Year II - Issue XLVIII
Special 100th Edition
Friday Night Features is a weekly feature designed to showcase
a cross section of the most striking, entertaining and powerful
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these amazing pieces.
In this special edition I have selected 99 deviations for inclusion.
Why not 100, you ask? That's easy - The 100th slot is for you:
Dig through your favorites and comment with the link to
your most absolute favorite favorite on all of deviantART!
The Killing FieldsHalf a world
away, though I linger
here in a field by a
and on the horizon,
a temple of skulls;
though the dead
don't rest easy
as towering pearls.
Onyx DreamsOnyx Dreams
Fluctuations of sound waves vibrate the floor,
While the lights of my room glow brilliantly,
But as time winds down and my energy starts its decline,
My vision gets blurry and listening becomes hearing,
And hearing becomes simple background noise,
While Palaceer Lazaro’s words become filmy intonations
Yet, still creating a motion picture full of abstract images,
In my mind full of words and phrases that do nothing but stay stagnant,
And Slumber begins to wrap her warm hands around my head,
As she sweetly begins to pull me into black depths of rest,
A state of unconsciousness that will take me on a journey,
Through the grey abyss we call the center of our nervous system,
And once I fall into the pit of nothingness, the pit of onyx, for those few hours,
I will transform into an atramentous being with aphotic wings,
Because “black is free……..”
precious momentsi used to play checkers
with the grandfather clock
at the local flea market.
i visited him every day,
somehow, he would still be there,
week after week,
standing regally near a
lamp missing its shade.
grandfather clock was a quiet fellow,
choosing to say something
only at two fifty three, and only
every other day.
the ugly baby with the owl eyes
couldn't keep quiet,
rambling on and on about
how it used to live
with someone who played
the banjo (at least,
that's what i think it said.)
in the stand next to grandfather
clock, there sat a statue
of elephants, bronze and rusting,
who preferred to stay silent
unless there happened to be
a basket of frayed, stuffed turtles
my grandfather clock always
schooled me at checkers, but
whenever i pulled out the old
cribbage board, i beat him
i would lounge on a set
of paisley print pillows
that released a cloud
of dust whenever i sat on them.
sometimes, giant rolls of wallpaper
would rest against grandfather's side,
The Weather LatelyWhen I tilt my glass up,
dregs of iced tea powder
become an orange starscape,
an eclipse pecked with holes:
summer, full and searing.
weight of the worldand suddenly--
it was like the world decided that
it didn't want to carry its burden any longer,
so it shifted the weight
into the hollows of my bones
and told me that
it was my problem now.
White FlowersThe doctor was old
and had thin old braids
for skin, hard
red fingernails. She said,
it's not that you are a bad woman
but more that you cannot leave
things be. She looked sad
and fabulous, liver-spots
and lipstick, teeth
like dull old stars,
like the weeping boys
who used to love me
and steal my dresses. She said
you are not bad,
are you listening?
and I swallowed, turned
the rock in my hands, said
There are these teeth stuck
in the back of my head
that tell me
I am not good,
I am not good
at all, get 'em out,
and we cried,
into my hair.
TemponautSundays: no one's butterflies are
going to affect the wavelength
of the sun magnifying ants
(nothing will happen anyway).
Rewind, the air wrinkles into
sundays: no one's butterflies are
stuck on weeping quicklime (not yet)
that doesn't hesitate; floor it.
High-pitched tires are slashed by the
hissing water, parked sometime on
sundays: no one's butterflies are
run over by broken sunshine.
One last time to make this right, keep
blinking back - stop flapping its wings
'fore they reek like pelting rain from
sundays: no one's butterflies are...
feelingfunnycatfish in a fish farm
staring at the sky
to dream about the sea
SeePeople say that losing their sight is the most frightening experience a soul could endure, forever wandering in the dark, unable to see the soft smile of their mother and blind to the affectionate gaze of a lover."I am alone," they would say, "All alone in my misery." Then, their mothers will draw them into their gentle, tender embrace and their lovers will drip words of golden honey into their ears.... and all would be well. Different, but well.
