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Petting Myself with Grief>> Sometimes, you just need to die...
just a nibit, you know?
It's stall lit takes in times slyke ease,
where you sl-weep yourself back in your chair,
set off a grave flare and stare with an ossuary-glare,
maybe even swerve rare-
-hand eye swhair...
...with the humount of shrewgaze I've shawled myself with over the years
that my brain's sprouted muddied cotton spore ears
similard to that of a 90's punctured hassock
and gauzed in the crèmnants of Kevin Shields' parka jacket...
...but high honed care, so, slow sew dive then:
let's catch the breeze all loafer rugain, with some chimes,
(when you just knead to die...)
butter urm, justab penprick this time
Picture of Maryannetted Do I suntimes arch for-wood
Rippling guzheng fingers thrawart?
For sprockets well-soiled,
My sizzling shadowh-izz foiled.
Where brisk brass sails bewail our way:
Those winds be yet to sway....
Aggroculturural Copfields...balaclAva-|rings of funderandice, subtorefuge settlemintea|-rice
lAva-|rings of flaimendaciousteeples, stirimmolate scoriched|-rice
cadAva-|rings of flakrumblowknhives, segregrainte sowar|-rice
The avaricious ones lea-fib behind demysties & servials
for a disseminaidead vill on an impoveraged, denslaved hill;
there, lies nothing but a -|cAve-air|- of noil-lill-nihil.
/Ch/ tri- m-end-ustSton't watch the flocklock strhands stake hem out.
The Maelstrummurk's muckuckooing fledges sinew a deafleetune no avail; dew mrust cog suck Chronoose's cumech-arcane-ism 'inder Chamb-hornets of Clepsudrip & Quartzit.
Hen, once strike release pins undo, unclasp peliclenched sdeeds sanguwhined,
soar-ache hope'n fly vywinged gaffarswilloop pith thine need beethough, stowed away, you'll flynd dit is ear where lies the Aortawny Sandchooairy and awaits you it dofroth!
("Bolt knode that the final year of these whorleaflynull years,
lies knoboldustily doormantand sunfurlatch-chested....")
Talh UnterTalh Unter: Hawkatatonicatavistic Alchemaniature;
you're migh' shriekenshrined remuddy
and with that ninety-fortitude eye of yours: at 94 did you die?
Isle never know, will I.
But lhert'z paddull it toggether and bask whilst scannoeing
the woe-rise-sun(g), askew and spewing into the Lethied, leafy seadragon, cessantensensations weave low topon.
Seadroving seraphur scailing sacrosank stareefs;
Halseayon hayzes hemoorrhedging howooling healayeast;
An astrongnumbic, alickgaturning anticdote 'ammeridstisawders;
Restifiring, ruddeary rousores, roarowing rejeweluvenation;
Orboroskying ominishonets opuknitillently overtoesingunswipeairopal.
...'Nnealether nRinDe nor negale'shun notcheshyore nesdulledensnugget.
Skathi Iciculled has czar ColdOniplane, witchesnown as Anarcharctigall'eau, The Mosqueatoe Shiverts that ski linenoarfrost along the tundrunes locoldated withind the thawbhitten canopiesovice, are crispreparing to mawindopen the bleakraiNileavents to synfuelslice whiff Mewnimbushelluna; thissesiNorger to zaffreeze glenzymes ov alpinto glaconyxoomithridates as a rifteareviveremedeed to their
dhailty, The Billizzionthundearth: Skaði Iciculled.
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More