded me become the eventide's
Born acolyte, my shadow more than black -
Scarlet and indigo and violet matte -
Where hence my bright spirit would come to lie
In acres of dead drought and wilted vines,
Forsaken to the lusts of men and time.

None Came to SeeNone came to see the Spring-wrought rain
Engorge the river's stomach, a writhing vein
Of debris bound for yet unsown tides;
None except two boys who, in contest, vie
For hubris and a morsel of fame.

One mumbles a prayer, affirming his faith,
And fingers the pewter cross that he claims
Saved his life; solemn words, barely a sigh,
None came to see.

His companion scowls at the open display
Of worship and avows he is ready to race;
Side by side, they dare the river's wide
And muddied maw, a rippling veil which hides
The rocks cloaked beneath - an end to a game
None came to see.

ChartreuseChartreuse, the awakening of spring at the pond
with life floating by,
and the explosion of sweet upon Eve's first bite.
It's Mona Lisa's smile
tipping back a glass while outside
the ivy creeps and the neon bats it's eyes.
Meet me midway, between the buttercups
and grass anew, where it all began in Eden.

Summer CottageStep down, Visitor, off the porch's planks
down to lily-pad reflection and
the crayfish junction.

Wonder anew, Dreamer, of the paths ahead.
(Some less taken, others firmly tread)

But pause now, Listener, to ripple the sky
and stir it's contents with your toes.

A Song for Mothers and BirdsFor this nest,
an ordinary one at best,
Time is a neighbour knocking.
Neither tarrying
Nor varying,
But bearing news,
and carrying Change in its pockets.

Our nest has no doors,
Nor walls,
Yet Time's firm rapping resounds,
Announcing the departure of Spring
and of Birds.
Following my song East, I desire
For you to know,
That He shall grant you a new song,
For He forgets not the Sparrow.

Oh My Healer OceanSand scrubbed the flesh raw,
Shards of stone scourged the skin.
I've crossed another desert of life,
To the edge of water and madness.
Liquid tongues lick at wounds,
Purifying, mystifying.
Taking tears out to sea,
Let salt lie with salt.
Stripped down to bare essence,
Floating in the arms of a soulless body.
Serene depths carry me from sun scorched shores,
Leaving my past behind to fade and forget.
No questions. No apologies.
Just forgiveness,
And peace of mind.

To ---i am not asking for Your gifts,
But admit that i treasure
What is not mine.
Like those who writhe,
i touch unbelievingly,
All that's deemed divine.
What took all of me to confess,
With each unworthy breath?
Have i stolen Your time?
i can not give back
What is not mine.

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PostcardsPostcards

In the parking lot, my brother shoots plastic arrows
at our station wagon, sleeping bags piled in the back.
"Can we have a pool shaped like a bass guitar,"
he asks, "when we get to California?" I float gum wrapper boats
in the shimmering heat mirage, my knees barnacled
with scabs and mosquito bites. As we drive, we count road kills,
eighteen wheelers and truck stops named after some guy.
You can drink it," Mom says cutting open a barrel cactus.
"Even if you get lost, you'll never die."
She taped Dad's latest postcard to the dashboard.
"Found work. I love you all. Come." We have postcards
from almost every state: amarillos from LouPostcards by *swansisters

And the Little Children by *beeinthebottle

A Poem Is a Stripper in a Cage by ~cogongrass

Promenade by `Drunken-Splice

Featured

Colors Contest

scientistcedar, and the transparency of light
crawling through a cola bottle

you look through space
and then you look at me
and see my miniature;

sunglow, the word i use for you is
the color of premature saffron or
wild maize,

a man belly up
and being poured into it
an eon of yellow ore -
is the same wanting of living,
the same humanness broken

if i were to run my hands
through you,
i'd disappear into the ether

so long at space

were i to touch you now
it would be an old bell of sound
and you would be an hourglass
of measuringscientist by ~RestlessSands

MarigoldsI.

She braved the marigold patch
once a week
a decision all claimed was wise

You're lost
this will set things straight
he will be your guide

II.

