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Remarkable Reads

These are fine examples of what literature is crafted to be. Take heed and take notice of their nuances and anatomy, for they are thunderbolts among this word-drenched thunderstorm.

Trying this again. I have sound to color synesthesia (I hear colors and shapes, specifically with timbres). Would you be interested in finding out what a song you like looks like to me? 

2 deviants said No genre discrimination. Just don't purposely send me to noise. :grump:
2 deviants said I'll be a bit slow getting to the first requests, I'm actually putting this up and then getting some rest. I haven't been able to sleep.
1 deviant said If you feel like it, ask if I can draw what I see with muro, but this is additional work for me, so I may say no. ^^;


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Nic Swaner
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Artist's Statement 10/25/2011

Nic Swaner is a studying graphic designer, and a budding young writer whose concepts and syntax require a rush of blood and breath to the lungs. For inspiration he need not look far from the cyclopean sun, feel the displacement before the epilepsy, synthesize some synesthesia, or recall the origami folds his hands have memorized throughout the years.

Nic is almost entirely self-taught in the ways of writing and in doing so has created a style all his own. His medium is mainly through poetry, short stories and articles for websites; he excels in portraying his thoughts and ideas in a world of complex and harmonious verbiage. He is always whittling away at several works of writing that will be submitted to free publishers or magazines. Nic will always be happy to edit and critique your writing, whether it's poetry or prose. Contact him at

Nic is currently studying graphic design and the fundamentals of art. He has always emphasized the power of concept over complexity, and have maximized color and composition to their utmost potential. He prefers to work with photomanipulations and typography to portray his concepts. He is always open to critique from his peers. Other artistic endeavors from Nic include folding origami, film photography, darkroom artwork such as photograms, and music production.


Nic lives in Chicago, Illinois, but his hometown is Robinson, Illinois. He likes Progressive Rock and Underground Rap music. Marcus J. Ranum is his most adored photographer. Samurai Jack is his favorite cartoon character along with Ed, Edd, and Eddy. His favorite ice cream flavor is French Vanilla. He has a mild form of sound to color synesthesia for melodies and believes the song Echoes by Pink Floyd is green.

"The world is only as old as the person to whom you speak." - Nic Swaner


Door Sounds, a Lit Feature

Wed Sep 17, 2014, 5:42 AM

The sounds of doors in a home are a language unto themselves.
I could never collect all that is spoken in openings and closings.

door knobshe falls asleep to the sound of echoes. 
they are more than silent reminders; they are also
snowflakes falling from the tip of her snowglobe.
she feels deeper and yet is so low- swimming 
in waters awaiting something she is unknowing of.
young; dry throated.
she feels fingertips- cold- unwavering- holding her
fragile body once more. but she knows she is 
just to hold a duty- and such actions mean nothing.
she is to twist, turn, and to be rewarded in small
amounts of 
(but is that faux too?)
pretty little definitonsi have a dictionary
full of 
pretty little
you see.
hey, let's start with
a fragile little (adj.)
describing my take on the world
and yours on me.
(v.) you've turned
into hell on earth for me
yet you can't even
begin to know
now we have
meaning not acknowledge, not returned
not even given a single thought to
i guess
you are
yet another (adj.)
you'e oblivious to my effort, unseen
after all this
i might as well
"to give up completely or agree to forgo, especially in favor of another"

The utterance of doorknobs is a dialect as well.
There's the flipping click of thumb latch handle of my front door.

LanguageI’m a bit of an old cynic sadly, so toybox tales for children, even with their adult undertones for the accompanying audience are not always enough. The modern children’s cinematics , the family genre does not I am afraid to say include me at its table bar mayhap the most precious little of exceptions to that.
I regret to say that street speech, pavement linguistics are but vocal gymnastics I simply do not do well with, I am not adept nor do I have the ears for sidewalk dialogue, the slang just tends to pass, to swing by me and I may only pick up fragments. I’ve run out of things to say so heres some shock value violence, a glass of the drinking   kind, smashed directly to an urchin’s front face…now violence, now you’re talking a language I can understand…not street nor kiddy speak…
Next doorWhile I stood out in my garden in extra company, I uttered the word “homosexual”, to which the immediate response was sharp, quick, “Next door may hear, can you keep it down”.   To this I just walked quietly away after an expression of my own surprise, followed by a fast fang of downing, momentary damning depression that for a whole short moment hit me through an inability to ward it off.
I put it out of my mind but now it has resurfaced and appeared here. Not garden etiquette our even outside apparently these certain words. Next door, the neighbours must be sensitive surely if I am to seal my lips and be warned of the usage of foul language .
I heard this from the same person who declared “I don’t like filth” over the most trivial of things…I must be careful not to have her come across a trite romantic comedy…that would be terrifying , perhaps hypothetically as m

Not to mention the sibilant sluice of jointure onto sill.
There is a throomping whoosh of closure to my side door.