I lived in that deep void, not left alone for two consecutive moments since the day I was born. There were always people around me-- my parents, my sister, Bea.... the comforting presence of quiet breathing filled my senses. Soft touches and tender pats on my shoulders were common. Naively, I believed the world was perfect, filled with an abundance of warmth and affection. My only regret during that life was not being able to see the gold and silver paved paths that I thought I knew had existed.
When I woke up from my eye surgery, I was
perfect calmsuffer this,
while you are cutting up my poems,
rearranging lines and repainting the room
where we first met.
is it sad when we can say that yes,
we're setting fire to the sails of a ship
still miles out at sea,
but this is what it takes to dream these
it's times like this where even the stars
can't guide us.
so suffer this and suffer me
when I am in a mood to (feel);
to color in the broken bones
that are all
we can leave each other with.
It Can Be So ElusiveOn the reservation
and all that jazz
I am always hot inside,
a dinosaur in the garden.
But life, like a tunnel
if out at night,
in a whisper
I remember the good things.
Not the machine evangelist.
and i'm shivering cold on a well lit stage.there's been silence for a while now
but not in my head
at night those words rage
against my eyelids
they flourish and grow into
a carnivorous plant
eat me up
swallow me whole
when your body unites against you
it should be crystal clear that
you either have to change
your venomous, excruciating, catastrophic
just go to hell right away
i am still deciding
i probably will be for ever
today i'm indifferent
yesterday i was sure of my victory
over myself, over you
over the world
the day before i had sold my soul
to that good looking iced man
that freezes you with his gaze
till you burn in a cage
that will not
i'm pretty sure tomorrow
i'll either discover immunity
or just recite the lines
of this empty book
i've been writing
over and over
i wonder why i even keep
moving the pen
(a blank page)
tear the blank page of the novel
you've been reading
that first, or last one
fascinated me most
all my life
and i never had the courage
to fill it
the house still smells like you
and the right side of my bed too.
your pale love marks still litter my neck,
the creases of my hips
and the curve of my shoulder.
there's a ring from your coffee cup
on the counter from yesterday
and a pack of your goddamn cigarettes
on the living room table.
you don't clean up well; never did
always leaving your orange peels
on the damn window sill
and your towel on the chair
in the corner of the room.
i hated that-
but i loved you.
when all's said and done;
after i've liquored down the memories,
i will be the only tangible thing
left to prove you were here at all.
Last Song of the NightYour hands
Some Lovers III died on a cold
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers
withering in the grate.
I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and felt the blood
back into my fingers
before forgetting again
as you sighed into my neck.
I died on a cold
day, but I never felt
AlabamaIt's hard to see God sometimes because we don't "see" Him. He doesn't walk among us as he did with Adam and Eve in the garden. We don't see His face. He doesn't sit down with us to talk as he did with Job. He doesn't present himself among burning bushes and instruct us when we are scared. We don't generally see Him, at least not in the physical sense. Sometimes days, weeks, and months go by without "seeing" Him. When so much time goes by, one can began to lose a little faith. How can we believe in a God we can't see? How can we trust something when we can't see a face, or hear a voice?
This summer, for one week, our church youth took a trip to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to rebuild after the tornado that hit in April 2011. It was a long trip, and being my first time on a mission trip, I had no idea what to expect. I was scared, sad that I was apart from my kids for the next week, and worried that I would not know what I was doing and
Sleeping Beautyshe’s in love with a character who:thumb372764158:
never existed but in the labyrinth of her head:
a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words
she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living
day in and day out, reliant on the salvation
of a man made of foreign wishing
and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance
of the less than ideal perception of self she’d
come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point
where daydreams were a standard for survival
(real living is for the purposeful of heart,
he loves her in her sleep)
just so you know there is a difference between loving someone
and being in love with someone;
but it hurts just as much to lose either one
LongingIt is far too lascivious and cruel,
the way the glint in
your unnerving stare commands me to come hither
yet your lips
keep pulsing with isolated, rigid greetings
like you were pushed to a dare of some sort.
