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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
The Laws of ForgettingIt gets better, I say, when someone has lost someone, because it does. You know, I’ve realized that when you lose someone it’s not always their death that’s making you sad. It’s yourself. You make yourself guilty. You feel that if you don’t cry enough for them, don’t die enough for them, don’t feel sad enough for them, that you are a bad person. You don’t want to let go of your sadness, because you’re afraid if you let go of your sadness you will be letting go of them as well. There’s a point where you have to realize that not being sad about them is the greatest thing you can do for them, because dying for someone is not the best thing you can do. Living for someone is. They’re fine if you forget them slowly, as you are bound to eventually. And I’m not telling you that you should never cry, and that you should be happy the second they’re gone. It doesn’t work like that. I know. You should cry, a
InflationHow can a part of spacetime
to expand faster
than light can travel?
...unfolding a new universe
out of a small dot of
the big nothingness
like a blossom...
How can something
become so big
in such a small amount of time?
TraditionWhile tradition may be considered important by many, I believe that tradition has lately been put into so much importance, that it becomes more important that morality. Spanish bullfighting is much worse that most other types of animal abuse that could get one in jail. However since it is such a long tradition, it was able to buy a plot of land from the government to put and arena on. Hazing is even worse. It is often clearly physical abuse, but government run universities still support it. What makes us so willing go so far to keep tradition though. What is it about a ceremony that seems to have no real benefit to society, that makes us do anything to keep it.
I think that it is not the actual ceremony that we are disparate to keep. I think that unconsciously, the ritual is representative of our current way of life, and we believe that without it, more important things will change. I can understand this mindset very well. Change often can be scary, and can actually have negative affec
Majestic Buddha of the DhammaThe Buddha waits for all
who seek His teachings.
For it is the Buddha who
brings glad tiding to us
His is the wisdom that shows
us how to live a better life
The Buddha is the messenger
of Nibbana. Nibbana is the
final stop for all existance.
Let us be grateful that we
have the Buddha. For He is
the founder of Buddhism.
The time travelerAnd he thought
"History may be
So let's go
into the ocean
of unknown dimensions..."
Where is he
when he was
Is he there
in the future?
Has this place
or even a past?
Travel across the galaxy,
travel across the time...
Where was he
when he was
And in the end
the time traveler said:
is a dangerous place!"
Beyond personalityLife is not a personality development program. It is a planned attempt to develop our soul. Make peace with your personality. It is not the most important part of you. That is the soul. It is the only thing in you that is not temporary, and the thing you get to take forward, along with your karma. So, don't get carried away by your personality. Or anybody else's, it is not who they really are. When you are able to see through your own personality, you are then able see people for who they are, beyond what they project. When you find the courage to be who you are, you allow others to do the same. When you end the personality game, you free yourself first.
Do you manage to bring your soul, your heart into your personality, and everything you do? Do you do things lovingly? Then it is worthwhile to have whatever personality you have.
People who think they have a great personality, turn the facade into a prison. They just might be flamboyant, bold, or talkative, and some often end up as obn
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
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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