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Literature Text
I teach a caterpillar
How to conceal its markings
On a grapevine that grasps
The trellis, trimming
Chewed leaves. Bigger
Bite marks upon bite marks.
A rotten apple-core chrysalis
Is hanging on a vine.
All it ever does is change.
I taught the grapevine
Where to grasp the trellis.
And all it ever does is want.
How to conceal its markings
On a grapevine that grasps
The trellis, trimming
Chewed leaves. Bigger
Bite marks upon bite marks.
A rotten apple-core chrysalis
Is hanging on a vine.
All it ever does is change.
I taught the grapevine
Where to grasp the trellis.
And all it ever does is want.
Literature
Zemi
Things having to be returned to their transparency:
i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
Literature
half-centennial
i thought i had grief down to an art:
throw the ashes to the wind,
catch them in your mouth,
and move on
but i can't work through this
as if it were a checklist
loss is not linear,
a recipe reading:
simmer in sorrow, sadness, anger
until it is reduced by half,
a glaze of grief
at the bottom of the pan
my doctor can keep
his Kubler-Ross model,
give her five stages
another five years
because i am not finished
tearing at my shirt,
painting mascara Roschorch
on my pillowcase,
letting my blood
of the oxygen we both breathed
i hear the respirators
when the rest of the house is asleep
your funeral flowers still
hang in the rafters of the at
Literature
zero
i swore
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;
i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises
colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,
but i was born into a colorless world--
no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but
all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered he
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The need to feed
Is a permanent steed
Is a permanent steed