There was a narrow path
less marigolds grew there
the apartment awaited
at the end of the path
its owner grew to be a friend

Over lemonade
they discussed possibilities
new beginnings
how lovely
how wonderful
it is to trust each other
as friends (except deeper)
as equals (except closer)
against the backdrop
of such a chaotic world

III.

Some weeks later
blinded by the harsh sun
she dared not look down
a hand skimmed her thigh

On her way home
the marigolds burned hMarigolds by ~fadingreverie

First Quarter by ~reflectionsinwater

the colors of being poor in winter.Nobody ever told you that
December would be the gray
in your ex-lover's eyes
or that late night winds
would bring out new and
unwanted tints of pink
in your cheeks and chest.

Nobody ever told you
that following your golden
dreams would freeze
your black and bruised heart,
that even the coldest
dark blue nights can burn
your restless red hopes.

Nobody ever told you
that white winters hurt
too much when it's 11:11pm,
and you've run out of greens
and all you want are the brown logs
you need to heat up your apartment,
and kill the purple that made your
frozen legs its new home.the colors of being poor in winter. by ~alkalineuh

Colors Contest

Wordsmiths

SeptemberRed leaves bowed to condensation,
the curdled air upon our skin;
black birds were carried on a breeze
exempt from Autumn's sullen temper.
I sought beneath great folds of flesh
colored by the sunrise and bedsores,
arousing the vessel unbefitting
for the natural beauty of your charm.

Though unsatisfied, I yielded,
eyes closed to your piggish flush,
the sopping paste of your thighs,
those tiny irises dull as paint chips.
You admired me but soon discovered
I cringed beneath your every breath,
weak in the heat of an Indian Summer,
clutched by wet effeminate hands.

You have been alone since then,
pining for the yellow flowers of June
with too September by *glossolalias

Autumn DaysAutumn days and autumn ways
Have not yet held their sway
Though morning chill
Would linger still
Our Sun puts forth bright rays

Dew will dance on blades of grass
As each creature ambles past
Traversing glistened hills
It will not last - as shadows cast
Old Sol's the stronger willAutumn Days by *rlkirkland

Bethlehem Born by *leyghan

You always tell me the same storyHe's in love with a scene from the winter
that occurs on a trip to Washington,
when the dark is constant and the trees jog
like legends alongside the highway;

as his eyes fall half-sleep but his senses remain
taut and vigilant, sweating on the wheel,
pitching nerve to the sound of branches cracking,
bristling under his wind-torn jacket;

the time of evening when the sunset rests
at its very highest, bright and sudden as Heaven,
an aureate glow around the birdsongs,
the stench of roadkill muted by a golden frost;

a taste of nirvana,
an instruction of faith,
the blatant existence of God,

lost as soon as he rounds the bend.You always tell me the same story by *glossolalias

Wordsmiths

Storybook Illustration

Keeping Watch by ~Kaelycea

Marko's Dream by ~eugenslavik

The Robin's Daughter by ~alexandradawe

The Green Man by ~eugenslavik

Storybook Illustration

Critique Requested - Closed

'Tis BrokenDon't lie to yourself,
And to me.
We're all born with white hearts,
With atinyblackspot in them,
That slowly mingles the older we get.
Because everybadreaction causes,
An unexplained attraction to danger,
And we know it hurts us and others,
Yet still the thrill is just toodarngoodtostop,
Since that tiny black spot tells us,
It's alright to be bad;
Because everyone got that tinyblackspot in them too,
Even the most [proclaimed] self-righteous.

And So we're Stained, that which was once white.
Will never be pure again;
This world,
Our bodies,
Our spir'Tis Broken by *BellaNellaMorte

Neutered by ~pseudometry

redyour swivel head – now fixated
rouge flush, bruised with pink
your slick lamella glows
from the dying occident:

a halo that crowns your blood-lighted skin

the night hoods and blinks
and i dawn into you
an urgent spate of motility
daggers out your buried volt

harpooning my cardia, my bursa collared

i'm hoisted up like ocean game
and into your ready teeth
shuddering at the thought of words
murdered in each sequentred by `thetaoofchaos

The DoorOutside of the dusty diner window, the bird people hopped to and
fro, chattering away in their violet language.

