Sta.sh
One Year Anniverary 
ing this article and
The Fourth Annual Poetry Screams Prompt Contest is officially open!
with the subject "Demonstrably Deviant".
" Alf lives in Belgium, his profile picture suggests he enjoys drowning young children in several inch
Year II - Issue XXXIV
Volume LXXXVI
Friday Night Features is a weekly feature designed to showcase
a cross section of the most striking, entertaining and powerful
literature, photography and artwork on deviantART.
Show your support by faving this article and checking out
these amazing pieces. You're bound to find something
that speaks to you, sticks with you and pulls you in.
CelestesYour breath sweeps light into dark corners
an ocean moving beneath your lips
in soft waves.
Light refracts into hollow depths
a lullaby speaking grief into deep blues
and long boats whispers sighs of love
against the hull of you
the streets step lies over our tongues
repeating as each sole meets asphalt
and treads shadow into black
each word falls over the page
like teeth
or the gentled sounds of love
echoing in a silent grenade
the soft soliloquy of us
shapes under a new world
it murmurs into space
and speaks satellites
into black holes
putrefactionI am living for
the second time,
and it is harder than
the first.
I feel spoilt
as an apple
dappled with bruises
and rot;
sodden with small
stains
and discarded skin.
there,
the wine-coloured oval
that your thumb fits into
just exactly—
the rest of your fingers
left their blunders
on the other side.
it is nothing compared to what I have done to myself
The Plea of EveLet me lay beside you, my love,
Become bone of your bone,
And flesh of your flesh.
Let me rest by your side
Inbetween your ribs,
Where I guard each breath,
And sync them with my own.
Let me merge into you,
And we shall be one flesh,
As before one formed two,
Then together fade to dust.
beari.
there is a bear in the forest. he breathes out ghosts, inhales the most
incredible brilliance - forgive me, i'm selfish about this one
i swear i didn't live before him. he's the loneliest soul,
i wrap my jeweled fingers around his bones because i'm alone within
his skin is pale as aspens
he looks alive in the autumn; grinds his teeth in the summer heat
'don't speak' he'll tell
me. he roams with wild eyes & broken bones, he's
the sweetest hell. he's a cavern in heaven. he's
more human than i'll ever be
his fur is made of afterthoughts & lulling birds
twin stars dangling high above his head
to mask a sound you'd give your life to he
Young LoversYoung lovers brush lips
and speak no words of love
tongues wet with hunger
taste of candied cigarettes
lukewarm beer
their names were whispered, husky
why, she thought, we will forget
he kissed her neck
drunk lips fumbling on the skin
lost in a wanting haze
their hands find rest on hips
and wake the longing need
their arms entwined, braided legs
fingers caught in tangled hair
desperate, gasping, please
young lovers brush bodies
and speak in stilted breath
AceThe reason I like to disappoint you is
this thing I feel in here (here, you can feel it on my neck)
that is way beyond need or thirst
love or admiration
You probably have no idea I'm bluffing when I pretend
You're just another day gone by
The reason I like to disappoint you
is that today I bet some parts of my skin
on your persona (you 've become more of an idea
than a person in my mind)
The reason I like to disappoint you
is that I'm so much in love with you
I didn't tell you (when you said I'd love Sarah Kane)
that the only way I could love her poetry
would be if you failed me.
frankensonnetwe do not live in a world where
lips are as soft as rose petals
and the ice in the freezer is frozen solid
we do not live in a world where
people are calm and fender benders are okay because
shit happens
we do not live in a place where
cars stop for stop signs and red lights and pedestrians
or where people smile and wave at total strangers
we do not live in a world where
i can call you and tell you i love you just because i do
and it won’t be strange
we most certainly do not live in a world where
i can hold your soft fingers, or caress your skin with my fingertips
where i can run my hands through the knots in your hair
or the knots
if you burn mesee, some people
on the inside, are lined
with shelves packed with little glass jars.
people
are pockets of stars.
Supernova Stars in the heartwood box
splinter fragile edges like the chipped rim of a plastic cup; but no heart-space can up
explode
into a vacuum, space-vacuum
quiet
-less place.
