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Reckoning TreeFor years, an ancient oak tree stood in front of Tribekean’s household, hiding an already clandestine family. Not until a sunshine December 1989 day did the tree snap to reveal a darkness never seen before by mankind. No records detailing the day remain. Historian hands lock up attempting to scribble it down.
Don't Stop TalkingDon’t stop talking.
Let me hear the echo of your voice
Resonating against the chambers of my head.
Don’t stop talking.
Maybe I’ll still hear you when I’m
Don’t stop talking,
But don’t you touch me.
Don’t you grab my shoulders.
Let me hear you
Before I crack against the mountain side.
So don’t stop talking.
Where I StandI am not a vagrant of society,
Rather a mobile observer of my surroundings.
I write, I listen
I learn, I write
What crosses my heart is the written word.
How else am I to be
For I am a learner, an art admirer
An appreciator of even the dark
That knows everything
Has words wired to its heart.
I hate that some slam their eyelids
And sew them close
To all the mystery of the world.
Our differences are at best to be appreciated
And at least to be tolerated.
I despise the feeling I get from social interaction
A sense of constant judgment,
I have social anxiety,
But despite myself,
I still try
Which causes strain
Which in turn causes stress
Which inevitably causes a breakdown every month or so . . .
There are worst things.
Like intolerance and senselessness.
Like lack of empathy for the other side.
Like too much apathy for even your side.
Those are the worst things.
What I adore is the love of someone
Who I admire
Or who I love back.
I adore the look on som
LayeredFrequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.
Her name has a backbone.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.
The name does not match the face.
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.
She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.
As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.
That ping-pong love.
I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.
Two shots of blackened caffeine
To harden my veins 'til I have no choice
But to stand upright with stand-still eyelids.
The one stop shop to no stop;
The Jazz Age in a Styrofoam cup;
Fitzgerald's active displeasure
Sprinkled as a galaxy swirl
On top of a white cloud,
Flavorful enough to inspire.
I awoke somewhat alive,
But now I'm lively dead.
Refill me again and again
Until I tremble and shake so much
I see beyond my imagined infinity.
Keeping DiggingWe work on dim comforting nights,
Kissing the cufflinks of the radiant moon
Until it throws us a moonbeam as a striking
Our mouths secrete acidic saliva
After years of our tongues massaging
The slick back of chewing tobacco.
Dirt particles crowd into our noses,
Seducing our sinuses
To create a family reunion for them.
They wanna stick like glue to one another.
Be like we-always-get-along brothers.
These brothers got some sharp skin lovers
And when they make love,
They tear the bed to bloodied shreds
And we feel the red stream into our mouths.
The moon snorts at us—
An obvious attempt to arise envy—
And it works.
We drop our tools
And we show our technique:
Seal the mouth,
Force the air,
Blow the sockets out.
We’re too blue collar to snort,
And just poor enough to fume,
So the brother’s reunion orgy
Ended with a splat in the moon’s living-room.
Until the shifting of our shovels
Start to dig into our dreams
pick up the slack and
pick up that slack-jawed shadow of yours
dragging on wet pavement under your soles
and hurry it along, we ain't got all day here
flex your white-boned fingers and
taut knuckles and pluck the soul from
its coffin in your slick throat
the sun has better places to be than in your sky.
Universe Inside Herthere is a universe inside her
systems upon systems
sometimes they collide,
or overlap and pass
some bright and expansive
as newly forming stars
some dark and vacuous
as old ones collapsing
there is a universe beside me
in this bed, she is my earth
hills and valleys
through shared rock shelves
our collection of mismatched
objects and moments
fractured and whole
to the balance
and gravity between us
our lives combine here
we heal and break
in the shared ache
of empty and full
there is a universe inside us
around us, with
and without us
our moons mature
spin off and center
their own galaxies
and we'll be here
in the shared ache
for our new
from the starline
the gardenersMy father is a good man.
His hands, dry and
callused, carry a case
of Corona Lite
to the gardeners in
Big-brimmed hats cast
shadows down their faces,
and a pile of thick,
gray gloves lies
on the glass table.
