Pain PAINPain by salshep
Hangs from your pelvis
like an incomplete, conjoined sibling
with no mind of its own
but enough of yours to make you fear it.
Comes when you are sleeping
to perch on your face and dip its beak
redly into your dreams.
Shucks its claws
on the upholstery of your flesh.
Is a fog-eyed poet, reading aloud to you
endless reams of his own passionate,
Squats in the waste it has made of you,
you dare not look in the eye.
Remembers the body when it moved
with the ease of light across a lakes delicate skin.
Watches your babies grow
skins so thick they cant feel you.
Is an illusion
overcome by mastery of the mind,
an ascetic life, a clean colon, eighteen
valium and a quart of Scotch, a bullet
or all of the above.
MammothYou're on the lawn, pickledMammoth by salshep
as a paper-bag philosopher, mouth full
of copper and oxidised vinegar
eyes oystering ant-sand and your cheeks wet
as the tracks of unhappy snails.
It's almost dawn, it's cold. The bastard
left you, and you've fallen over
in the garden coming up the path to home.
By morning, frost crackles
across the black hump of your back -
soon you'll be glaciered to the grass,
face iced to your coat-sleeve,
and the great, frozen spectacle
of you will grind its way, ten inches a year,
toward the porch. Some day
they'll discover you, the remains
of dandelions stuck in your teeth, fresh
as ten thousand years ago.
HomesickDo not let them see you blink,Homesick by salshep
Mother said, so I am careful to turn
away when my eyes dry out. My grip
on the brush is clumsy. Colours speck
and dazzle, slop like foam on rocks;
the teacher dabs their brilliance
from my flaking arms. Children whisper
behind starfish hands; they go to play
in the bright, hot yard but I stay in,
as Mother told me. Below the window
theres a tank of golden fish that circle,
circle, following their own reflections.
I dip my fingers in to scoop one up,
watch it flip and shine, cool in my palm,
and press my face deep into the water.
Membranes slide across my thirsty eyes.
I breathe, and breathe, and breathe.
WitchesWitchesWitches by salshep
Perhaps you thought we were gone
when the puddles of fat and ash congealed,
and our stink unstuck from the back
of your throat. When you exhale
into the face of your wife, does she smell us?
Lately at night, familiar as cats,
we've taken to creeping into your room,
reeking of bonfires, empty-headed
pumpkins, poppets of wormwood and rue.
In your sleep, you eat our bodies
and brag come morning, you dare not
pass a hedge for fear of whispers
nor linger where three roads meet.
We are slowly collecting your fluids,
your fallen hair; we hide in your socks
like foxtail, we diffuse our dust
into all your meals. Soon we'll leach
as salt from your skin, fly like spittle
out of your gaping mouth. We are the hook
and the bait. We are always to blame.
Bad Word.Bad Word by BebeShep
my mum dances to cheap trick
I call them crap trick and she is angry
I am not alowed to say crap
she says Go to your room!
my mum has a big bum
Goldfish of deviantARTOne of my favorite art subjects is Carassius auratus, the goldfish. This fish is as misunderstood as it is popular: they're carp, generally don't do well in bowls, and can live over twenty years in a proper environment. When I joined dA, I was happy to find so much quality goldfish art; Edgar by buskerdog was one of the first works I fav'd. Since then, I have found many wonderful renderings of goldfish, and wanted to share my findings. Some of these works you might be familiar with, while others are in obscurity.Goldfish of deviantART by bananaprincess
First of all, I must give special mention to prismes, who is, in my opinion, the patron saint of goldfish art on dA (although she photographs many other subjects as well). Her impressive photographs of goldfish Louis have proven extremely popular with deviants. Below are some of my favorites from the series, "louis dances," "louis is fast," and "louis is an abstraction II," respectively.
Poetry is Not...Poetry is Not... by astridiana
Poetry is not a competition
to see whose voice can out-bellow
It is not the mock elevation of baristas,
waitresses, and coffee girls.
It is not referring to grown ass women as girls.
Poetry is not performance.
It is not the trapeze.
Not the spotlight, limelight,
or a long, harrowing limo ride.
It is not an intricate courting dance.
Not the irridescence of peacock tails
Poetry is not a cockfight.
It's not a dating service for the pretentious
Poetry will not stop war.
Will not feed the hungry.
Will not build homes from shoddy rhyme schemes.
Poetry will not score you any points
for the afterlife, nor with women.
If you are an asshole, no stack of verse
will hide that fact. Poetry in its artifice
will not deliver to you a happily ever after.
It will not glue your marriage.
It will not shield you from his drunken
misogynist fist. Even if he writes poetry.
Poetry is not an elixir or a tool.
It is decorative, like sheer linen curtains,
and that is all.
|-WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING LATELY-|
Avoiding sinkholes, mostly.
-WHAT I'VE BEEN READING LATELY-
Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith
I love a book in which you cannot guess the next twist. And love better the book wherein you shouldn't, but do, and then the narrator calls you a 'smartarse' for having done so. Best narrator ever. Genre-defying, exciting, freaky, esoteric, brutal, horrifying, true, fantastical - loved this to bits.
Ring - Koji Suzuki
Compared (unjustly) to Murakami, the book makes the film look better (the Japanese version, I mean; the USA film isn't nearly as good). Still, a decently creepy read if you can get past the appalling translation (or wooden writing, I'm not really sure which it is.)
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
Chick lit for morbid people. Beautiful, strange, uplifting. I also find myself suddenly obsessed with sinkholes.
The Riders - Tim Winton
This book gutted me. Gorgeous. Sad. Funny. Read it.
The Invisibles - Grant Morrison
Makes Gaiman look like kindergarten.
Focault's Pendulum - Umberto Eco
Dan Brown, for people who don't breathe through their mouths.
Some Poetry-Related Journals:
Derek Walcott Walt McDonald
Lord George Gordon Byron William Blake
Christopher Smart Maya Angelou
Richard Wilbur Robert Frost
I'll cut the hearts from pharaohs
I pull the road off of the rise
Tear the memories from my eyes
I drink a thousand shipwrecks
Tonight I'll steal your paychecks
I paint the sheets across my bed
The birds will all fly from my head
Take every dream that's breathing
Find every boot that's leaving
Shoot all the lights in the cafe
And in the morning I'll be gone