|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
De ziua ta, MamicoCe-ţi doresc eu ţie, dulce Românie,
Osuar de glorii ruginind de dor?
Din adâncu-i tainic, Bardul să mă ierte,
Că-i imită cântul zumzet de trântor,
Să topească ceara, pietrele să crape,
Cerul să înmoaie jugu-apăsător,
Cu a sa rafale, fie să răsune,
În auz și-n inimi, glasul lui Stentor!
De pe-o bancă rece Răul ne aruncă,
Împrejur și-n case ochi iscoditor,
Cu priviri vorace munții ni-i mănâncă,
Rodul ni-l despoaie până la cotor,
Lupii și-i asmute stâna să vegheze,
Apele se sting în setea lor,
Mai bine ca timpul să dezarhiveze,
Sabia și turbanul de cotropitor.
Limba se-mpletește, ochiul împânzește,
Portul putrezește pe pridvor,
Iele se înfoaie, brazii se îndoaie,
Sfinții se închină la televizor,
Un potop de ape vine să ne-ngroape,
PolymorphismI've been void and I've been full,
Both exception and the rule;
I've been sightless, I have seen,
Things outside and deep within;
I've been shallow and abyss,
Spitting lips and lips that kiss;
I've been cold, I've been alive,
Queen of flames and humming hive;
I've been wild, I've been tamed,
Beast of burden, wrath unchained;
I've been green and autumn drained,
Waxing dreams and stars that waned;
I've been then and thereafter,
Clouds of storm and rumbling laughter;
Saving breath and tear drowned,
I've been sane and darkness crowned;
I've been dusk and I've been dawn,
I've been raven, I've been swan;
I've been grave and I've been song,
Bleeding knees and deathly strong;
I've been sin and sacrifice,
Sanguine circle, holy vice;
Things unnumbered I have been,
Save the warmth beneath your skin.
Pia Non MorieturUnending incursions through libraries of Babel,
The haze of its branches, with no saving cable,
The fallen are taunting through records so parched,
One sip of their murmurs, I'm deeply discharged.
Delving ever deeper for things I don't seek,
Every abyss I unmask becomes a new peak,
That my hope clings to with fading grip,
As I'm slowly driven t'wards innermost keep.
When does the test end? Where do the answers lie?
Oh, Lucious, just face me! Won't bite, don't be shy!
The PathfinderThe thing that I share, the thing I will show,
You've seen it already, you already know,
That thing precisely compels us to it.
When reason dictates that you spit,
Instead I tell you to swallow,
That thought and let your heart follow!
It finds you upright, it finds you abed,
Beheading the sin and giving it head;
In pieces it finds you, it finds you at peace,
Consumed by your engines and wholly remiss;
If finds you in silence, it finds you in song,
Erupting like crackers and dormant as fog;
It finds you in love, it finds you in cold,
Unwrapping the new, enthralled by the old;
It catches you laugh, it catches you weep,
With joy that you gave, or struggled to keep;
It catches you right, it catches you left,
United as one, by oneness bereft;
It catches you soaring, it catches you fall,
To wider ellipses, from shuttles too small;
In thought it does catch you, it catches in act,
The theory it catches, as well as the fact.
The thing that I speak of, the thing that you seek,
Has found you alre
Silentio iacta estLonely shepherd on a root,
calling things and teaching grammar,
and the silence fell like fruit.
Naughty pupils making clamor,
in the court that once was ours,
and the silence fell like hammer.
Heaven raging its guitars,
radiating waves of wonder,
and the silence fell like stars.
Earthly drum is torn asunder,
ash and fire bleed through ears,
and the silence fell like thunder.
The unknown unleashing fears,
sometimes treble, sometimes bass,
and the silence fell like tears.
Silver turning into brass,
slowly dripping all its spark,
and the silence fell like glass.
Beams of hope becoming ark,
the salvation of the heirs,
and the silence fell like dark.
Everything arrayed in pairs,
in the shelter stormed by vice,
and the silence fell like stairs.
Selfish babble has a price,
would that love had kept us mute,
and the silence fell like dice.
