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KnifeRemember that little human
boy who couldn't read aloud -
who couldn't hold a pen
because his slick corn oil skin
kept sliding past itself?
Boy, oh, boy.
And he was born a hundred
years too late for his cowboy
dreams. He rides herd on the
maybes and the somedays.
He sang a knife song - one
that sliced up the rigid spines
of teachers and parents alike
and parted them before him
like God-spoken seas.
Deft elision somewhere between
his teeth and tongue, lyrical, his
words in other men's mouths.
Knife song honed with lime,
polished with manteca.
NothingI used to be lightning.
Power surged beneath my skin,
and in the silence, I heard myself thrum.
I used to be fire.
I burned bright inside, stellar lungs,
and in the cold, I sang myself warm.
Still and dark.
My stone sinews crack.
I am vacuum, deep void of space.
Asteroid dust, floating.
Mocking SkyThe Texas winter mocks
with dust instead of snow
and bare mesquite to testify with thorns
against a shred of weakness.
The Texas winter gusts
fiercely from the south -
grit on lips, in eyes, on tongues that wonder
where the deer drink.
The Texas winter sinks
in rust and blood and peaches
beneath the horizon. Sweetly, sweetly,
she sips the clouds.
The Texas winter clothes herself in cicada song,
and all the stars applaud.
When our wings intertwined
and I fell into your music –
(It flowed like a trance and
dampened my skin with droplets, pianissimo) –
I could have lost myself
in your sonata storm
and let my chitinous scales wash away.
I knew even then
those strings held you bound
in ways I never could.
Lest we forget
In Flanders' fields, the poppies blow,
and we who walk among them know
that here men fought, and bravely died
with equal courage, side by side;
the lark has overcome the crow.
We touch the Dead in memory –
embrace them through the century.
The earth enshrines their valiant hearts
in Flanders' fields.
The torch has guttered years ago;
the enemy has been laid low.
And though your names should slowly fade,
your blood a better world has made.
Rest you now where the poppies grow
in Flanders' fields.
Indian SummerThe Texas autumn froths
in shades of taupe and cinnamon
and lemon-scented yucca blooms -
waxen belles amid the spikes,
thickets of Jumano spears.
The Texas autumn ravages
the sunscorched clay with burning winds
that chew the live oaks all to shreds
and turn mesquites to kindling.
The Texas autumn ticks along
in desiccated deer
yearning for a sip of winter
to ease their cracking riverbeds.
The Texas autumn flows
in rivers of molten tar
along the curbs, beneath the cars,
The Texas autumn breathes hard
like a woman in labor
and clings to the sun
with gifts of fiery fiddle strings
and a prayer for rain.
World-saver (A starter)“This one,” said the Oracle. “This one will save the world.”
It spit out a gene map, one with far too many chromosomes.
The President picked it up and spread it out so the others could see.
“An animal?” he asked.
“A world-saver,” the Oracle replied. “The subject will be phenotypically female, outwardly indistinguishable from Homo sapiens.”
“A general?” asked the Chancellor.
“A world-saver,” the Oracle replied. “The subject will prevent the destruction of the planet.”
“And the planet’s people?” asked the Minister.
“Yes,” the Oracle confirmed.
The Professor frowned.
“Where,” she asked, “can this individual be found?”
The Oracle hummed.
“No such organism is presently in existence,” it said. It sounded amused, though that was impossible.
“Then it must be built,” the Professor said.
They took the gene map and turned to
sex in your wordsI trip over
the sex in your words
it dancebeats each syllable
into the rhythm of submission
to your desire
of thrusting or being thrusted
plain letters draped
in shades of sultry black
only visible to the connoisseur
of linguistic lust
while virgin eyes remain blind
to their deflowering
the twist of your subconscious power
to exude your curves
in the guise of thoughtful
FisheyeYour honest words perch upon brash lips,
teetering on thoughtful intentions; a super hero's cape
embroidered with moth holes, gossamered secret identity
shielding the crestfallen heart you disguise as armor,
forgotten about with a forced amnesia
until its lonely beating rips a hole
through your defenses.
I'm your kryptonite and your sunshine
the thing that makes you human, and weak,
and a villain to the unloved,
and my savior.
