ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
She doesn’t step outside, she jumps from the second landing of stairs unto the pavement, her movement is graceful, but contains too much strength, copious resentment. Biting the insides of her bottom lip, the obscure mines of sharpened discernment she uses as optic centers glide quickly from side to side as her feet remain solidly grounded.
Some look her way, retorting with glances and frowns like charged electrons– she is daring them to question her place as core, as the primary source of ardour. Some move away, pushed by the ripples of her presence, unable to handle the weight of her time overlapping their own.
She makes a few steps, keeping close to the foot of the ginger brick wall; the graffiti seems to candidly describe her, pronouncing in hushed choruses the loops of her principled comprehension. It collects around her, ink surges in the shape of halos, for each molecule of her alignment. Around her you can smell realism slowly melting into the paprika within the lavender, the leather within the cotton. It’s a distressing fragrance, the essence of inaction disguised as achievement.
Off she goes into ambiguity, where needs become salaried organs, taking with her only enough lettuce and kidney beans for a mere continent’s fill of repugnance. In the heart of the infinite belly’s eye she ventures a stare, without guilt or denial, without statistical fact, and without exaggerated illiteracy. We are only spared from her strident thoughts because she knows her demeanour is really enough; she’ll continue to let us see the other shore, with each angry step she makes down the street. God forbid we were more like her, living the truth to the depths of our mitochondria.
You wish she’d force you out of your glass paint jar, that she would throw you by the throat into whirling waterways, where you would be sworn to fight your way to a promised clay cosmos. Have your talents of inattention made you deserving such a favour? You wish.
Some look her way, retorting with glances and frowns like charged electrons– she is daring them to question her place as core, as the primary source of ardour. Some move away, pushed by the ripples of her presence, unable to handle the weight of her time overlapping their own.
She makes a few steps, keeping close to the foot of the ginger brick wall; the graffiti seems to candidly describe her, pronouncing in hushed choruses the loops of her principled comprehension. It collects around her, ink surges in the shape of halos, for each molecule of her alignment. Around her you can smell realism slowly melting into the paprika within the lavender, the leather within the cotton. It’s a distressing fragrance, the essence of inaction disguised as achievement.
Off she goes into ambiguity, where needs become salaried organs, taking with her only enough lettuce and kidney beans for a mere continent’s fill of repugnance. In the heart of the infinite belly’s eye she ventures a stare, without guilt or denial, without statistical fact, and without exaggerated illiteracy. We are only spared from her strident thoughts because she knows her demeanour is really enough; she’ll continue to let us see the other shore, with each angry step she makes down the street. God forbid we were more like her, living the truth to the depths of our mitochondria.
You wish she’d force you out of your glass paint jar, that she would throw you by the throat into whirling waterways, where you would be sworn to fight your way to a promised clay cosmos. Have your talents of inattention made you deserving such a favour? You wish.
Literature
I asked Julio
I asked Julio
where he wanted to die
and he smiled a smile that spoke
of his heritage (how he looked so old
and wise at fourteen,
Ill never know.)
And he said.
I would like it very much
if I died in Oregon, because
[he always said because
cause he was taught
proper English unlike
us Americans]
how many people
get to die in Oregon?
I could only ask how many,
to which his answer was
Not nearly enough.
Not nearly enough.
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
Literature
the living is easy
a tin man, white sheep rolled in dust
wears a grin, swisher sweets clinging
to his lip. he swirls seagrams 7 in a cracked
lowball, painting the side of my grandmother's
house with one eye closed & the other
laughing. he cannot speak the language
so i stare at him instead, his penny
loafers, his peeling skin, his snowy hair.
so i stare at his photograph on
the fireplace, wondering how anyone
who loved my great grandmother so well
could have died before i was born.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
We (myself included) constantly recreate the world as we please, to keep intact, in the greater scheme of things, unimportant beliefs and lifestyles. We are all guilty- when I saw Lady's Truth earlier today, she seemed angry.
Here's to the accumulation of knowledge and understanding. Here's to objectivity, hope you'll add a pinch of it to your plastic energy drink today.
Here's to the accumulation of knowledge and understanding. Here's to objectivity, hope you'll add a pinch of it to your plastic energy drink today.
© 2013 - 2024 kamalaksh
Comments5
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
The imagery in this is so fantastic, ugh this will have to be the last one I favorite so I don't end up completely spamming you with messages.