The beer looks like liquid
gold in those clear bottles,
and condensation clings
to the glass like the sweat
beading at their brows.
My father and the gardeners
drink, laughing like they’ve
known one another for years.
There is nothing
that brings men together
better than beer
on a hot day.
grow upyou say
i am weak
i have never
worked for anything
i am not sorry
i should take
the pills the doctor
i will never
know what it is to
hurt the way that you hurt,
plant me in the ground
listen to the way my nature sounds
when i turn from something black
to something luminous, proud
you turned me into a shadow, you prick
remember that? remember this?
yeah, the condom broke, you
piece of shit, at least i tried
to be careful, at least when
you cried, i kissed your
say what you want
about my judgment.
my immaturity, my general
lack of readiness for
anything. but i was good
to you, and i tried,
and i am sorry that
you hurt so much
that you can't
do it as elegantly
as i can.
you have never
learned to love
the grit: the place
where my spirit sags,
where my love
as if biology could have been any clearer,
cleaning your spit from my bedroom mirror-
i can smell your genes and
they smell fucking good to me,
but i keep telling myself,
Our destiny is determined
Reliving the past
Enduring the suffering
Visions of the future
Endeavours to come
Representing life as a whole
9 Countenances for the Curious1.
My limbs have become instruments,
but, unlike the piano of your memories,
I am still not anyone's to play.
I think I am finite,
that the limits of me are dictated
by flesh and numbers
on an inverted scale
but the dog on my lap
doesn't care what I weigh;
she wants only
to love me and be loved.
the pain that anchors you
strains your back,
the ship of your life
is hamstrung upon a reef
and you think you are watching
a dolphin at play
but siren songs deceive you.
my ship sank beneath the waters
years ago, this bubble of life
sustains me even as i drown:
there are storms in the depths
of me, and you see only
the ocean's calm.
At 7, I swallowed stories
like candy; didn't understand
that too much leaves you bloated.
At 17, I breakfasted on books
like pancakes; too caught up
to tell (some things should be special).
At 27, I feasted on fiction
like home-cooked meals; didn't know
some of it could poison you.
At 37, I hope I will be picking
at poetry; letting the flavours
of the words
The Washed MindI have let the difficulties flood my body
From head, the worries slip to my heart
like children falling through the cracks
of some broken floor
under which is nothing besides me
My mind is melting from the inside
Swarmed by maggots and the meaningless questions:
Would my mind work better
without all these walls
stopping it from evolving?
Where did these obscene problems come from?
Surely my mind was born free
Surely my opinions exist somewhere...
Or is freedom nothing but a joke
to the true me?
So, I ate nails and needles to clear my mind
The bleeding and the pain
were both evil and refreshing
I have learned the lesson
fairy tales are the shadows on my eyes
Now my mind is clear as melting glass
running down my cold spine
washing away the sins,
violent thoughts and sorrowful memories
from the edge of my past
coefficientsi cut the line at church today.
went into that dim room,
the one where you can't see who's there,
knew enough from the movies to
sit down and ask the curtain to
forgive me for i have sinned
and the faint light quivered
as he and she and the air
all laughed and god came
down and looked me in the eye
and in that darkness asked me
why i'd wasted his time repeating
what every goddamn person and animal
and plant had already told him-
said you think you're all unique
and i'm damn near at the end of my patience
with telling you that you're not-
i cut the line at church today
and saw some of god's skeletons
hanging in his closet.
All of the One LightIt's all for the love
(Which is all for the show).
The quiet thrill of the hunt for thought
Bites off my tangled tongue.
All fluttering eyes to the front
As my body trimmers from behind their vision.
Who's handling the supervision of
Whatever and whomever to call my mind?
The lips of my young mouth
Already engraved with the deep scratches of time.
Words drift the cracks
Only to be damned before they soar into light.
My weakness is no source of pondering pride.
I would hang my head
But the ice of the theater bulb
Stiffens my brittle bones
Strictly to face my judgment-day north.
"Go forth with the onward march!"
They shriek and they prod.
I hear the echoing slam of the tick of the tock.
I stand right there and shatter on the spot.
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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