ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
January 18, 2007
March, 2004 by ~awwhoneybear is an engaging, evocative/provocative piece of writing.
Featured by somestrangebirds
Literature Text
Soon enough, it got hard for me
to ignore the pebbles of broken
glass buried in the seats
of her attempted-suicide car, or
the night you cut open your legs
only to find them filled
to the brim with nothing
but cold blood and fresh ice.
I could smile but I was stuck in your war-
time car crash, fighting to breathe
over the exhaust, the sky dark and thick
with the unspoken, and she, your mother,
was confined to forced peace,
rounded corners, no butter knives
or shoelaces, hidden scars, white light and white, white walls.
to ignore the pebbles of broken
glass buried in the seats
of her attempted-suicide car, or
the night you cut open your legs
only to find them filled
to the brim with nothing
but cold blood and fresh ice.
I could smile but I was stuck in your war-
time car crash, fighting to breathe
over the exhaust, the sky dark and thick
with the unspoken, and she, your mother,
was confined to forced peace,
rounded corners, no butter knives
or shoelaces, hidden scars, white light and white, white walls.
Literature
Held
We loved like arson:
After-sex after-
glow floats around like smoke, and distorts us,
restless, and tangles around the rafters,
the room imbued: remnants of star-fuelled lust.
We loved like fireworks, comets and fireflies.
We traced paths through constellations for hours,
across freckled skies, tasting the stars
with every kiss. The night went on for miles.
Now a cathartic still whispers, lingers
as the room burns orange in the morning's
luster. The carmine light bares a warning:
To keep my distance, or I'd clash with hers.
I leave her to draw the blinds, casting shad-
ows like prison-cell bars across
Literature
Our Issues
Your heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
right angles,
wood grain,
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
always crawling
under any
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
ha
Literature
Oranges
Oranges
I.
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
II.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
III.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'cl
Suggested Collections
...
comments?
comments?
© 2007 - 2024 awwhoneybear
Comments63
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
I really like teh subject of this, adn you pulled it off so well. ^^