85 Recent Deviations
Featured: This Isn't Poetry
The New World: Chapter 10Religion, or whatever people believe in, is an interesting thing because it requires people to believe what they’re told. Knowledge is control over the masses. There are many cases in which control is quite forceful but religion, it would seem, is not one of these cases. People want to believe in it; not strictly believe exactly what they’re told perhaps but there are elements in sermons and preaches that adhere to what we truly want to believe in. That there is something more to life.The New World: Chapter 10 by The-Monoblos
A study on the condition of being human
December, 2E.1064; on an island in the Vimé lagoon
The mist hung in the air and shrouded the vision of the horse clip-clopping its way towards the end of the long forgotten road. The rider covered his face with his hand, trying to hide the stench of the lagoon from his nose. Although the mist covered it up well the lagoon itself was not far from the side of the road. The rider could in fact
The New World: Chapter 9“For years I hunted down those bastards, getting closer and closer, and then they’d vanish I’d have to start all over again. At times it would seem hopeless and I would return home, to Léo, to Caterina. And then everything would be better again.”The New World: Chapter 9 by The-Monoblos
Hassan of the House of Allarror
December, 2E.1057; the home of Gian Regaino, in the town of Léo.
“When is dad’s ship getting in uncle Gian?”
“Caterina, you know how much Hassan doesn’t like it when you call him ‘dad’.”
“Hassan doesn’t like it when I call him dad, and he knows that I don’t like it when you two call me Caterina. It’s hypo… hypo…”
“Hypocritical?” Gian prompted. He sighed: some arguments you just can’t win he decided.
Why Hassan had told her she was never actually named he would never know. Hassan
PhotosAcross these spans, between square photographs
I take the tomes, and pull apart their halves
The dust is wet, as are my eyes
My fingers tinged, from my unspoken cry
Your face is thin, young as dandelion
Brighter too, a shining star of scion
What were we then, chasing shadow kites
And thought them high, as angels taken flight
Feather fallen fingernails by me
Point to where we’ve written all our lives
Just like a fog, burned slowly by a flame
The past shall drift, always making way
A kind of call, the wind that passes by
Coloured grey, from dreaming left behind
Taken with a pen of sudden memory
Even if the letters do not dry
The waxen moon, paling more with age
A mass of holes, more beaten by the days
A flipping book, counting the leaves to go
While I remain, on what I read ago
No tears for me, who spent them all in haste
There were the pains, along with bliss I taste
The room now blurs, all but your look to me
That gives me peace, the one finality
That this is all a shadow of the
Crop WeaverSeamster homes old hearts in crooks
Beating thread by backing
And every day amidst percept
Old hearts meander tacking
Epilogues in knotted tucks
Travel roads in ending
The patterns blown like ragged reeds
As shrivelled bones bow bending
Dry from salves to save their pulse
They more a part of coffer
When even old chaff asks to die
Why does your scythe not suffer?
WatermarksCardboard and key
Old scribbles and teeth
And beaten pillowcases
The feathers in hats
Cork boards full of tacks
Are floating with our faces
A box on the beach, dusty without sand
The corals clutching fast as they starve
Ostial supply, with breath and with sand
And beaten pillowcases
Cardboard and key
No chain for the sea
With walking scalloped glacis
A pearl on a string
Bee bones by their sting
Arrest into this stasis
Little gibberish, damsel tower gates
Hermit shell ensnared like the lay of land
Slackened at the last, watermarks long late
On beaten pillowcases come and spend and wait
Cardboard and key
No chain for the sea
That creeping wears no feel
Cold from its mass
And beaten pillowcases
Empty WharfBeck and call cannot be
Room and fall surround me
Answers by the waylaid
Come but not before me
Kiss of salt and tea leaves
In the cup yet empty
Should I quench my question
How will you restore me?
But one branch in bracken
Underneath the tall tree
Lone at ends imparting
Bunkers for the unfree
Able out of fractions
Not my own in measure
Down beneath this table, down beneath this water
Here entwined my fingers
Yet another prison
Places that I reach for, things I will not listen
Here with empty boxes
Anchoring the ferry
Each await your number, less than what they carry
Cursors wanting and fingers tokening
Scattered longing with endless compromise
Junction topic bade
Crushes homeward as flashes sterilize
Somewhere fervent to first, rationalize
Burning WaxFrom creases in feathers
Numb peaces in pleasures
Haue gavel and gravel undertow
And peaches in peppers
Come preaches in stoppers
With banging pits of wax moth parts
In buckles of castles
Tall clanging of tassels
Haue breathing down beating kneader bow
And speckles in letters
And wrinkles in betters
Place ranging shots on fall leaf’s hearts
Have nilling to amber
Teas swilling their number
Haue instance from constant hemispheres
Add creatures their shackles
And spelling its hackles
Make bottles rung of burning barks
From hutches swell vinum
On crutches of venom
Haue watching with the bleeding remote
From wresting clear houses
And listing fair courses
So that wherever never bleaks
Little PresentAll you think about is tomorrow,
all your heart feels is yesterday.
But Present, like a shadow,
most certainly never goes away.
Yet you still yearn for what you don't have,
and for those who left you, you bawl.
But Present, which has so much to offer,
gets as much attention as a wall.