Who knows what specimens
of "that-one-time-we-couldn't-reach-the-next-branch
so we jumped"
"that-one-time-you-finished-your-book-on-the-subway
and looked punched"
(but it's okay because
no-one looked anyway)
"that-rust-under-fingernails-smell"
"that kiss" packed into perfect formaldehyde;
Who knows when they sing:
when their
I am small in your hands. If I am small in your hands.
If I could be anything, I know that I would be a bird. I know that I would want to be small and free, and that I would want to feel the wind between my feathers scooping up underneath my breast bone. I know I’d want to fly.
I am small in my words.
I can never find the right words these days. Letters and syllables come tumbling out of my mouth and I reach to grasp them and put them back. I would expand my chest and absorb the words if I only could. If I were more confident I wouldn’t need a safety net outside of my lips or to be able to open up my chest but I do. I falter between rib bones and fingertip
the discrepancies of burnsI thought that I could pretend that I was flawed like you,
but between the fire trucks and burning buildings
there was a trail of watered down ash.
I didn't get any closer to the door of your house
and I never fully invested in following the leader;
you never knew what I really meant
when I hopscotched to the end of the earth
and told you I wasn't yellow.
You accused me of wearing a helmet,
purifying the air with a spray of arrogant toasts
compliments of the side walk hydrants,
but I was knee deep in the sludge
and you mistook my wisdom for
standing on a soap box,
and you were convinced
that you had walked the earth.
At once I knew you were looking up from the hole you had declared humanity in,
and your eyes always crystallized when you were just having a bit of fun.
I took accounts, the faces of registers, apart from pretense.
You like fairy tales and lions and think you can spin webs
like a queen spider while you sit on your bedroom floor
alone with a cat's cradle in your hands
that
EndarkeningThere’s a door in my head.
It’s wooden; a wooden door. I think it used to be painted, but the paint’s come away so that all that’s left are scraps. The paint was… green. Old green, like centuries seen through dying leaves. There’s a round, brass handle on the right hand side, tarnished with age, and an old fashioned lock beneath it. The door is… in a corridor. A white, plaster corridor. Its old- chunks of plaster have fallen away. But there’s no cobwebs. The floor is wooden, too, long wooden floorboards that stretch forwards and backwards. There are shadows, but the shadows are wrong. There a
WithoutI don't like a person
Without scars
I feel like they're empty,
Missing something
I feel like a person
Without scars
Has nothing memorable
To share,
To tell
I feel like a person
Without scars
Hasn't yet learned how
To smile,
Breathe,
Live
I feel like a person
Without scars
Doesn't know how to handle life
Because
Life hasn't handled them.
Memoir 021.:thumb353330181:
Sinking sun
setting my bedroom alight:
summer sky-fire.
2.
Spiders hang prone;
abandoned marionettes,
many legs askew.
3.
Daylilies slumber
as darkness bades the
garden to sleep.
Airborne over Germany Paper thin lies are falling from the sky
onto ash grey ground and
fallen trees with branches
of flesh, blood and bone.
They flutter,
weightless above the carcass of the earth.
Spinning slowly,
small shadows,
falling onto scars and battle fields.
Blacked faces with white slash teeth,
awed skulls,
raise their eyes up to the curve of blue skin
in something akin to wonder.
The drone of metal birds seems far away.
In the silence of bombshells and bullets,
the sound of falling fills the air,
of other government’s propaganda.
v.in the dew-dark moon-glow
of the star-stained night
i will sit up
wide-eyed, indian-legged,
fearing, loving,
missing you.
where i left my heart in julyin the orange mid-afternoon light, hunter's hair glows like a gentle fire, red and molten hot inside my grasp. it is soft and familiar in a world that rewards hardened strangers, and as it slides, anaesthetising, along my calloused fingertips, i am completely transfixed.
the decade-old hum of his rusted pickup is a special sort of harmony as bass lines and the purr of a tested engine reverberate inside my chest, keeping time with my heartbeat.
what a thing it is to feel, i think, but i don't think he will ever feel as i do.
we have people at home, the sort that would lay their lives down for a love even less than what we have, and i am afr
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