Goodbye clutter-updated 11-15-03
Newest
Dinner at SixDinner. Dinner at six. Dinner at house, dinner in telephone wires spinning to the stove. Electrical wires, live wires cut behind the stove spitting sparks. Heat - heat spinning in perfect circles, circling under the stove, licking sides of the meat inside.Dinner at Six
Dinner. Dinner at six. Dinner at my house: steak, cow steak, buffalo steak, stake through the heart of our relationship. St[eak/ake] in the oven popping and sizzling and spitting in our eyes. Cooking - rare, medium-rare, medium:
Dinner. Dinner at six. Dinne
by ~shadowassassin
cobwebsSometimes the cobwebs in my mind talk. Spiders creep up the grandfather clock ticking one second off.cobwebs
Tickled legs track the path of mathematical pendants back and forth, breaching infinity's bounds twice each second. A gray mesh folds to fit.
exception: Each side of my skull is a boundary. Each side of my skull is pounding while I learn how to count all the way up to 100 proof
fighting truth and / slurred vision: dull wh
by ~shadowassassin
exhausttruckpipe gets high sucks tangents to a pointing circle. accusing O's / chubby fingers on 100 slips of paper write "love you." the coughingfan coughs blows in a room - on a table - over streets.exhaust
the finger is mine. slips are the air's first in breath, then land and belong to whoever's present.
by ~shadowassassin
Two HobosOne sits near a wall and counts his coins with fingers made of skin and joints. when an Upperclass passes by he begs change for a nickel/ change for his life/ change for a change.Two Hobos
The other sleeps close to the street. His toes skim the top of muddled water and they believe the gutter is the ocean.
He is brok-en-rich: when cars whisk by, the draft hits his face and he pretends he can breathe.
by ~shadowassassin
Favourites
ExaroPsychosomatic, a simple grammatic prophylactic rhapsody in blue-- arms quaking, bones shaking the space between one/two/one/two numb hands thrumming one loud, unending beat.Exaro
Polymorphic mobiles dance naked, so many stars against the vacant expanse of space/time/space/time folding the unfolding words into hijacked, weeping rhyme-- elementary emphatic symbols struggling to implant it in the stone cold static.
by *sarasvatia
LucastaThere are empty spaces I fall into, silences between folded sheets of music and billets-doux, in the yawn of a piano I do not play.Lucasta
The house surrenders to a phantom air that sinks into all the notes of insects in an empty parlor, into sheets red with the apparition of wine, corpus sanguineum. But the doves have lost their voices. I take long walks up and down country roads to catch insects and dry leaves. The house is always quiet but for the cicadas.
Late autumn, and I am at the window watching the trees turn red, humming nothing to myself over and over until th
by ~beansforyou
halo-dconcept: sad/vacant tornadoes torn light fragments of frozen time like thehalo-d
dice that i don\'t need like aeroplanes with wings and guns solid with ice welded together with my own
eyes- i saw it
frantic- heavenly halos of sugar save lives like some sort of ritual give me a sign stop your heart and hand it over it would be hard to see, through the aeroplanes welded together with my own fruited plains the soil decomposing still frozen solid (impairs judgement) it wou
by ~terminalbeauty
deviantID
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Sacramento, CA
- Interests: Anything interesting.
- Favourite movie: The Usual Suspects
- Favourite band or musician: Atmosphere, Blackalicious, Aesop Rock
- Favourite genre of music: Underground Hip-hop
- Favourite photographer: Ansel Adams
- Favourite gaming platform: PlayStation 2
- Favourite cartoon character: Bart Simpson
- Personal Quote: Jesus saves...but Gretzky gets the rebound and scores!
- Tools of the Trade: vivus, etoilerose, rebelchic...ohh, you said tools OF THE TRADE, not tools. My bad.
- Email: nightassassin09@hotmail.com
- AIM: note me
- MSN: note me
- Yahoo: note me
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"The ending is brilliant. Seriously. I might get that inscribed on my casket someday so God will understand."
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If I'm not writing, I'm just sitting here changing oxygen into carbon dioxide. Like a baby. A little shit and piss factory, maybe one day a man. Be a man today, motherfucker.
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If I'm not writing, I'm just sitting here changing oxygen into carbon dioxide. Like a baby. A little shit and piss factory, maybe one day a man. Be a man today, motherfucker.
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Enigma. Temptress. Technology. These forms define my writing.
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but, mainly, Stay Classy
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A picture, like a human, will speak a thousand words, and never say a goddamn thing.
Happiness, by
The Interview, by
Rusting Bridges of Suburbia, by
So, I did some peruzing, and earthed up these three pieces.
Happiness is beautiful in its own simplicity, and has a subtle kick to it that I find lacking in a lot of reading these days.
The Interview is an interesting little for-the-stage piece that I found myself cracking up over, all over the place. There's some great humor and dialogue going on here, as well as some great subtle toss-ins for the actors to experiment with. Something I would love to see performed.
While Rusting Bridges of Suburbia might be a little ho-hum subject-wise, the rhythm and control of meter that ~ honestbrutality has accomplished here is impeccable. It takes a lot of practice and a lot of control of vocabulary to get a good rhythm in a slam piece these days, and it's done beautifully here.
Get writing, fuckos. *jesusbite
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support someone else
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