And why don't the thinkers of tomorrow
and the feelers of yesterday,
realise that Present is
something that never goes away?
And if you concentrate on tomorrow
and think of all the could of's,
do you realise that you're neglecting
little Present's true love?
And if you're counting minutes,
use the future for something useful.
Anticipate a sunset,
which is, by far, much more crucial.
And if you're trying to not forget,
use the past for something else.
Agree to change your mindset,
and do not forget to forget.
But most of all: little Present;
treat it no longer like a shadow.
And you're not sure when you'll meet it,
ask Present. It will know.
NaPoWriMo April 22-30 2016April 22nd
Picasso's still life with compote & glass
(a picnic in le musée)
A parallel we sit beneath
As if Picasso did bequeath
A feast for us of ripened fruit
To toast it all with Bordeaux cru.
These are the treats that we astute
While savoring Bearnaise en croûte.
Isn't morning in a mem'ry long gone
Better than anything that plays out tomorrow?
Like even now, when the lonely call of
A gull stays in that mem'ry and not here.
Where the sun burns the sky cloudless,
And the coastline sand becomes merciless.
I languish in the mem'ry so much so,
It swallows my joy and keeps me in
A relentless sorrow, even as I
Scrape beach aside with blistered bare feet,
Looking in vain for sand dollars as
A child, where now is only blacktop.
A note from deep within rewrites our song,
That from above in cloudless sky rains down.
All senses come alive before too long,
Electrified from daybreak to sundown.
That from above in cloudles
My Path ~ SerodousI don't think there's time for this
I've come down harder than a toke from the grit of cannabis
I don't have a sound or style
And I'll be spitting miss direction all the while
I've walked so many roads and I don't want to go back
I've stumbled the last thirteen miles with a mix of coke and jack
There's no sympathy in these words
Or no freedom like the flight of birds
But it's been that many roads I feel like I've turned around
I've seen the same sights from the skylight to the ground
And it's cold out here
Thought it isn't that simple just to disappear
Tired just isn't the word to cut it
This poem's just a short path to sad wit
I’ve been blissfully ignorant just to stomach pain
But I’ve been blissfully ignorant putting cyanide to my brain
These roads I walk are becoming all the same
Listening to the crows squawk with a hint of blame
Feeling stones cut my skin up and tender again
Nevertheless it’s all become habit, so I can’t abstain
I feel too old and worn to cr
Notes on Becoming a Buddhist'Even if previously careless, when a man later stops being careless, he illuminates the world, like the moon breaking away from a cloud.'
— The Buddha, from the Dhammapada
For a long time I was hysterical, and prone to losing my temper. I chased after happiness and thereby caused myself much suffering. The monk Santideva said: 'All those who suffer in the world do so because of their desire for their own happiness. All those happy in the world are so because of their desire for the happiness of others.'
I know how it feels to have the flames of Hell blazing within your heart. Like Laurence Olivier's Heathcliff I used to ask: 'Why did God give me life? What is it but hunger and pain?' My inability to cope with my unhappiness caused me to have a long breakdown followed by a lengthy spell on a psychiatric ward. I was diagnosed with a personality disorder, which is responsible for my affective disharmony.
Not long after I was discharged from hospital, I decided to investiga
Aphrodite Knows Best [Prose]"In the world Above, within the hierarchy placed by the forefathers' forefathers, there had lived two angels. They lived not in Heaven nor with God; though they are of God, of gods. These angels were born of Love - the true children of Aphrodite - and each had their own purpose: the younger angel lived vicariously through restless love, through reluctant and pretentious love that moved and settled with no one; the elder angel, however, brother of the first, lived in tenacious love, in a breathless apprehensive and overwhelmingly significant love. The first angel swept through hearts like a hurricane while the second seeped into hearts like a tsunami; the only difference here is that, unlike his brother, the elder waited, patiently, for his lovers to perish before he moved on to another.
Yet, one would never know. The souls in Heaven often mistoo
Adobe Slabs: Segment 11
Well, M's life had a good run.
It looked like it was the end of the road for him. His only regret was not telling Billy...
Not telling Billy... That...
He was sorry.
For eating all the leftovers and blaming it on Mags.
But no, really though. His limbs were virtually useless. Like his everything felt like it was going to fall off.
M struggled to keep up with his teammates during their game of football yesterday. Actually, he wasn't quite sure if "struggled" was an appropriate word for lying-face-down-in-the-AstroTurf-of-an-indoor stadium, but it'd have to do. He'd arrived at his apartment in the late afternoon after said game (first one in pretty much ever), and he dragged himself to the bathroom to take a hot shower then proceeded to throw himself down on the couch; and was pretty sure he started snoring before he was even asleep. It was morning now and his body was still reliving every tackle from the moment of impact down to every strain in
The Truth is...Sometimes, just opening up an empty post can be an intimidating thing. You had brilliant intentions, making a fresh start with a shiny new blog. Lovely as it is, now that you’ve just finished decorating it, adjusting the settings just so, and then you open up that first post as you suddenly find yourself pausing. Staring at that blinking icon as you hesitate before you type.
There’s times like that in all of us. When we have to choose to either push beyond the fear or let it make us abandon all hope of effort for what we have set out to do. Will you be the one who fights it, makes something out of it, or will it all crumple like the words you thought you had?
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