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January 19, 2013
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this is a weekly feature in which i select ten phenomenal literature deviations that have recently caught my eye. if you have been featured, please :+fav: this journal and read the other works. now, onto the main event—



"everyone
wants
the world not to
tilt on its axis
and for nights
to stay faded indigo
and mostly
to be the kind of pretty
that makes people not care
if you're worth something
less than nothing"


Rorschach's BlotRorschach's Blot
Spiders and bears and misshapen trees,
when the swollen fruit drops it bursts into wren wings,
salamander tails shivering, the color of bruised plums.
It tastes so sweet, the tip of a beak.
With a straight pin, I peck at my arms,
a Pollock of blood, swarms of carnelian bees.
Sweet sweet stings. The poison sings.
They say hallucinations, the saints said visions.
"Ollie ollie oxen free," they call running through orchards,
the evening air loosening, a grace note of despair.
There was once an apple and it was bitten,
poor thing, all hell broke loose.
"Tell me what you see," he asks.
"White," I say, hospital sheets, sea gull fluff, porcelain doll faces, albino snails
You must not slash, you must not smash.
"White means purity," I say.
A good, good girl.
"No look at the dark thing."
But I am the dark thing.
Ollie Ollie oxen free.

"Sweet sweet stings. The poison sings.
They say hallucinations, the saints said visions.
"Ollie ollie oxen free," they call running through orchards,
the evening air loosening, a grace note of despair."


snippets 11-01-2013
(on blue-lined paper with a dark blue ink stain)
spiderweb memories
and another i will not trust:
swipe his eyes shut
and leave me to hang.
5-01-2013
(on torn printing paper)
sometimes i feel a flicker,
almost like an artificial light before it dies
or perhaps
the sun as it peeks out from a break
between murky storm clouds.
11-01-2013
(on blue-lined paper, aligned to the right)
portrayed without a
voice,
the cardboard barriers are
collapsing silently –
almost as if
the only resistance you
can claim is the
one you create and store
secretively behind
your bitter-brittle collarbone.
17-01-2013
(on the back of a library receipt)
the blades are waiting,
my resolve wavering:
the darkness howls for
something new to
devour.
18-01-2013
(on the back of a hold's notice for The Girl who Played with Fire)
do you think purposeful
carelessness
( baked skin, red as a
sugar-crazy lollipop;
swollen blisters on the
backs of my feet, rubbed
raw to bloodied patches;
walking bare and flat-f

"( baked skin, red as a
sugar-crazy lollipop;
swollen blisters on the
backs of my feet, rubbed
raw to bloodied patches;
walking bare and flat-footed
across fiery cement )"


Wolf HideHe called me pretty boy when I first came here. Now he calls me trash, if he calls me anything at all.
"Hey trash, pick this up for me."
It didn't even start out as a joke, as if he'd been saying it all along. It didn't bustle merrily across stage, as if it had been sitting in the wings, waiting for its inevitable appearance. It was thrown, like a heckler's open disdain.
Pretty boy became someone else, belonged to someone else.
What was I supposed to think of that? Some bastard boy with more hair on his legs than his face was the same bastard boy I had once been to someone else, when I'd first appeared on the scene.
I had tried to ignore the signs; he had seen them, and acted swiftly.
Just like I'd been tender, and the first pain had been tender, here was an ache that carried still that tenderness - it was a killing ache, but one devoid of love as the ones before it had not been.
Now here in my place was another soft, sweet tender ache for him. The ha

"Then he's soft again, and smiling, and I am released from him. He taps the waiting case with his foot again, and only when I've picked it up and turned to the door do I hear his - retreating isn't the right word; receding would be more apt - footsteps as he goes back upstairs. I don't think to what - to whom. All I can comprehend is that it is innocence he is interested in, and the age that encompasses it; what does flesh mean to someone who steals entire lives whole?"


Approaches and DeparturesHear toxic-nebulae read it here.
When the roads took to themselves
my breath arrived from Appalachia
to Sonora before North American
westerlies and wanderlust cradle-
carried my exhalations eastward.
The southern Baptist rural sprawl,
contagious to Canadian and Pacific
railways, had approached from crosses
confiscated several centuries earlier.
Fiberglass steeples routinely fed
a broadcast of fiber optimal sermons
depart from me;
the distinction between an arrival
and an approach is who leaves who.