But still, I know better
by the sometimes welling that form at
the corners of your eyes
- which you try your best to hide, and
by your ocean-deep sighs that
your longing goes past your matting lashes
and mascara tinted tears.
It is never easy, hiding
everything I desire inside of little words
like "Hello" and "Goodbye" when
all I really want to do is let it out,
set it free, and
chain myself to your everything
with words I shouldn't speak.
I see it in your body,
the way you wave a hand at questions
- as to somehow, deflect it all away, but
I don't believe you can swat down
a single ounce of dark temptation
rising like the harvest moon
behind your distant wheat field stares.
I live in a mirage of your milky way nape
breaching light-years away from my reach;
it is excruciating indeed
crypticyou look like a desolate artist:thumb371408684:
as you huddle into your
own depth of body
if i walk home in the
night blossomed wind
i hold a key in my fist
because trusting the open air
can't be an easy thing to do
i call upon lilith
i call up hecate
i run home with your power
and i don't get attacked
the owl hoots, i think of their
black inked eyes
if i could pluck leaves
from the highest trees
i'd weave and weave
a noose for you
sweet and full of gracebreathless but unbound
she swung through the
like a scythe
cloaked in soot
smoke clinging to her lungs
like wet leaves
bare feet beating
on the cracked earth.
once when she was a child
round face sweet
and full of grace
she stood at the crossroads
crowned in lace
and promised her soul
it only took one voice
one word slipping
from the tongue of
a serpent with human eyes
dark with hate
to condemn her
the years of quiet hymns
that hummed in her heart
and the feel of the
straight wooden pews
at her back.
it was not long then
before fingers poised
in her direction suddenly
recalling that one time
the preacher’s son
when she was five
and forgotten her prayerbook
at least thrice
and didn’t everyone always
she wasn’t right for surely
no girl could be so sweet
and full of grace.
and when they took her
down to the square
where the neighbors gathered
down to the pyre
while her mama cried
she was steady
Suicides Learning To SpeakIt’s 6 a.m. A girl is beginning the journey back from Oz, anchored to life by the whirr and beep of machines and tubes. Above her emaciated body, nurses pace, write on clipboards, click their heels and purse their lips. She is oblivious. Her mind drifts in freefall, stuck in an eggshell skull wrapped in nasal gastric tubing and an oxygen pipe forced down her throat like a synthetic umbilical cord. Somewhere, neurotransmitters are sewing themselves back into conscious awareness. There is a person lost somewhere in that body. There is a mind overboard in a black sea, sending up a flare. The nurses are afraid that she will stay in there forever. A family jostles at the side of the bed in the cramped, generic hospital room. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men… I don’t need ruby shoes to find my way home. My name is Ruby, the nurses click their heels and my family makes the wish.
I’m finding my way back to consciousness through the sound
Sloped CeilingsA black galaxy
billows around moon-rock knees;
bird-shaped and lonely,
the constellations twinkle--
stickers on a dark ceiling.
ornaments I strung them over the lake top on silver garlands
mismatched spider silk hiding in
pockets of sky
& my pair of scissors can't tell me
which is light
which is dark
except that every
& of my own daylight
imperfect architecturedelicate temple
your heart is a chandelier
your brain's a traitor
Sometimes, it's the little things.He always told me I was deep.
An unfiltered distillation of a humanitarian ocean.
He accepted me, gills and all -
He knew that I needed my eccentricities to breathe
under the seascrapers of pollution
that hung over my head.
Or he said he did.
At the end of it all,
he tugged the gills open to expose me;
my innards trailed across the coral reef
as I swam trustingly forward, hoping for the best.
I tried to believe.
I believed him, gills and all -
But eventually, he left me, with holes in my sides
Where he had spooned out my intestines
To tether them to a boulder.
I tried to breathe.
He always told me I was deep.
It must have been a surprise to read:
Death by puddle.
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