Friday Night Features
Friday Night Features is a weekly feature aimed at displaying
a cross section of the some of the most striking, entertaining
and fantastic literature, photography and artwork from across
deviantArt. Show your support by ing this article and
checking out these amazing pieces. You may find someone
new to watch
TouchMy legs wrapped loosely
over your lap,
with frantic wanderlust
through an intoxicating,
thicket of tresses.
Longing to get lost,
yearning to yield,
craving to clutch your lips
to my pulsing, pounding chest.
ChairsThere's nothing quite so lonely,
As a row of empty chairs.
Left in an empty room
With no one sitting there.
There's nothing quite so hopeful,
As a row of empty chairs.
Standing there waiting
For the crowd to enter there.
There's nothing quite so cheerful,
As a row of empty chairs.
When the crowds start to come in
and fill them up again.
And the empty chairs,
Aren't empty anymore.
overlap.Built on half-beat bricks, blinking amazedly over and over:
such things tumbled in red and brown you're over and over;
cry the words again spilling louder! and louder! and still
pieces of mixed-up souls pile up in snow drifts over and over.
Tell me, have the brightly coloured letters crushed up in
your brain like powdered dreams, rattling inside over and over?
Yet, dusk screams from the outside, shrieking the insides up
like torn pieces of cloth, settling and falling, still over and over
until, once the trees beam, twice the flowers bow, the tower-
tall stories reach up and nestle in your ear, over and over,
like the images of tea-stained burdens, heavy upon your
tongue, as your nose searches for howls: over and over;
biscuit crumbs settle like dust around all bottled-up liquids, like
the blood-stained tears falling from your spine over and over.
It is an endless maze of coloured drawings crayoned on
your lips, blue and yellow and purple, bleeding over and o
shipwreckthe girl who watched the rain
wore a cherry red dress and
a painted smile;
bare thighs and sticky fingers,
she waited for her thin wrists to break
and for the pretty-eyed boys to
haunt her dreams;
through the darkness of the fog
she could see trembling leaves
and rattling windowpanes
and yet she did not care.
not for herself, not for the world.
not for lonely souls
not for the cowards or the whores.
she only knew one face.
eventually.i remember to use my voice only when i need it least.
stuttering, stammering, i am the suicidal yet soul bearing spitting out of syllables;
sputum and spokes of cilia heavily coat every word being uttered by a mouth- yours.
A gaping hole i have often found myself lost and found in,
time and time again.
the laundry my sick, cyclical psyche impedes upon itself;
bleach self-medication must be provided accordingly.
we want so hard to believe there had never, ever, been stains;
we live placebo li(v)es.
i am residue of a bubbling cauldron morphed into an epic (yes, heroic in deed and love),
i spill over; fire fazed, i finally face the cooling rigor mortis
ah! such affinity can be found in the word 'cooling',
it is what makes the rigor mortis palatable mind you.
as such is the earth's crust forevermore in need of cooling,
also is the heated passion of entwined souls and their capsules.
we become but a splatter of secret sauce- sweet, sour, spicy,
AllergensA brush with toxin
There's hay fever,
and then there was
snapped the oak,
split the elm's heart.
Roots like piano wire
smothered the surface,
rotted the core.
Lips to the bark,
scattered the leaves.
lunawe curl around this meaning of life
a fox tail, white
our elegiac eyes, pastel
blossom clutters our wrists
may i sugar your
bath water seeping and hushing
ambered and soften
and turn to the grass stems,
the daisies hiding
sweetly, closing rose kissed veins
and i kiss your
and curl around your open palm
whimper, whisper lilac song
A polish of
On the stove
Are stains of
The kettle eyes me
I think briefly about
If the scale is
Tipped in my favor
Or reads Err.
Tongue-Tied Love.Some nights
worms eat across my brain.
I bask in the shameful glory,
of pulling scabs off heartache.
this habitual nature defines me.
Eyes affixed to sunless skies,
I no longer find comfort in looking away.
Some days are spent watching the sunshine pass me by.
I wish I could shut my eyes,
But I've been staring void for so long,
this sticky guilt,
it measures in tons.
It hurts to speak at times.
No words can do you justice,
when everything you know
I just move on.
comic relief was never present,
and opportunity avoids my threshold,
like the plague.
Its hard to speak when
listening ears reverberate.
And the concept of connecting with another
remains so vague.
Crack your jawThe hills behind us,
Are lit up in magnified stars.
And we're high above Saturday night,
You're touching the top of the sky.
I look out across the valley,
At that distant red light,
And I feel the chill in my ribcage.
But you put your warm arms on me.
You bite my lip,
And for that moment,
We're a stillframe, all orange and white orbs,
That's how I knew, this night won't ever end.
The night wind is cold now,
Colder than it was the first time,
But you said that your bed was warmer.
And that made me smile to myself.
I took the ring from my nose,
And set it down, no interruptions.
Your rhinestone eyes glint in the light,
From the open windows up here.
But I can't tell you,
The way that you made me feel,
Electric, slipping your hand slowly,
Across the edge of my smooth pelvis.
You crack your jaw,
And for a moment it stops.
My hand finds your hand in the dark,
And I know that you're strong to survive.
When I woke at eleven,
You were still sleeping.
My right hand was still on your chest,
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