"Fiberglass steeples routinely fed
a broadcast of fiber optimal sermons"


The Patchwork Quilt Maker
     She sits by the window for the best light.
     Nearby a pile of folded quilts stands high
     And waits as for the princess and the pea.
     Her mouth, a quiver full of pins, permits
     A muttered mmm mmm mmm if I should have
     The nerve to ask, 'What's for dinner tonight'?
     
     On a side table is a confusion,
     Though she would deny, of remnants, patches,
     Scraps of cloth that have absorbed the essence
     Of those who wore or laid out on the bed
     A petticoat perhaps a bridal gown
     From which she'll set out, yet unstitched, a quilt.
     
     In her head, run tumbling blocks, fat quarters,
     Cathedral windows, log cabin, lone star,
     English piecing, nine patch, bear's paw, pinwheel.
     Disparate bits and pieces yet from these,
     The needlewoman makes with cotton thread
     That blend of old and new, a counterpane.

"On a side table is a confusion,
Though she would deny, of remnants, patches,
Scraps of cloth that have absorbed the essence
Of those who wore or laid out on the bed
A petticoat perhaps a bridal gown
From which she'll set out, yet unstitched, a quilt."


Vishnui. (matsya - fish)
in the beginning, there was silver;
mercury inscribing cuneiform
beneath the bloodwork of your skewed scales,
scrawling preserver
throughout salt-drenched lungs.
and you laced clear planets into your slipstream,
wrapped solar systems in translucence.
ignoring all the shattered galaxies. ignoring
how easily their frail orbits
broke.
ii. (kurma - turtle)
your ribcage screamed a shattered warcry
of not-quite-god and less-than-human;
a shark's-tooth carapace crushed in.  
forgotten names clawed out your sternum.
your spine fused into your biting back.
iii. (varaha - boar)
razor-wireless shrieked of true tales
thieved by midnight's neon-tripped true bones.
gunshot eyelids half-horizon,
you rose, arpeggio
of stop.
iv. (narasimha – half-man, half-lion)
he walked like christian gods on holy
breaking waves of children's bowed backs.
a crooked tooth inside you turned,
crucified his smug steel-gray blue.
v. (vamana - dwarf)
eras of electrons scratched
themselves into your heels

"hooked her weak breath in your palms,
clutched her cold name in your chest.
in sleep she screamed your palms.
convince yourself it was her rest."


ButterflyConfound you, illicit butterfly!
You have dizzily thrust your
breathless, starting, sunset arms
into my cage once more;
but can you not see
your withered winged brethren 
round the red bars of this place,
grey and weary and warning 
that the stale miasma
has not yet abided?
It is not not yet your time, my butterfly,
for Spring is 'round another corner
I have yet to pave.
I curse not you, but the bars —
the cowardly, crimson bars.

"but can you not see
your withered winged brethren
round the red bars of this place,
grey and weary and warning
that the stale miasma
has not yet abided?"


Amber GlazeJukebox on repeat,
same country buzz
they play every night at this time.
Dim lights hide the stains
on people's souls,
women in revealing tops
fawning over the bar stools
of men who will leave them empty
before the morning.
A glint catches your eye,
a silver lining lodged
in amber liquid;
brother Chuck tilts the glass,
pours you another drink.
You hand it back,
take the Jim Bean from his hand,
and you chug
until the room spins...
but all you find when you peer in
are a thousand regrets
you'll never sort through
and the bottom
of another lonely night.

"A glint catches your eye,
a silver lining lodged
in amber liquid;
brother Chuck tilts the glass,
pours you another drink."



"The average human
can cover 12 feet per second

and it's at least
300 to your classroom."
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:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Jan 22, 2013   General Artist
Fabulous set of pieces to feature, hon. :heart:
Reply
:iconfuzzyhoser:
FuzzyHoser Jan 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Mmmhmmm...I already have a couple of these in my faves. Good stuff!
Reply
:icontwilightpoetess:
TwilightPoetess Jan 19, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you so much for the :iconfeatureplz:!

:heart:
Reply
:iconglossolalias:
& thank you for bringing that icon's existence to my attention.
Reply
:icontwilightpoetess:
TwilightPoetess Jan 19, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome. ^.^
Reply
:iconvespera:
vespera Jan 19, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:heart: you read Liz, isn't she wonderful?
Reply
:iconglossolalias:
she's fantastic; i thought i was already watching her, but alas. groups always do this to me lol.
Reply
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