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Finished June 29, 2008
From the holes in the ceiling small suns shone through
I reached up with one hand and there grew a peach tree rooted in carpet
Beside me another sprouted in a gentler, much deeper wood
We blocked the shine with our fingers, little eclipses
A sprung umbrage that fluttered against those equidistant stars
Fluorescence melted us into complacency, a legacy
Existence pure organic artificial
And we coalesced into one milky, silvery pool
An ocean into ourselves, a drying flooded stairwell
A breathing sage on a cellophane stage
With no where left to grow but upward
As this miniature Mediterranean seeped into the ground
I thought of the terrazzo plane, that iffy grain
Under our rosaceous, watery faces, leaves as headpieces
Self-assembling mosaics laying cool to the cheek
Contour of warmth ever keeping the fabric impress
A jigsaw gesture, we cook and break,
Boil and harden into a puzzlement lake
We are a fluid mixture, though dissembled and cracked
Sovereign FruitIt sounds a little foolish but sometimes I see love as a multi-sided, geometric figure made from blown glass. Covered in different textures and colors that overlap one another, love seems like a looking glass that does not willingly mirror. Because the light of day does hand off and transfer into darkness, shining in every angle, we are able to see through this figure and perceive a certain beauty that varies, exceeding its physical form. A kaleidoscope of multifaceted abstraction, love matches with everything, applicable to all objects and mannerisms alike. However, its the integrity one pairs with love that makes it true. To believe in the truth of love is to deny that over time fruit will rot. Our minds cannot wrap around this idea without difficulty, but its fresh taste is willingly welcomed.
PalpitateI was here since dawn and dusk held hands, listening
I witnessed their muddy embrace of pinks and grey
They gave into each other in gyrating swirls, dusty whorls
Cradling hands, caked in a matutinal glow and dappled with ink-drop gulls
Traces of the forbearing night were fed spoonfuls of silver splatter
And fingers ran through some honeyed, tenuous strands of sun
At the sight, the sound, my mind welled over blades of grass in a more awkward rendition;
I pulled closer
imagining the sky without a center and lying parallel to clouds
Moving hands without choice to dangle a frameless yellow yoke,
A cynosural pulse, where the determined never cease and the poor were just as rich
Changing days palpitate inside us
He held me as I listened
Words love to garnish, they serve no meat
And those days are what we make them
The Top of the WorldThe Top of the World
Last edited December 14, 2007
A mere visit to the top of the world served us sights in generous proportions.
Namely, were the cottoned lilies, with tatting frills and skies of open arms,
the glassy water and walking trees some strolled in great alarm.
These sights were so vividly imagined that we wayfarers pondered them upon return.
When we climbed to the heights, our faces met with the freshness of palm fronds.
We witnessed their ticklish fingers brush against some oddly placed pastures.
Pastures that were set atop mountains and powdered with song,
those songs that smolder in white-white puffs, twice at a time
All this was thought whilst breathing clearly.
Assuredly, we did not measure with disposability
For then unequal measure in value due.
But how veneration did respire from this alabaster mold
That was so lavishly dipped in starry form.
We met the top of the world with arms outstretched
To sense whatever bliss that filled ou
Currency :revisited:Nukes, bombs, airplanes going down
Theyre things at home the television talks about.
But this big bird isn't going down.
Its greeting ground with engines, meeting road with landing.
The van chucks forward. It coughs and spits and somersaults forward.
Onward, ahead. My father mutters, his lips flap in quivers and I cant hear.
My thoughts they talk too much, and chew his tongue.
I imagine words for movement but his mouth moves in squares.
We ease our heap onto another lane and my airplane disappears behind some trees.
With all its passengers, all its fright, the terror of flight
and blue sky, blue sky. Red light.
Theres a man on our windshield. His eyes on our windshield.
To my left, on the drivers side. Toes glued together, knees bending inward.
Hes sweating a little. Cripple.