Inside the diner, Sharon wrung her gnarled hands and worried,
worried about the dust, the dreams, the disease.

The bell above the door twinkled and broke her reverie. The
Sparkling Man was here again.

Light rushed to fill the shadowed corners. Sharon was suddenly
young again, her hands smooth, her back straight.

The aged jukebox began whispering a Duke Ellington tune. The
light had become so bright now that she could only see a flood of
angel dust through the door frame.

The bird people were gone. The sparkling Man was goThe Door by =Bark

Critique Requested - Closed

Poetry - Free Verse

RapeThere is something hideously clever
about watching television outside.
It is possibly the ultimate defiance.

Over there, rebels have flipped off officials,
they have fornicated with machines
and they have worn shirts like flags.

But here, revolutionaries have
ripped the binding dress off of mother earth
they have stuck their thirsty tongues
in the magnetic air of steel and wind
and they have swallowed the sovereign
waters of Calypso.

Gaia could not weep,
because her throat was plugged
by the sharp middle finger
of electric sockets and wires.Rape by ~TheStoyTeller

BullyHear me perform it on youtube.

We are not more
than each other but

I bul-lieve
virginity is a childhood disease;
I know
because my friend tells me
I won't find a way to keep it.

So I do keep it.

You are not more
than me, yet

I bully you:
'sex is an adolescent dream.'
You know
because your friends tell you
that you will hold someone
close enough to have it.

So you hold someone closer.

And it doesn't bother me
that I twitch from the grief,
wince from my gut and ground

my teeth for the truth;
I do those things because
this thought makes sense to me:

I think I'm more
than you.Bully by ^NicSwaner

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lintPocket by =Bark

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.Pull Her Hair/Stare At The Stars by *FallingAsleepTonight

Poetry - Free Verse

Poetry - Fixed Forms

FossilizedLiving proof of fossils alive,
and no horseshoe-crab am I.

Nor, inhabitable harsh compression of plates,
residing under humid marsh-scapes.

I mold into the walls, as chalky old coal.
But I am no mineral, no era.
I am not, Mesozoic.

Through the ages
Iron
Bronze
silver, gold and heroic.

I remain a still-life; and no Iduna's apples would retain my youth
No magic fountains, or time devices, or wrist watches.
I am the machine of time.
The watcher, omnipotent, the wise.

But

no God am I

Somewhere, sweet tangy sap trolleys down cracked bark.
Somewhere, celestial bodies erupt unseen.
Somewhere, a abrupt breeze blows overturned bi-cycle tireFossilized by *Ellen-Souler

TemponautSundays: no one's butterflies are
going to affect the wavelength
of the sun magnifying ants
(nothing will happen anyway).

Rewind, the air wrinkles into
sundays: no one's butterflies are
stuck on weeping quicklime (not yet)
that doesn't hesitate; floor it.

High-pitched tires are slashed by the
hissing water, parked sometime on
sundays: no one's butterflies are
run over by broken sunshine.

One last time to make this right, keep
blinking back - stop flapping its wings
'fore they reek like pelting rain from
sundays: no one's butterflies are...Temponaut by =slowslicksnails

Little Setting: A Ya DuA ladybug
who had dug deep
to hug cool mud
like a bud leaf
was a little beauty thief

A honeybee
by a treetop pleas
for ease of flight
that it might lay
safe after setting of dayLittle Setting: A Ya Du by =Sammur-amat

Taj Mahal: A Triolet Beintehah pyar is the vow
Pehla pyar is the reason why
He places gold above her brow

Beintehah pyar is the vow
In twos we learn of when and how
Their bronze skin meets ivory sky

Beintehah pyar is the vow
Pehla pyar is the reason whyTaj Mahal: A Triolet by =Sammur-amat

Poetry - Fixed Forms

Visual Poetry

into the dark by ~dracontologe

clandestine by *toxic-nebulae

sunrise. by ~ocean-whispers

bloodlines by *toxic-nebulae

Visual Poetry

Poetry - Eastern and Haiku

speak"all lilies are shells,"
he said, dipping his grey hands
beneath the water:

"I've never heard of
a flower or a woman
that possessed a soul."

