ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Underneath the covers of the bed,
in the darkness of the single mind,
a bead of light grows. And from it,
a terrible signal, calling, calling,
beneath the sea of drowned stars,
we call it out. God.
His ancient stone face.
His terrible unmoving brow.
His eyes like black planets.
God, we call out, God.
Rooting around for a bit of incense,
a lamb, a nephew, for a neck to cut,
or a word to burn. No, it's
just a tawdry, meaningless bauble.
Never anything great to offer.
And he stands up and moves
across the sky, like an old woman
bones luminous as quartz or galena.
And he stands up and does not hear
our cries. And he is moving across
the empty room of the sky, a nurse,
an immigrant, a migrant crane,
a gossiping attendant, a feverish head,
a tax accountant, a distant, unfamiliar cousin
twice removed, who once,
without knowing your name or
looking up from his game,
refused to speak to you.
in the darkness of the single mind,
a bead of light grows. And from it,
a terrible signal, calling, calling,
beneath the sea of drowned stars,
we call it out. God.
His ancient stone face.
His terrible unmoving brow.
His eyes like black planets.
God, we call out, God.
Rooting around for a bit of incense,
a lamb, a nephew, for a neck to cut,
or a word to burn. No, it's
just a tawdry, meaningless bauble.
Never anything great to offer.
And he stands up and moves
across the sky, like an old woman
bones luminous as quartz or galena.
And he stands up and does not hear
our cries. And he is moving across
the empty room of the sky, a nurse,
an immigrant, a migrant crane,
a gossiping attendant, a feverish head,
a tax accountant, a distant, unfamiliar cousin
twice removed, who once,
without knowing your name or
looking up from his game,
refused to speak to you.
Literature
the ghost
I don't know what I'm waiting for,
because I am a ghost and yet
I sit on my hands and wonder
where you've been -
I walk the forest in circles,
the methodical crunch
of leaves beneath my feet
and I remember
that you made me feel small,
and alone. here I am, facing
this brilliant hue that is me and myself
and I am the ghost but somehow
you are haunting me.
Literature
Home.
The night is pitch-black all around, save for the uncountable mass of stars winking benevolently at me from the tarp of deepest indigo that hangs overhead. Everything feels suspended in that moment—the stars, the crescent moon, the sparse, gray-black clouds, this little island called Earth, and even myself. It feels as if my feet don't even touch the ground.
I feel as if I'm falling into them, the stars. There are so many of them, filling my field of vision, that I am taken by a sudden bout of dizziness and fall back into the Earth's gentle embrace. In response she twirls me around playfully, pulling me into a slow-motion
Literature
Quiet
One day
I woke up to the sound of breaking.
The fire was outside my window
And the smoke streamed in over my head
And the sirens, oh, the sirens
The red and the blue and the red reflected
On grey and black and grey and death.
I thought about how my heart
Had ached and my lungs had burned
And I closed my eyes.
One day
I woke up to the sound of stillness.
The needle sunk in my wrist
And the blurriness clouded my vision
And the beeping, oh, the beeping
The red and the black and the red smeared across
The white and grey and white and nothing.
I thought about how my mind
Had ran and my muscles had atrophied
And I closed my eyes.
One day
I woke
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Title comes from a Sylvia Plath quote referring to her act of praying for her dying father (diabetes, but he confused it as lung cancer T_T), "I'll never speak to God again." Lots of dimension to that quote. Could be misconstrued as a daughter equivalating her father with God; which comes with its own set of sexist/problematic connotations. Not to mention implicative of incest possibly, of father-worship definitely. But I love Sylvia Plath too much to even refer to her using the casual register and informal affection of the phrase "that crazy bitch", mostly because of the already heady atmosphere of criticism surrounding her work. Still, a complicated oversight deserves a complicated address. Hopefully, it's a direct address and not a P.O. box because we're American dammit. Luxury, even in its unconscious demand, remains an absolute necessity to our method of continuing.
© 2015 - 2024 TheGlassIris
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In