ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 3, 2017
Rewriting Leviticus by glossolalias
Featured by akrasiel
Suggested by LadyLincoln
Literature Text
I’m obsessed with the trade of
beautiful people and especially wives or slaves
or prostitutes who were at times the most
educated, independent, but those were just
exceptions, weren’t they, unlike the men who
wore their perfumed skins like softest leather
and then smothered them under their
mass delusions of hysteric femurs screaming
about a revolution to come and rip
their penises straight from their bodies,
and I think; whales have a language
we don’t understand, there’s never been
a system of government that doesn’t become
Feudalism in practice. I prayed to a god 3 times a day
just because someone told me to and once
I dreamt I was in an endless shopping complex
wandering through the twisting food court
lit by hexagonal fluorescent bulbs hanging
from twisted wreaths of lavender ivy with nothing
but a backpack full of water dripping behind me
which people slipped and died in--
--Decided on mediterranean and entered a store
much bigger within and sat at the bar and ordered
nothing because there were three menus and none
said anything about food, just notes written
by and about the owner who also owned a
publishing company and dabbled in
noir writing, mostly about heroines with long
black hair like his first love and sister
who were only not the same person by
coincidence of birth and sexual orientation--
I woke up in a different place and for
a moment forgot what was real and sometimes
question the benefit of imaginary knowledge like
why am I never happy? Why doesn’t anything
even try to make sense? Is this just a joke
or at least a story? Am I writer or just the prophet?
Has the man ever spoken or is it just
a fever dream from a nebulous adolescent
demigod who hates to call himself
anything but a coward with ten fingers?
--And finally there is a man at the counter
who calls himself Mirsad but isn’t and of course
he tries to kiss me with his tongue, a dead pig
full of maggots and botflies like alien abortions
protruding from his face when he pulls back to look me
in the eyes and ask me if I ever read his poetry,
if I will please read exactly what he wanted me
to keep hearing over and over in this sudden
void twisting into nothing but the color of a feeling
sinking between us, sloughing off with his
putrified teeth and nails, the smell of it so sweet
I want to peel him into my own bed--
Are you anything but a monkey with
tremulous schizoid vibrations wringing constantly
in your skull? Are you anything but
what you imagined? Are you anything
but a single figment in a novel you're writing
that refuses to end? Are you anything but
a man who never lived besides in a solipsist
dimensional fold in that bathroom
where the tub overflowed?
--Mirsad looks down at me from the rafter
and I hold his skin which turns to silk, turns to wine,
turns to water.
beautiful people and especially wives or slaves
or prostitutes who were at times the most
educated, independent, but those were just
exceptions, weren’t they, unlike the men who
wore their perfumed skins like softest leather
and then smothered them under their
mass delusions of hysteric femurs screaming
about a revolution to come and rip
their penises straight from their bodies,
and I think; whales have a language
we don’t understand, there’s never been
a system of government that doesn’t become
Feudalism in practice. I prayed to a god 3 times a day
just because someone told me to and once
I dreamt I was in an endless shopping complex
wandering through the twisting food court
lit by hexagonal fluorescent bulbs hanging
from twisted wreaths of lavender ivy with nothing
but a backpack full of water dripping behind me
which people slipped and died in--
--Decided on mediterranean and entered a store
much bigger within and sat at the bar and ordered
nothing because there were three menus and none
said anything about food, just notes written
by and about the owner who also owned a
publishing company and dabbled in
noir writing, mostly about heroines with long
black hair like his first love and sister
who were only not the same person by
coincidence of birth and sexual orientation--
I woke up in a different place and for
a moment forgot what was real and sometimes
question the benefit of imaginary knowledge like
why am I never happy? Why doesn’t anything
even try to make sense? Is this just a joke
or at least a story? Am I writer or just the prophet?
Has the man ever spoken or is it just
a fever dream from a nebulous adolescent
demigod who hates to call himself
anything but a coward with ten fingers?
--And finally there is a man at the counter
who calls himself Mirsad but isn’t and of course
he tries to kiss me with his tongue, a dead pig
full of maggots and botflies like alien abortions
protruding from his face when he pulls back to look me
in the eyes and ask me if I ever read his poetry,
if I will please read exactly what he wanted me
to keep hearing over and over in this sudden
void twisting into nothing but the color of a feeling
sinking between us, sloughing off with his
putrified teeth and nails, the smell of it so sweet
I want to peel him into my own bed--
Are you anything but a monkey with
tremulous schizoid vibrations wringing constantly
in your skull? Are you anything but
what you imagined? Are you anything
but a single figment in a novel you're writing
that refuses to end? Are you anything but
a man who never lived besides in a solipsist
dimensional fold in that bathroom
where the tub overflowed?
--Mirsad looks down at me from the rafter
and I hold his skin which turns to silk, turns to wine,
turns to water.
Literature
Rainlight
Rain crackled as it hit the ground, scattering sparks in every direction. It was a nostalgic kind of rain, with a warm electric glow and steam that curled upwards as the falling water smashed into the pavement.
It was a beautiful sight, but a dangerous one.
A familiar voice startled him from behind. “You actually came.”
Cathias turned from the window to see the soft glow of Matiah’s eyes blinking from the doorway. Blue eyes, the color of a sparkmoth in flight. “Of course.”
“Come then. We need you to see this.”
“The worms.” Cathias said, keeping pace wit
Literature
Shrouds for a ship.
The ship, and nearly all her crew and passengers with her, were lost on the 22nd of May. On the 24th, Dorothy started making model boats.
Her fingers hurt a little, of course. Red, cold, and sometimes even damp, they caught on the makeshift sails and left unsightly blotches on the hulls. The hulls were one of the hardest bits. Hours were consumed by the whittling and painting and drying. The rigging was even worse; the threading she used was almost impossible to keep a tight grip upon, and the variations of beige and brown and black meant they often vanished entirely if dropped to the dirt floor. As for the masts, these took an enormous amo
Literature
snowglobe
we hoped it would get bad enough to break glass
that one of our voices
would find the note
to split the window
make a neighbour call the cops
that the dishes would shatter
into too many pieces
to be picked off the floor
we wanted glass in our heels
a trickle of heat
a flicker of colour
in the sun-blank snow
the pines leaned on our doorframe
we waited for them
to pressure in and unfurl
shower our stunned faces
in a rain of needles
knock the teapot off the table
in a blossom of shards
but the trees stood by
evergreen and identical
the same dream of pine repeating
behind yellowing plastic
we painted shut the door
with smi
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
hey. i still write. a lot, actually. i almost have a novel. it's about ryan from stories of mine you might remember. it will be finished by next year. have this for now. sorry for my absence but it's rare for me to crank out anything unrelated to novel, nowadays. this was just something i couldn't get out of my head. hope all is well with those who i love here.
© 2017 - 2024 glossolalias
Comments20
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Congrats on the DD, you