I wonder if he
has seen a poppy, if
he would then believespeak by *toxic-nebulae

The Ballad of MulanThe sound of weaving, woman's chore--
Mulan weaves on before the door.
But now the shuttle's noise is drowned
By Daughter Mulan's sighing sound.

"Who, my girl, is in your thought?
What memory has your mind caught?"
"No one is in Mulan's thought,
No memory has Mulan caught.

The night before, I saw the post
The Khan sent out to build his host.
In scrolls of twelve did they proclaim
The characters of Father's name.

But Father has no eldest son,
And Brother's not the eldest one.
So I shall buy a saddled horse
To take his place among the force."

Now to the East for valiant steed!
Now to the West for saddle's need!
Now to the South to take the The Ballad of Mulan by *Parsat

Persephone: A Haiku
Persephone's close;
watch as ruby red poppies
rebel on crossroads.
Persephone: A Haiku by =Sammur-amat

LandingIf a dragonfly
pauses on your freckled nose
so might the summer.Landing by *xlntwtch

Poetry - Eastern and Haiku

Poetry - Romance and Erotica

thick penetration by *williamfdevault

A Crown of Sonnets: Mariya1: eyes of glass

An elegant beauty, eyes of glass and silvered
like visions captured now in a digital age,
caged in frames to lay immortal, white, black or red,
the pale pinks and greys of flesh and fantasy, sage
thoughts unspoken for the thousand word proxies caught
and projected to distant voyeurs, the silent
partners in a dance of your soul, flying and fraught
with consequence that slips away like a serpent.
You own your dreams, and barter them for ovations
and more material things. This is the nature
of a true artist, remembered after nations
rise and fall and call out to histories, unsure.
Your images, no matter kisses made, tears wA Crown of Sonnets: Mariya by *williamfdevault

the poem i never wrotei’ve got four fingers on each hand
to count and recount the carnal instinct of familiarity.

i have kissed you out of the liveliness of the moon
and her returning blanket of sea, like the softness & quietude

of your eyelid’s atlantic flutter. like the blue dream of sky
that extends the cover of your vagrant esteem. your heart,

gypsy to the cadence of likeness domestic of catholic balance
gingerly, ever able and oh so nomadic

extends the voice of its beat as small as the world
and as vast as our amalgamated essentiality. sunly

is you by which i am reborn, and time fails us
where the aim of waking is to dream.

i’ve got the poem i never wrote by *UnspecifiedUnknown

pulchritudine in veritas by *williamfdevault

Poetry - Romance and Erotica

Poetry - Experimental

Flaking Photographs We see the greatness
of faces belittled
in   little boxes
with windows;
still
shattered stairs.
by

  Yielded Flaking Photographs by ~Pr0metheusUnb0und

Trainyardtreble

trainyards are for clearing space, the trains

tremble at

making it worth our while to move in

the hierarchy of

where our junctions juxtapose

daffodils and diffidence

greet with a sandbag-bible

boxcar and baggage packed

for friends of trains

towards dry counties and wet markets

are friends

of the movement of elongated contrail-tracks

of mineTrainyard by ^NicSwaner

deviation in storage by *CyphersignaL

The Men with the Golden Guns by =tonepainter

Poetry - Experimental

Prose - General Fiction

The Best Orange She'd Ever Eat by ~starell

Butcher Billy by ~PlayinTheDead

The White Silence“I gotta get out. Pete, pull over— I gotta get out.” Richard had his hand on the door handle.
“Are you going to be sick?” Peter asked.
Richard didn’t answer the question. He waited silently until Peter pulled the car to the side of the road. Before the car even came to a halt, Richard had his feet in the snow, walking towards the woods. He didn’t bother to close the door.
There was no way to know where we were exactly, except that we were somewhere in Canada. I had not seen a street sign in days and I had been awake for nearly every minute Peter drove.
Peter got out of the car, walked around the fThe White Silence by ~craazhy

The Drop Slot Mr. Johnson had many cars, but he loved one car in particular.
He drove his wonderful, carefully waxed antique Volvo daily, and today was no exception. He loved to drive.