doorsWhen collapsible doors of the aircraft opened at high
hordes of passenger were hurled out at volcanic
nose-diving devoid of apparatus towards the hard skull
of earth.
as sliding doors of the train were exposed to
the century old engine clambering through ice clad
domains of the mountain,
chilly currents of wind froze my breath momentarily.
wrought iron doors of submarine opened underwater,
the vociferous sea flooded into the compact interiors,
blending the luxurious ambience of wooden floor with
scores of jelly fish.
when ornate doors of the currency safe brushed across
light particles of air,
strong beams of sunlight filtered inside,
accentuating the glory of life bestowing colored
translucent glass doors of the Mercedes swung open,
satin upholstery of cushioned leather welcomed me
enchanting clouds of perfume settled on my skin,
the driving wheel felt as light as a dog whisker,
as the car sky rocketed a few inches above the ground,
only one doorWhen the waves of depression uncontrollably
transcended above conceivable limits; not being
placated by even the most rhapsodically tantalizing
cloud of ebullient happiness,
When the dungeons of misery gruesomely exacerbated to
limits beyond bizarre recognition; with the most
impeccable harbingers of humanity dithering to make
the slightest of; philanthropic indentation,
When the prisons of diabolical insanity vindictively
proliferated all the time; and the most melodiously
enchanting sagaciousness pathetically staggered to
cause even an; inconspicuously infinitesimal
When all routes leading to blissful prosperity had
perpetually closed; being tyrannically whipped by
whirlwinds of devilishly horrendous discontent,
There was only one door in the entire Universe; which
still had perennially unassailable light; there was
only one door which still harbored one and all
irrespective of caste; creed and spurious religion
alike; O ! yes it was indeed a door; which irrefutably
led t

Everyone closes the bathroom door the same way:
With a snap to lock; however, it is opened differently by each.

The Meaningless Nature of WordsWhen words mean nothing,
They are but a mere flourish,
A flowering of language -
Pretentious and Arrogant.
Images that create nothing
But a pretty scene -
Little Two-Door FordLittle two-door Ford,
Five years old, I'm sure that black used to shine and
Reflect the roads in a perfect permanent nighttime veil.
Now, a couple of wayward scratches at the door
Haphazardly placed by my carelessness in our adventures,
Always wanting to go, go, go,
Rushing you over speed bumps and potholes 'til your tires
Wore down quick to the pavement.
Your bumper's still showered with the cross-country run of
Insects and dirt caking your grin --
I almost like you better that way.
You and I, we blast that AC until it's wind in my hair,
Cooling you to a shade as I pull down my own,
And we ride.

The pantry door's green venetian blinds rattle when swung shut;
It also creaks when an indecisive child swings on the handle.

homecoming hearsayi am killing my body
i am desperately cooked
kettle-caller, pot-black
with my bones all leggy
'n wired out with hair
with bugs in my chest
bursting into song
still i love where i bruise
it cuts through the chitin
so i can work at the meat
that gets under my skin
and makes the bugs sleep
yes i am killing my matter
i am mattering more
and my jokes are funny again
because i make my fear the punchline
but when hunger breaks like a day
everyone dives back in facefulls
while i’m stuck in this limp wrap
imprinting my kinesthesis
in the wake of their volley
i’m still laughing though
repenting, replanting
i know how to win this game
wake me up with war cries
which leave wreckage in my wake
and i will sit down each
and every one of you, and say:
"don’t look."
the devil's gymnasticsthey’d called it the devil’s gymnastics
the way you’d played on lines,
cut legs with your prize-in-the-box cunt glinting;
cut smiles thick with saliva. you were everyone’s
perfect little pink-girl. the body on the block,
all sex no soul. all hurt no heart.
but you were too busy to notice, popping foam capsules
with your just-add-water spirituality. “na-mu-myou-hou-ren-ge-kyou”
sounded cooler in the movies, or when your grandma
had heaved at it on hilltops, frantic lungs,
meaning it more than you ever would. and in the same spirit,
when you fell asleep and your skin became placenta, it was she
who lathered you in boiling oil until you were gorgeous enough
to leave her alone and never come back.
when i’d asked why you’d been so stupid;
you’d said “don’t you know dead girls got no brains?”
balance-beaming up at me, daring my answer.
i did not have an answer.
i did not need an answer,

It would be a lie to say that none of these doors are ever slammed;
However they also open eagerly onto homecomings.

A little history

Door Sounds is a poem by Paul S. Bellwoar, Mr. Bellwoar was a great mentor to me in my high school years and laid the foundation for everything I know today and the writer I became. He taught me how to use images to convey ideas and he is as brilliant as he is mentoring. You can see a tribute I wrote to him here.

Journal History


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N3ffShark Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Student General Artist
Hey, do you listen to southsiders?
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Atmosphere's new album?
N3ffShark Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Student General Artist
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Not all of it.
(1 Reply)
BloodshotInk Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014
I wanted to thank you for faving my article about World Suicide Prevention Day. It's something very close to my heart and I appreciate you taking the time to read it. :tighthug: Hope you are having a strong and good day. 

Kate x
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
BloodshotInk Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2014
:tighthug: Love x
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2014   Writer
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2014   Writer
How are you doing? ♥
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