The stars are different
but for Sirius
How do you find yourself in the night sky?
You look for the brightest star.
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EmptinessI stopped cleaning my room
dust lays everywhere
but I'm confident the void inside me
will suck it all in
and leave my room
Metamorphosesat first you crawl,
the thoughts that race,
the body slow
and then you stop,
and sleep, and dream,
cocooned in silk,
no thought, no scream
at last... you rise!
into the night
a lunar moth
in search of light
HomesickThey say home is where your heart is.
Right now I wonder
if that means I am away from home,
lost on the road
between here and there,
or that I am
Metamorphobiait is a wonder all the changes
that one endures in a day
at dawn, in fear, desperation,
then words pull you from the abyss,
your lungs inhale a swift elation,
the eyes perceive a kind of bliss,
then clouds, dark clouds, again in silence
the rain, the wind, the sun again
at last the dark, the taste of violence,
the sensual rhythm of a train
and like emerging as imago
you exchange fear for delight
you are a thing of many faces
depressed by day, a god by night
Babelthe Tower was built
around our senses,
our touch, taste and smell,
the eyes with their lenses
the fall of the Tower
rushed air in our lungs
and brought the delightful
confusion of tongues
Piano in an empty roomMoving out.
In the living-room, only the grand piano remains,
black and shiny, like an insect
trapped on the ground, one wing extended
as if trying to fly right before death caught up with it.
The sound would be different now
with no furniture around,
no books to soften the notes,
no rug to dampen the low vibrations.
I never learned to play
and now the piano seems to epitomize
the black bulk of my regrets...
On a whim I sit in front of it.
I let my fingers flow as they will,
my mind wonders
and I drift away for a while.
After I don't know how long, I stop.
The sound is different in an empty room...
and with a trace of excitement I realize I had something there.
Later that day, when workers came to pick up the piano, I just sent them away.
"I'm gonna keep it" and didn't back down before their protests.
I will place it in my next apartment,
in an empty room,
so that it sounds different
PersistenceI have a black old sweater
some of you may know it
you've seen me wear it so many times,
too many... some might say.
it has a few holes
the sleeves are almost falling apart
there's a pink decolored spot
on the left side, near the stomach,
where bleach fell on it.
but it's my favorite sweater
and I still wear it very often
in fact I'm wearing it right now
while I write these lines
and though I don't attach myself to things
there are some that no matter how much you try
you can't completely replace
and you will always love
and you will always miss
after they're gone
Stranger in a strange landa cooked meal in winter,
a warm bed at night,
a child, parent, love,
a home with a chimney,
the fields filled with flowers,
a forest in shade
on a hot summer day,
the silence of sunsets...
I look for their meaning
in books full of wisdom,
but sometimes, out here,
they don’t mean a thing
Thoughts can surround you,
bombard and astound few
they start a new day,
and end in a way
that fill up our heads,
at night in our beds.
Thoughts can employ,
and often destroy
our hearts and our minds,
when they chose to rewind
the yesterday voices,
that were often unkind.
Thoughts can bring laughter,
to now and hereafter
or send us within,
in a giant tailspin
and dread coming out,
to a world full of doubt.
Thoughts can bring starts,
that can overflow hearts
when your love has survived,
amongst battles contrived
the one thought that stays,
Is that life's good, always!
Tough LoveHer hand makes blistering contact with his face,
the blaze of pain ignites against the flesh of his cheek.
He hears her shrieked words rain down upon his helplessness,
as fierce as the blow she landed on his tender flesh. He knows
that snot and tears smother his face. He knows too that fear
has loosed his bladder. Helpless before her wrath, he is consumed
with shame. She crashes the door behind her, but still her
rant fills all the empty spaces in the modest terraced house.
He cowers, balled up on the floor, wrapping his misery about him.
They're alone since his father left. He has only her to rely on.
On The PodiumThe art of conductivity
as the maestro explained,
is that the man with the baton
serves as a lightning rod,
earthing intuitions from god.
You suffer now, the blow is fresh.
You are suddenly adrift on a
wild sea of uncertainties. The flesh
that clothes you seems to be
familiar, but now it is dumb, Your
heart is probably still beating, yet
it's become insignificant.
a neglected metronome.
It seems you have been sentenced
to an impoverished life. Aground
on an unfamiliar shore, you have
nothing to anticipate but empty
mendicant days until that metronomic
clack is finally stilled.
Tomorrow Never Knows"Turn off your mind" -Lennon began to sing the gospel of Leary,
(the professor had borrowed it from an ancient book of the dead)
his song an early token of the acid dawn, close, but not as yet breaking,
not yet the deluge of Strawberry Fields and Yellow Submarines.
It was the first song they recorded for the set, but on the album
it's the closing sound, the last thing you hear before the Revolver stops spinning.
I was numbered then among those hungry young
who heard so much more than the simple lyric words appeared to say.
It was the chorus of a new dawn, one that would prove
to be an overture for a long and stormy day.
was not a man for a party.
He used his repressed feelings
to decorate ceilings.
Was She Just Seventeen?"Elastic", said she, "forgives
all our offences readily.
Elastic-sided morality's got the stretch
that lets it encompass every contingency."
Her elastic sided boots
converged in sharply pointed toes.
Her stylish skirts were parodies
of redundant notions of modesty.
Her hair, though, was overdressed,
many anticipated the fall
that her liberal use of mousse
When he saw her standing there,
he came over strange. Suddenly
he had his whole life to re-arrange.
The Perspective Of HokusaiThe great wave surges from the left. The image is frozen as the great tower of water crests. Slicing the mountainous sea, three fishing boats in motion from the right, are threatened with inundation when the wall of water must fall upon them as the wave breaks.
On the far horizon the snow-capped peak of Mont Fuji can be seen, tiny, against the momentary bulk of the wave. Yet and boats are necessarily transient. The foreground is full of the challenge of survival, a moment in the struggle that passes fast into oblivion. The mountain, that appears so small, is wrapped in its motionless tranquillity, its snow mantle dazzles the eye.
Close to, the great wave
obscures the world. Far away
the snow capped peak sleeps.
CadenzaSuppose each one of us older than the stars,
suppose that we are other than the ragged beggars we seem,
suppose that our engulfing slumber, our inner darkness,
is constantly erupting with the vanity of dreams.
Consider those uncounted aeons swallowed in the oceans
of that virtuality, where we, the ever drowning mariners,
must cling to the absurd shapes we call reality.
Will we, unknowing captives, ever be free?
Has liberty become our cage of captivity?
Oh yes, we writhe, our nakedness become despair.
as our frenzied touching reveals that nothing's there.
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More