An orange juice box. Who needs an orange juice box around their neck?
He does. Well, he does.
To carry his change, his bills its empty. Dingy shoelaces h
CurrencyNukes, bombs, airplanes going down.
Things at home the television talks about.
But this plane isn't going down.
It's greeting ground with engines.
Meeting road with landing.
This van chucks forward. it coughs and spits and rolls forward.
Onward. Onward, my father mutters. Though I cant hear.
My thoughts talk too much, and chew his tongue.
Imagine words for movement. His mouth moves in squares.
We ease into the lane. And my airplane disappears behind some trees.
With all its passengers, all its fright. The terror of flight.
And blue sky, blue sky. Red light.
There's a man on our windshield. His eyes on our windshield.
To my left, to my left. Toes glued together, knees bending inward. He's sweating a little. Cripple.
An orange juice box. Who needs an orange juice box? Around their neck?
He does. He does.
To carry his coins. His bills, it's empty. Shoelaces help him hold it up.
He's still looking at us.
Stop looking at us. At wealth. At hope.
Another meal, just oh, about four steps forwar
IdentityBend hearts in rhythmic motion, at the swagger of drunken pots.
I am the artist's tendon, guiding brush and thought.
We eat words myself and I, it builds our appetite.
And though we walk but with two feet, our hands refuse to fight.
I'm made of stripes, a nose of wax but zebra far I be.
A girlish crown and piano sound is much more close to me.
Beginlove is love
remember thy pledge
if love be love
so willingly said
then so be wealth, so be health
for love lived creation dead
Stalin Was No Savior
Stalin Was No Savior
insecure fascists tighten their seatbelts
once they know the war is over
tightly now, don't worry dear
circulation isn't necessary
here we go, once again
the same scene reappearing
you kiss him. now there's an akward circle.
of you and him, the worst sight, match made in lust
the world was made for you
he is your bride, yes its true
well aren't we an accepting nation?
the ones who speak for adoration
of screening and censorship; the lack of all, of right and which?
we have our hearts tucked in our jeans
my dear no fear! the pleasure is more tantilizing
more skin more sin! circulation isn't necessary
is it hurting now? you're a size too small.
insecure fascists tighten their seatbelts
once they know the war is over
euphoria bestown upon me, the unworthy, the fabulous atrocity
that once was me, this once was me
now, there's still a trace, it's nothing i can change
but lets prevent--
there are no saints in a place a called ea
A Letter to the WorldDearest friends... For a long time I have been wanting to speak my mind on something that has been bothering me... Until now, I have not had the words to express myself, and I have not known what to do to make it known... but recently I have come to realize that if I say nothing.... it is worse than saying the wrong things... I have always believed that the world is filled with good people... people who are kind, compassionate, cheerful, and honest. People who balance out the bad in the world, simply by being who they are. The angels in the world. Being good in their hearts so that they shine like a light in the darkness. Leading by example, and sharing their love with those around them to help make the world a better place. I still believe this. However, I have seen people who I have known..... I see people who I know to be kind, gentle souls slowly losing that love...
And it breaks my heart. Smiles grow dull, laughter starts to come not from that place in our hearts that feels joy bu
GayOne thing you can notice everywhere on the web, is the abuse of the different variations to describe a homosexual.
Go onto the YouTube comment section for any big hit video, and you will see “gay” dropped every other comment or so.
Just now, I read a rather long comment argument where a rather cruel individual referred to every homosexual out there as “mentally sick”
And of course the YouTube section responded with rage.
Black people have come a long way since the days of slavery.
The Homosexual community has come a long way since the religious days.
But the discrimination of either of these two examples will never stop, because we are still talking about it.
Did you ever see Morgan Freeman on “60 Minutes”?
He didn’t want a “Black history month” program running, he said that the only way to stop racism was for everyone to stop talking about it.
I fully agree to that, and yes, I realize it may appear a bit hypocritical to sit here an
Star-filled SkiesCool breeze,
brushing through the trees
For the chill of it all?
