Morocco Pictures[link]
I will probably not be posting many, if any, of these pictures up on DA. After all, I'm not exactly a photographer by nature. But I figured I'd pass on the link just in case someone would find it interesting.
Newest
ImmutableWe take happiness from without like a coat, donned in opposition of internalism.Immutable
Push away thought's lightless hum, the desultory sprawling veins.
In search of quiet equilibrium, we estrange ourselves from ourselves,
all shot through like embroidered cloth with the shivering filaments of sorrow.
by *saartha
SoftThe rain comes in from the mountainsideSoft
and the musculature quietens. The birds, the beasts, the slanting cliff,
the light, the restless hollowed emptiness,
the bits of lava and bits of heartbeat and bits of racing animal mind.
It quietens.
The rain comes in like a slow blink.
by *saartha
InterludeThe husked time desiccates.Interlude
My mother turns into a stranger, my father into a human, myself into a restless dog.
Into the earthy confinement of a mind in stasis go these things: the bald, baleful moon. The dinner table's leitmotif.
The purpling hours-- The disconnect--
And there is more buried than not. Under the unbearable weight of waiting, everything gets stored deep.
In this way begins a preemptive strike against longing.
by *saartha
StrifeI wake sallowly, all sub-rounded corners and disjointed limbs. The night is a thready, uneven pulse.Strife
Over the sea, an iceberg breaks into flocks of birds. They are only birds.
And still the sky throbs, throbs, while all the wetly breathing matter wheezes in tandem like some dying magnificent orchestra, like wind
in a skull, like my own hunched body, which sweats and breathes despite itself.
by *saartha
Random Favourites
Compare"You write poetry," he tells me, "Why do you find it so hard to talk to me?"Compare
I tend to forget how to speak when I'm sitting next to you. While the silence settles in,
all I can think about is how to tell you all the things that I've always wanted to hear
so you'll never have to want for them like I do.
by ^StJoan
at threeAt three when the hand on the clockat three
struggles to move-- there is thunder.
Faded orange land clashes
with man made green. Thunder comes again-- God’s heart beating over a desert.
Water vapor grabs dust and begs
to be pitched down and made into earth. When it rains the road steams under the sun-- blacktop turns to oil slick.
And I struggle to say something that hasn’t been said before.
by ^StJoan
Fire IIIby ~puestodelsol
Autumnby *Floriandra
deviantID
| The old grey donkey, Eeyore stood by himself in a thistly corner of the Forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "Why?" and sometimes he thought, "Wherefore?" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?" and sometimes he didn't quite know what he was thinking about. --A. A. Milne |
Devious Info
- Current Residence: College.
- Interests: Poetry, music, general artsy stuff.
- Favourite poet or writer: Miroslav Holub
- Personal Quote: Govern your mind.
- Tools of the Trade: Keyboard.
Visitors
- Nov 21, 2009 @ 6:02 pm=Synthetamine
- Nov 21, 2009 @ 4:39 pm~SocialAnomaly
- Nov 21, 2009 @ 3:09 pm~Uhanam
- Nov 21, 2009 @ 3:04 pm~MusikAnkan92
- Nov 21, 2009 @ 2:46 pm~The-I-Of-Irony
Comments
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--
"I love when you make the dictionary your bitch."
"You seduce the English language and use it for your own sordid ends."
[JDM] [JA]
~Michael
--
You are the circus, I am the freak. [link]
within what you write.
too wonderful
--
"millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy sunday afternoon." -susan ertz
Sparsity is cold,
but comforting.
it is said that moderation
even within itself
is a type of extreme
(maybe more so than any other)
--
"millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy sunday afternoon." -susan ertz
--
let's play a game called you pretend i am an actual poet
i believe that comment is what they call
orgasmic
<3
--
let's play a game called you pretend i am an actual poet
(ES is still dead, btw. Found a lot of them lurking here)
--
poets are singers who haven't learnt to sing
musicians who haven't learned to play
they know not what it is we bring
think us priests who haven't learnt to pray.
--Azuire//lastfactor&c.
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