If one were to describe Mr. Johnson, it could take three initials: CEO.
If one were to describe his personality, it could take a story--a short one.

Two letters to mail this morning, Johnson thought. I can do this by myself.

It would take three days for the letters to arrive via the postal system, but they were the type that began: "Dear (Mr./Ms.)"
"I know you've done your best for the company, but I must inform you that your job is noThe Drop Slot by *xlntwtch

Prose - General Fiction

Prose - Erotica and Romance Closed

Restaurant Restroom RhapsodyI-- I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to run away,
Turn you aside or leave you in the cold.
My thoughts were scrambled too fast
For me to react calmly,
Take it all in stride
And just nod as the truth came.
The rhythm of my thoughts
Just fell apart; the wineglass I was holding
Would have too, were it not for the inside of my head
Holding a vague idea
Of what was coming.

The main course must have arrived by now;
But I don't feel hungry, even though I know
The lasagna here
Leaves little room for words

How could I have not known who--
What--
You are?
The signs were obvious, looking back.
My loins let me believe whatever I wanted to belRestaurant Restroom Rhapsody by ~Swords-and-Bandages

SynesthesiaI fell in love with a pianist's hands.

They danced across my skin in minuets, his fingers tripping cadenzas up and down my spine. He brushed sonatas through my hair and across my shoulders, pianissimo. I trembled beneath his trills. The primal, earnest rage of Bach swelled in hot crescendos along my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by his hands --- Mozart, coolly logical, raised goosebumps down my arms --- Chopin soothed the fire and finally calmed my hammering heart.

I fell in love with a pianist's hands, listening from the back of the coffee shop while my lungs fought for breath, making wishes until he was gone.Synesthesia by =QuiEstInLiteris

Chapter 20.1 Aurori's Gambit by *TarienCole

Escape-ade by *halcyonshores

Prose - Erotica and Romance Closed

Prose - Sci-Fi and Fantasy

Thunder's Echo: Chapter 26 by *TarienCole

Thunder's Echo: Chapter 24 by *TarienCole

Thunder's Echo: Chapter 23 by *TarienCole

Thunder's Echo: Chapter 21 by *TarienCole

Prose - Sci-Fi and Fantasy

Prose - Horror and Mystery

The Survivors by ~witwitch

OzymandiasJuly 3, 1928

The excavation commenced this morning. Max claims we'll have this temple untucked before next October, but I know he's being excessively optimistic for Arthur's sake. Still, who'd suppose we could even manage this far without bumbling ourselves into a cataract? I rode on a camel for the first time only a month ago, and the beast didn't even bite me. I'd say that's success already.

July 4

Bloody hot. Why'd we go in summer again?

July 6

We've got some sort of corner showing through. Can't determine yet whether it's from the point of a pyramid-like object, or the corner of a more rectangular sort. Odd angle. I suppose centurieOzymandias by ~orphicfiddler

Disillusioned

"You girls need a ride?"

October looked up, letting her eyes stray from the gravel beneath her feet. She had been walking along the highway for so long she had started counting her steps to pass the time, hoping that when she finally looked up she would see civilization. Abigail ran to the truck driver's passenger door, haphazardly pushing past October as if she had never ridden in a vehicle before.

October glared at the driver's soiled clothes, greasy hair, and crooked teeth. She imagined his smell which made her gag uncontrollably. It was as if his unkemptness was setting off red flags in her head: "Never talk to strangers. And never acceDisillusioned by `OfOneSoul

My Brother's Blood by ~juniorel

Prose - Horror and Mystery

Prose - General Nonfiction

Lifelines by `LadyLincoln

On Leaving -It's the precious pain of parting that makes the leaving worth coming.

I love my latest home ever more even as I think of where I'll be tomorrow. Missing something before you leave is an indulgence unique to a life in transition. Perpetual impermanence lends a sort of decadence to too short moments. They're intensified; I learn to touch the rusty rickshaws and run my fingers over peeling paint to anchor these memories to realities.