The silence and the darkness?
What darkness, he asks.
Met with confused looks,
yet he just gazes up.
The stars, you see,
they over shine the darkness,
which is why we see them.
And the best thing is that
no matter who you are
how old you are
what you do in life
what you believe in
who you love
who you don't
you always see the stars and the moon
given a bit of time and luck of weather.
So while others wait for the sun every day
I simply wish for the stars every night.
They Say - Don't be a heroThey say that being a hero is somewhat stupid,
that bravery enacted by those who are not empowered allow them to suffer futility in their actions and bring about a greater loss than if they had kept to themselves.
“Don’t be a hero.” They say, in order to keep people’s greater instincts suppressed
and cause those to think rather than to act.
But what the Hero themselves don’t always know is that
they have the power to succeed,
that their actions can bring about a greater future,
and that with their willpower and creative thinking,
any evil doesn't have a chance.
Being a hero isn't about thinking, it is about sacrifice.
The FactoryThe factory opens to its workers.
When the clock ticks, the gears spin.
Once the demand for the day is set, the smiths work.
One hand to focus, the other holding the hammer.
When the metal flows, the hammer strikes.
One after another, creations of man pour from the factory to the people.
The people enjoy their creations, giving them praise for such wondrous devices.
The leader comes to close.
The gears come to a grinding halt.
A successful day of production.
The clock halts and awaits the dawn of a new day.
Peter Pan SyndromeSometimes they don't understand the little rituals they see the adults subject themselves to, but perchance, they think, maybe they don't subject, but are subject to. Perhaps the adults find themselves understanding each other when they do these little things. But maybe they only want to find out which of them is the better adult, which has more standing, more reputation.
They are reminded of the social constructs of the wolves and the lions, both predators, and prey to each other.
These adult things they do, so unspecific, so nondescript, so small and inconsequential, they blow over their heads like steam trains and leave them feeling crooked at their feet.
Adulthood is a gamble, they realize. To be destroyed, piece by piece, side by side, little by little by their own doings, and these little things they notice. For while they are children they do notice, and they can.
Sometimes the rituals are baffling to their little heads and the look upon them and wonder with bright eyes and shin
horizon lostWe walked along the dry and stony track, high and ever higher, in the highest mountains of the world, and at last we saw the Mountain, the home of beauty, of spirit, and imagination. With green fields in terraces at its holy, truly holy, symmetrical, single foot.
The Blue Mountain, the mountain of beauty and spirit, has a split on one side, from which all the rivers of the world flow out, with all the colours of rainbow and forest, and plain and desert and sky.
In the terraced valley, the sweet and beautiful palace of knowledge and calm reflection, we lived for an era unknown. At last our unresting spirits desired more, ever more. We suddenly desired to leave our contentment. For something new, exciting.
We escaped from the valley of our confinement to peace and beauty. We escaped to our world of ugliness and destruction, and our eternal wanting greed. The fault lies not in the Universe, but in us.
We wanted because of some imperfection within our minds, not knowing that we had a
On DreamsDreams are powerful. Dreams often act as inter-dimensional gateways of human experience. Last night I had a dream I can now merely hold up its torn, detached, unmatched pieces to the light and, in some attempt of seeing my dream more clearly, go blind. There were people perched in trees, swaying to music; some had hair in all different colors, their bodies resembling the Egyptian Ka. They blew rings of smoke into the air and some turned their human eyes with a birdlike quickness to watch me. Only I was not me. I was someone else and everyone else; weve had those experiences havent we? Zooming in and out of faces, feeling what they feel, doing what they do. Sometimes all those faces in dreams become you, and all those actions, that somehow dwindle for hour upon hour until that alarm clock rings, are you. It seems as if an uncoordinated essence is pondered on, then shaken up with all the fears and loves imaginable, each different and the same to the sleeping circle. But there
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More