| O'er the midnight moorlands crying, Thro' the cypress forests sighing, In the night-wind madly flying, Hellish forms with streaming hair; In the barren branches creaking, By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking, Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking, Damn'd demons of despair. Once, I think I half remember, Ere the grey skies of November Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember, Liv'd there such a thing as bliss; Skies that now are dark were beaming, Bold and azure, splendid seeming Till I learn'd it all was dreaming -- Deadly drowsiness of Dis. But the stream of Time, swift flowing, Brings the torment of half-knowing -- Dimly rushing, blindly going Past the never-trodden lea; And the voyager, repining, Sees the wicked death-fires shining, Hears the wicked petrel's whining As he helpless drifts to sea. Evil wings in ether beating; Vultures at the spirit eating; Things unseen forever fleeting Black against the leering sky. Ghastly shades of bygone gladness, Clawing fiends of future sadness, Mingle in a cloud of madness Ever on the soul to lie. Thus the living, lone and sobbing, In the throes of anguish throbbing, With the loathsome Furies robbing Night and noon of peace and rest. But beyond the groans and grating Of abhorrent Life, is waiting Sweet Oblivion, culminating All the years of fruitless quest. |
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Eyes
Poetry
pit stopby the timepit stop
i pull into
the only gas station, my eyes are inkblots, smudgy rorschach
tests of mascara;
not from tears, but distance.
by ~bisoubaby
a sentence on recoveryit felt right to smoke aa sentence on recovery
cigarette & crave a lover in the whitewashed night when i was nothing but a warm shadow next to the ocean.
by ~bisoubaby
Thoughts While Making....He's just a cardboard statue pointing fingers, dictating rules. Facing the west, he claims and strangles your pulse for explosions, the ache for living.Thoughts While Making....
Born with Medusa's snakes for hair, you slip into volcano longing, the line that trails into
rat poison side streets, a detour for saliva syrup.
by ~poeticwonder
portrait in a yellow sundressself portrait in a yellow sundressportrait in a yellow sundress
triangle toes: my smallest toes curve inward
from years of ballet slippers
and curling them under
looking at the ground trying to talk to you through
the shadows of my eyelashes virgin and untouched by mascara
and hollows of knees: show strain in concave soft places hidden against white wicker chairs or asphalt when its cool enough to touch and not get bitten bent in envy of my kneecaps wanting to be the sister in the sun I always knew
they were more beautiful
Achilles tendons
by =bekkia
Waterscapes
Man-Made
H.P. Lovecraft - Despair
Edgar Allan Poe - A Dream Within A Dream?
| Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow— You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand— How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep—while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? |
Right now, what do you want the most ?
| 39%
26%
26%
9%
|
Devious Info
- Current Residence: behind dust & cityscapes
- Interests: living
- Favourite genre of music: the sound of shattering glass
- Operating System: skin, flesh & bones
- Shell of choice: lobster
- Wallpaper of choice: bricks
- Skin of choice: a woman's soft, gentle skin
- Favourite game: umbrageous dreams
- Favourite gaming platform: sea troll
Fave News
- 24 Those dark days... - Aug 5, 2009
- 41 July News Feature: blue flowers - Jul 29, 2009
- 161 butterflies, dragonflies, ladybugs - Jul 10, 2009
- 65 Notes on Writing Poetry by Jon Anderson - Jul 4, 2009
- 34 M o r n i n g s - Jun 11, 2009
- 38 Picture Perfect, Pathetic (B&W) - Jun 11, 2009
- 370 1+1 - Jun 10, 2009
- 22 Dandelions - Jun 8, 2009
- 46 coffee? - Jun 6, 2009
- 39 Nature Series - Moss - Jun 4, 2009
- 267 A Passion for Fashion - May 4, 2009
- 71 Monochrome Beauty - Mar 29, 2009
- 188 I'm in love with nature. (176 square photos) - Mar 28, 2009
- 41 March News Feature: black & white flowers II - Mar 12, 2009
- 82 Women in Art XI - Photography (Beautiful Nudes) - Mar 9, 2009
Jason Schneiderman - Sublimation Point
| The answer is entropy—how smell works— little bits of everything—always spinning off from where they were—flying off at random into the world—which is to say into air. There are other ways of solid to gas— they’re substance specific, like iodine, or dry ice—how I felt when I saw you— straight to a new state without passing through expected ones—as though enough of me left at the moment you appeared that I could never be whole without you—apply heat—I turn straight into ether. |
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--
finish
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
charles bukowski
--
In the end, the universe tends to unfold as it should.
--
finish
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
charles bukowski
visit my deviant gallery, please: [link]
--
deviant site: [link]
my website: [link]
--
finish
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
charles bukowski
have a nice day
cheers arkadius
--
Photography - A language that everyone understands
Official Website
--
finish
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
charles bukowski
--
Photography - A language that everyone understands
Official Website
--
finish
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
charles bukowski
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