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
Infinity It begins::thumb286836137:
Infinite minds, each carrying
infinite thoughts, forever producing
infinite ideas, that will eventually
ObsoleteFind yourself in your depth
The entity without wants and needs
That has no desire to change
But makes no effort to persist
Stop clinging to time
As without past there is no burden
Without visions of the future
Synthetic restrictions evaporate
And there is nothing to control you
Nothing to blur your pure existence
When you are truly yourself
You cannot become anything else
And there is no reason to doubt
For to comprehend the uncensored world
Takes up all your being
And makes all your questions
things i've earned i. they let me crawl out:thumb286772605:
of my overturned vehicle myself,
watching only to haul me
onto a stretcher. the newspaper
marks me "extricated".
ii. the woman working as cashier
at the chinese take-out place pauses
mid-order, her eyes scavenging my face
"you are very beautiful," she says.
iii. his coach told him
he couldn't have a girlfriend
because she would never understand
why the only thing he had time for
iv. i wear labels like purple hearts:
by matter of possession,
they mark terror i am supposed
to be proud of.
Open BookOpen Book
If I were open,
I would be another vulnerable lost cause.
If I were to give away my trust,
I would be just another wisp of a human forced to carry out meaningless lies.
If I were to love,
I would be shattered the next day.
But I am not open.
I am sheltered, well-guarded and composed, yes! But
If I were to crawl into the open I would be attacked.
Rumors! Heartbreak! I have learned from it all and refuse to be caught by it again!!!
Nothing but an innocent soul not long ago until I was spat upon.
They call me a vixen. They are not wrong.
Suppose a chance would arise of trust. Of love. Of happiness?
the desk chairlittle backwards
you fell into me, lord,
you fell onto me and my long-fingered last-ditch chance at succession
the matte plastic face i'd been keeping for just this moment held,
held less a few cracks around the edges and eyebrows
a carelessly dropped spoon
From the WeathermanWho knew the night could burn so hot and long
Even when the stars look as if they could be
Cool pools of balm for the burn
When a sweet breath is insufficient
Even if it were to be yours.
The morning feels as if it were
A conspirator in my dreams that soon fog
To the sound of the weatherman on channel 7
Telling me it will snow in a place
I've never been through, even in my dreams.
she is an ink-stained poet of seventeen,
whose bruises take the shape of africa
or thailand or italy,
and the ones that don't look like anything
she presses on until the blood pools up
and blackens the map of her skin.
she wanders from
one filament of conscious thought
to the other,
sailing through time and space
as though it were a vast ocean
just for her.
sometimes she sits before the sea.
"who am i?"
she screams to the waves
that drag her under
and fill her mouth
small, wet sand.
she finds beauty in
wine glasses and
roman numerals were never her friends.
PulseWhen I'm inside you,
You speak in tongues--
A lilting foreign language,
Litany of vowels.
They rise and fall
In dialectic crescendoes,
Dynamics of your pleasure.
Silence, when your breath catches
Head twisted to your right,
And your collarbones flush burgundy.
I stop moving as your breath resumes,
Your heart still pounding.
I stay inside you
And feel your pulse.
Butter-yellow mists converge, merge to margarine in the spinning spokes of skyline. Stormy inks dribble down the canvas, the stresses and bumps of acrylic experiments gone awry. In this sullied heaven, they see a limbo called Hell drawing together the equilibrium of the Netherworld. Krakatoa's last ashes prop up the snow egg, blighted by the treasure map scrawl of the letter 'X'. Its etching has sandy origins, from the moment the Pirate God lurched out of his treasure chest and rode on the whale to prosperity. Long confined by humankind's swashbuckling stereotypes, the Pirate God lashes out, slashing with his fibrous cutlass to open up Martian soil. Or perhaps, belonging today on a ravaged Earth, it is a sea of lava, drawn from the inner core of this planet. The Pirate God has overseen this without regret.
The Black Sea, however, looms. Dislocated from Earth's Divergence, it haunts the new Convergence with hull-like hollowness. The jawlines of whales precipitate neon luminescenc
Fragments of You and Me
fell in love with a stranger´s laugh
in the kitchen, Monday afternoon
He forgot his front door keys here and
concluded he had to stay for a while, so sorry
I said, if I find it I´ll throw it in the lake
locked us in the paradise garden
painted flowers on my body
and let the starlight breathe life into them
counted the times my heart skipped a beat when you called my name
stopped counting when my brain didn´t work anymore
- why did my heart still work
said you´d buy me a respirator
so you can kiss me until we can´t breathe anymore
and don´t have to fear you´d kill me
Suggestions are welcome and encouraged. Send in your suggestions
for feature by noting them to `dreamsinstatic