They may never exist again for me outside my head – if they ever really did.

The knowing intensifies my scrutiny and my gaze drinks in dingy alleyways, holds the eyes of strangers looking for meaning, storiOn Leaving - by ~onetwistedpoet

You should date a guy who writesDate a guy who writes. Date a guy whose fingers are stained with ink, whose pockets are filled with pens, and whose eyes smile and dance with curiosity. Date a guy who notices things like the colour of your hair and the way you have your coffee, not because he has to, but just because it’s a habit of his to notice things. Date a guy who can barely get around a computer, but is expert with his word processor. It doesn’t matter; he prefers pen and paper anyway.

Find a guy who writes. You’ll find him just outside a library. He’ll like the idea of being outside, on the verge of a thousand worlds, a few steps away. He&rsquYou should date a guy who writes by *BlakeCurran

JackMy grandmother fell in love with my grandfather when his skin was still yellow with malaria.

At twenty-four, he had just returned from war, his pockets heavy as his heart, weighed down with souvenir scars and unspent bullets. Gaping trenches hung beneath each of his dark eyes like open, sore wounds, or sorer memories. At nineteen, she had not known the taste of oranges. The first time she held one, she bit straight into the pasty skin, expecting sweetness and coming up with shell-fragments.

In the pictures, my grandmother, radiant in her gray wedding dress, stands before my grandfather. Those trenches are still there, still yawning beneath Jack by ~sense-and-stupidity

Prose - General Nonfiction

Contest Prompts

DDs and DLDs

Prosetry

Poetry - Horror

Concrete Poetry

Flash Fiction

Prose - Essays and Reviews

Featured

29 Comments

And the Little Children by *beeinthebottle

Comments Disabled

A Poem Is a Stripper in a Cage by ~cogongrass

28 Comments

Promenade by `Drunken-Splice

6 Comments

Prufrock processed 01Etherised upon a table in a much-deserted street
being carved and spoken of by Michaelangelo
The cheap hotel we'd been in
the smog-stained yellow window glass
Back then there was a time
Back then was time for time
For being loved by sculptors
who would shape one's self
to one form
One form only to last forever
and end time

Fleshless form so hard and slippery
sliding quickly off the hotel terrace
cracking in a thousand fissures
sliding down the street
with only yellow smoke to hide in
yellow fog to grease the way
fleeing from Michaelangelo
escaping from his love

Reaching now the seashore
PPrufrock processed 01 by *LancelotPrice

23 Comments

deviation in storage by *Scarlettletters

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12 Recent Deviations
Featured: Heading Home
*nawkaman
11 Recent Deviations
Featured: The Science of Us
*FallingAsleepTonight
11 Recent Deviations
Featured: Ravage
*Concora
10 Recent Deviations
Featured: Sky Eyes
*aldwarke
10 Recent Deviations
Featured: Wisdom
^NicSwaner
10 Recent Deviations
Featured: Bully

Comments

=StormBringer23 Feb 5, 2013

Thank you for requesting "Just another day" for your gallery...I am honored.

*alapip Jan 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you for requesting
"i'm not narcissistic like that Bundy guy".

yes! yes! Yes! absolutely!

pip

`raspil Jan 6, 2013 Writer

`jade-pandora Jan 6, 2013

I love how light you are on your feet.

~Psyghostis Dec 29, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Can I ask why my deviation (a haiku: [link]) was denied?

`thetaoofchaos Dec 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Could you possibly send us this question on the actual submission dialog? otherwise, we have to dig through the message log to find out who voted on your submission.

thanks.

~Arcane-Shadow-Razil Dec 23, 2012

May I join?

`thetaoofchaos Dec 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

yes. just click the join group icon at the top of the group page. the requirement is that you have at least three literature pieces in your gallery, and it appears that you do.

~Arcane-Shadow-Razil Dec 23, 2012

XD it was sandwiched between stuff and not where i expected it, thank you!

*archelyxs Dec 9, 2012

Thank you again! (:

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