|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
FLICKERING A blanket drapes oFLICKERING
A blanket drapes over the room, casting a vacant shadow. It is uncomfortable, the way the air is a criminal that victimizes me. It flows indiscriminating and I can’t sit long with the gravity pushing up at me like a mob of pointing fingers. So, I light the tips of my toes like a box of matches that flared at once and burn my way to the flint. While the flames flicker, I see your silhouette shuttering back and forth then my breath is returned to me like an overdue book I never read. my eyes soak in the overexposure of you. I try to stabilize your image. But, when I approach, you are dissonant somehow not loosing your beat. And I began to strum the ratio of you to me. Trying to calm your image. However, it doesn’t respond. I play with broken promises and my instrument becomes a torch between my desires that is burning for you. I drop it to the floor. My dreams are becoming as unrecognizable as the fleeing rapist, whose face you’ll never forget. You are steadi
Shadow PuppetsThis is the light,
in which we meet,
onto the wall.
to imperfect things.
on a candlelit stage,
with slight of hand and shadow,
finding something real in
the things we made.
with suggestions of
a child's art once lost.
Disguising reflections of love
in the shadows that we tossed.
.357 MagnumIn our backyard, my boy cousins kill
each other from behind palmetto
bushes with Daisy BB guns.
In our frontyard, my girl cousins slap
their baby-dolls across the face
and shout at them to shut-up!
Inside my house, I'm standing on my tip-toes
palming the top of Daddy's closet,
my tiny fingers courting the Smith & Wesson.
Dancing with DaddyHe grabbed me by the forearm
pulled up the front steps
slung into our trailer
held steady to be hit
with his belt.
I ran in circles around him
missed the brown carpet
dangled by my armpit
his empty belt loops.
I Should Be Dead by NowApril 20, 2005
I wake up. My hands shake. My skin is numb. My vision is dim and blurry. I take a Prozac, Adderall, and Xanex. I can't say I'm happy or that I've ever been. I go to work. I drink a cup of coffee. I know that eventually my phone will ring and I'll have a tiny heart attack, so I take another Xanex. I go out of my way to the bathroom so that I don't have to talk to anyone. I sit on the toilet and bury my face in my hands, wondering if I should kill myself. Back at my desk, I take another amphetamine, and work a little, enough to prove I was there. At five, I drive home. I don't eat, answer the phone, or open my mail. I sit in the dark. I drink. I smoke. Finally feeling better, I stay up too late again. I fall asleep, or I don't. My hands shake. My skin is numb. I take a Prozac, Adderall, and Xanex. I was supposed to be dead by now.
Where Where You When the Princess Died?I was nearing the possibility
of approaching a reinvented Madonna
to slip a dollar between her man-breasts
when a crowd of gay men outsmarted me,
engulfing the stage.
It's just as well, I thought, as
the bouncy bare-breasted boy
returned with my drink.
Miss P (three-hundred-pounds of
hot pink) shuffles back on stage,
seems her legs were too heavy,
the shiny stuff too tight, or,
she's tossed back too many.
During an earlier performance,
she'd asked a girl in the front row
how long she's been a lesbian:
Since I was born, the girl said.
Then Miss P flapped her tongue
between her smeared red lips, and said,
oh, so you came out of
your momma's pussy—licking!
That was when I decided—
never make eye contact
with Miss P,
who returns to the stage,
props her left wrist on her
pillowed breast, and pants
into the microphone as if
back stage is miles away.
Miss P blots sweat from her forehead,
then she says,
Princess Di was
To you who writes until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
the cultivation of neophiliai.
give in to it:
the insatiable restlessness
that haunts, heavy
in a familiar corner
of your eyeline.
drive toward the night.
halt only when you
can no longer
trace paths of neon
from streetlight to fingertip;
never quite reach the
eventually, stop trying.
look over the paper city
resting fragile below;
tear it to shreds
with vicious intent
forget that you have
loved and hoped and
for a moment
there is only you,
the night, and the need
desire like you've
never wanted anything,
search for the novel,
for the fantastical
and the faintest hint
of something new
in the sky-glow.
stand so high atop
wonder how they do not
under the weight
of all this empty
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
MICROSCOPIC THINGSAs a child my science class intrigued me.
I still remember the day we learned about germs,
organisms and other microscopic things.
I was fascinated until I realized
that I might smooch some
of these tiny creatures
each time I touched something,
maybe even entire communities.
I looked at down at the pencil in my hand,
then at my palm pressed on the desk.
I kept very still.
Even thinking about it now,
I don't want to move.
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More