| 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. |
*burnttongue
| collecting deliciousnesses |Favourites
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Ladies
Eyes
Poetry
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
Beneath the Begonias(I)Beneath the Begonias
The detached heads of children are bobbing up, their lips puckered, expecting kisses.
So slowly they come, bicycling from their alleys,
their pristine cul-de-sacs.
I sit on the window-sill, their makers, cuckolds and whores running after them, comically --
the neighborhood gathers 'round their collective bonfire -- they hold papers of their lost one.
(II)
It has been days. Whose white gown lies on my lap, whose smile across my cheek?
They shuffle through their sterling definitions; they turn up dirt lookin
by ~failing-at-flight
into water*into water
you meet a girl the feeling of the ocean floor dropping away
*
by ~boundlessgravity
Letters, letters, lettersYour absence settles low, hovering over me as I babble on with too much detail of my days without you. It is dark when I stop writing, my fingers heavy with all theLetters, letters, letters
things I cannot say for
fear of sending too much of myself to you. They echo between your words, almost too faint to hear.
The air is thick with your absence, and all the things we cannot say are strung in the distance between us.
I will not say I miss you (but I do).
by ~arliddian
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 ?
| 37%
32%
21%
11%
|
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
- 50 Notes on Writing Poetry by Jon Anderson - Jul 4, 2009
- 32 M o r n i n g s - Jun 11, 2009
- 37 Picture Perfect, Pathetic (B&W) - Jun 11, 2009
- 355 1+1 - Jun 10, 2009
- 21 Dandelions - Jun 8, 2009
- 41 coffee? - Jun 6, 2009
- 38 Nature Series - Moss - Jun 4, 2009
- 249 A Passion for Fashion - May 4, 2009
- 65 Monochrome Beauty - Mar 29, 2009
- 182 I'm in love with nature. (176 square photos) - Mar 28, 2009
- 40 March News Feature: black & white flowers II - Mar 12, 2009
- 78 Women in Art XI - Photography (Beautiful Nudes) - Mar 9, 2009
- 12 I love choco! - Feb 23, 2009
- 131 Trees - as you see them - Feb 22, 2009
- 137 B&W squares a.k.a. The world without colors - Feb 22, 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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--
The Summer "Tell Me a Story" Contest
"I'd rather have a powerful poem full of technical flaws than an insignificant poem that was flawless." --*Mahi-Fish
=Wordspill!
Venus Comb Murex: [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
--
[Philippians 1:21]
--
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
--
Do you realize where he thinks he comes from?
--
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
--
"We are intent on reducing art to its simplest expression, which is love." (Andre Breton)
--
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
--
"We are intent on reducing art to its simplest expression, which is love." (Andre Breton)
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