Tarziu, adica devremeȘuier, ramură și zare,
Cânt planând în depărtare,
Umbră, stele și cadran,
Timpul ticăie în geam,
Ploaie, ceară și nisip,
Focul picură un chip,
Ziduri, humă și tavan,
Un chibrit aprins în van,
Oase, fir și cristalin,
Petele albesc deplin,
Smoală, scânduri și cenușă,
Cine dracu` e la ușă?
Drosophila melanogasterÎn vița vie-a minții,
bolnave de rugină,
genunile ca dinții,
dau iama în lumină.
Prădând în revoluții,
ciorchinele de rimă,
dorințele ca șuții,
sunt ferecate-n mină.
se clatină de crimă,
misterele ca sfinții,
secate-s fără vină.
în vesteda patină,
speranțele ca struții,
se izbăvesc în tină.
StigmatulCa la cruciadă,
Cu vizor și cască,
Vaiere sub mască.
Pe plaja Morganei.
Pe-ale oglinzii valuri,
Vas făr` de șurub,
Nuntă de sucub.
În cetatea nopții,
Gem de scoală morții.
În câminul sacru,
Focul din năframă,
Ținta pusă are.
Valuri de verdeață,
Grații de femeie,
Condamnat la viață.
Si ingerii se spovedesc: TetragrammatonDurerea ce pricină vă are e de neimaginat,
Dar a cauteriza rana ar fi de neîndurat.
Sunt cu voi,
Sunt în voi,
Sunt prin voi,
Nu datorită vouă, ci pentru voi,
Precum taina ce leagă slovele din noi.
Nodul de-l simți în gât îmi e cravată,
Pârjol în gură mi-i ploaia ta sărată,
Când totul te lasă, sunt singur cu tine,
Tenebra din gând se luptă cu mine,
De soarta-ți rânjește, în piept bat alături,
Orori ce-l apasă te-ajut să le mături,
Un aer fumăm, colegi de suflare,
Chiar pân` a-ți aprinde întâia țigare.
Suntem idee, Suntem izvor, Suntem odihnă, Suntem milă, Suntem sărut,
Suntem cuvânt, Suntem aer, Suntem mișcare, Suntem nădejde, Suntem leac,
Suntem faptă, Suntem flux, Suntem viață, Suntem miracol, Suntem pace,
Suntem monadă, Suntem miriadă, Suntem diferiți,
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
The Most Selfish Poem I've Ever WrittenPlease be
Just half as broken
Please just once
Have a problem so big
All you can do
Is cry it into my chest
Please let me
Stroke your hair
Til you’re calm
Like every single time
You’ve stroked mine
Please can you
Just be so hurt
That you need me
A Dying BreedI am--
Not an artist.
A writer, a mediocre one at that.
Not an artist.
I don't know what to do.
I'm a writer.
On an artist website.
It took years to get my niche.
And that niche is still small.
I don't belong, do I?
Another day of second guessing myself.
Another day of not measuring up to standards.
Empty the gallery.
Empty my mind.
Keep what's recent.
It'll be trashed just the same.
Nothing measures up.
A waste of space.
No one reads anymore, anyway.
A dying practice.
A dying... art.
I'm a writer.
Not an artist.
I paint with words.
Not with a brush.
No one reads anymore.
They look at pretty things.
Let others craft their imagination for them.
I am a writer.
A dying breed.
....Nici animal, nici om, nici zeu,
nici ADN si nici Arheu.
Si nici Arheu, nici ADN,
nici Foc ce-a ars, nici Cremene.
Si nici angelic, nici cazut,
nici implicat, nici nevazut.
Nici nevazut, nici implicat,
nici dat uitarii, nici rugat.
Si nici in Rai, nici in Abis,
nici amintit si nici omis.
Si nici omis, nici amintit,
nici decazut, nici mantuit.
Si nici terestru, nici celest,
nici rasarit si nici in vest.
Si nici in vest, nici rasarit,
nici la nadir, nici la zenit.
Nici profan si nici sacral,
nici chip cioplit, nici teofant.
Nici teofant, nici chip cioplit,
nici denuntat, nici investit.
Si nici fanatic, nici ateu,
Nici devotat, nici Prometeu.
Nici Prometeu, nici devotat,
nici neplacut, nici adulat.
Si nici iubit si nici urat,
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More