I'm the have and have-not,
the desired and the disdained
for your every rib aches to feel the pressure of my palms
and the tangle of my fingers witching for your marrow;
your every fiber argues my nearness and my absence,
and your heart murmurs a welcome and a warning.
You retreat from the latter,
because hope was never meant
for someone like you.
I've been wanting to tell you for so long,
your honesty is a lie.
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
Architect, lost.Green arches and leafed embraces
cover me as I wend through
canopies and avenues
that have since become home.
Dawn glow fogs, ebbing through trees,
and rain falls on things of beauty.
And all I can see is what
I would leave behind.
These brush strokes are gentle on
my canvas, but the lines are
sketchy and my arches
don't seem to fit.
The butterflies turned to ash
when we touched them.
And these architect's eyes
are slowly broken.
Cartoon SkyCartoon sky, fold and tear along the edges, see whats
beneath the carnival atmosphere, the loopy clouds
and finger-painted sun
Behind the balloons and love letters and candy apples
Beneath the everyone's-a-winner lies
Tar-black night, cold and carnivorous, stars waiting
to swallow your dreams whole
Preying monsters, from the backwoods of consciousness
Cracked plaster iron-bed institutional rooms, under
dim moonlight and swinging bulbs
the never-ending night of life, unpainted, unadorned
Beyond the illusions painted on by windmill minds
Cold, isolated, too real to comprehend without
the cartoon sky and paste-on angels
keeping it unreal enough to bear
retrogradein october we harvest but this is a poem and I am a mailbox and the type of stuttering half-winter in my city.
sometimes i shout the oklahoma radio rust, sometimes invent a dixie-cup field of red space as an argument for displacement v. disappearance- and when i'm lonely your district is peopled and settled by the babbled rivers in the architecture blueglow in writhing continents of jellyfish [which, as metaphors, predate political affiliation and the quaking earth]
And then all oak amplifiers in the mountain suicide, then all photorealized rivers jaundiced paleyellow from a draining sun.
I went out and came home to a fire on the street
I saw a car and a man suspended over the shoulder of the freeway, both motionless
I believe mars was in retrograde as I fucked a girl near a forest.
We harvested the crop, fucked, and then sat apart and alone in the dark,
because this is a poem.
crystal copper threading wolvesmango on the hands now
and pink flowers on blue
i dream a little then crocodile mouth awake, a
venus fly trap snap
as i see you
floating seven feet beneath me
pond lenses glittering over your eyes,
nose very very straight like a smooth roman amalgamation
of all the best men at war
flickering like a frog tongue
feverish and stumbling wet pages
maria, maria i think
but blind cuckoo calling won't take me down river
silent on the high blue chair
you do not rise, you stick to your floor
brown boar hair and a gentle wise staff of a body
bear happy and purple wizard
i'm running like a brook in april
feet too fat for the whole journey
i pause with green paper, oats and a single spider thread thought
devastating pendulum from the ceiling
you would not even remember me
an open letter to depressionsuicide princess,
I think you're half in love with me:
the way that you
follow me about, grab at my ankles,
tighten my veins
would almost endear me to you.
and in a certain masochistic way,
I nearly welcome your knock on my door,
the steady clink of your
instruments of torturebecause
who would I be without this
to carry around?
but sometimes, dear,
you impose too much.
it's all well and good
to write the occasional
poem, to hold you by the hand
of a Saturday afternoon
when I have nothing better to do
than indulge your caprices
but you're not an amusing
pet, a fashionable idiosyncrasy.
not to me.
you are dust in my lungs,
haze in my eyes,
the frantic screaming of a
behind my voice at all times.
when you get too heavy to drag around
you simply pull me down.
would you care to count the days
that you've shackled me to my bed,
without the will even to open my eyes
and see you?
I am not your plaything.
please, leave m
regret.there is a certain time of night
that every song on the static radio
makes me cry,
and i want to break my skin
and pull you back in again.
and it is then
and only then
that the loveliest memories
strangle my lungs,
and i remember
sobbing into your pillow at 3am
because i felt so alone,
and you turned out the lights
and held me close
until i could breathe again.
and i swear i would be fine
if that night could be tonight.
here i am,
alone and alive,
and i don’t have a place
in your head or in your bed,
so let me share with you instead
these lessons i've learned in regret.
i know now
you only touched me
how you were programmed to touch.
i was just another machine
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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