begins his long march
which is a trespass
across strange earth.
of the foreigners
to whom he is the foreigner
are silken whistles
which he misses.
This is a long march.
This is a strange earth.
I am my own stranger.
AmpersandsThis quiet nightAmpersands by ~ashellessmind
I rescind belief
Their patient meaning
collapses into impatience.
Listen for this virtuosic
language to conclude.
Now single nouns
must be governed
by single adjectives.
A reflection of
my own singleness,
a reflection upon
my own lack of governance.
Their meaning of unity
I reprove. Their meaning
I beg to cease.
Let there be no remnant
for a remainder.
Let there be
no more anymore.
Of endings, I can see
only one. A period
upon this long period.
A plague upon all waiting.
Rain TracksThe insinuation of softRain Tracks by ~ashellessmind
rain into my listless ears
dispirits, disengages, distances,
detracts. 24 years, seized with
yearning, collapse--one into another.
The year I became a Christian,
which is the year you drowned me
with love, recast as an absent stage,
the seat of lingering & malingering.
Even malediction gives way to its own
rhetoric, growing malleable & impalpable.
I hardly exist: spurred on in spurts.
& so a sputtering like rain tracks
is laid upon my brain pathways.
A Saturday spent silent, in sky-watching &
sound waves, as a warper & a wonderer,
as a wearisome husk, as nothing
but a weight, whittled thin, hollowed
out, watered down, waiting for my bride.
Rape WordsURape Words by ~ashellessmind
Can’t write no poems
outta rape words
get inside yo mouth
& won’t let ne good words out
push inside yo mind
& suck yo best thoughts dry
press against yo chest
& suffocate w/e
wants 2 b expressd
swim around inside ya
curse ya shove ya blind ya
cry cry cry cry
Dreaming of Cameron MorseDreaming of Cameron MorseDreaming of Cameron Morse by ~ashellessmind
after Du Fu
This, then, is how I will position myself
at last, as you are leaving me,
the wild one, & myself the Confucian.
I, here remain: confined by my
& you: as wandering
as the wildebeest you narrate, that river merchant
of your own envisioning.
How ironic, then, that we who mixed
Xanax with alcohol,
whose roommates fled, going insane
would do nothing more at your Bachelor’s
party than remember the other
and hold a discussion with our fiances present!
The truth is we have both mellowed with age,
& you, being older, perhaps
have mellowed even more than I, taking a responsible
job & a wife, settling down,
even if in Beijing.
This is the only thing for which I can never forgive you:
that being older, you were always
a couple of steps ahead:
first to write a decent poem, first to write
the other off, first to marry, without even
telling me, first to fly away
& when I pursued, first to fly away again.
deviantART Turns Six!!!!Happy Birthday deviantART!!!deviantART Turns Six!!!! by !lolly
deviantART is now officially six years old! 6 years huh? Time certainly does seem to fly by, but then again, there is never really a dull moment at the worlds biggest and best online art community is there? It surely doesnt feel as if it was a year ago I last bestowed these wishes on you all, but apparently it has, and what a year! The site has gotten bigger and better, and with the imminent arrival of version 5, it will completely blow all competition out of the water!
But hey, you dont want to sit here and read the news do you? You want to check out some DA style birthday fun!
Go check out dAmn but first check out this article if you want a guide to the fun!
Also, every hour for the next 6 hours I will be clicking the <a href=http://www.deviantart.com/random/deviant>Random deviant! button and giving out 3 month subs to 6 lu
Spam Goes LiteraryFrom NPR.orgSpam Goes Literary by ~kaujot
Morning Edition, August 8, 2006
The e-mail came from an unknown address and the contents were equally inscrutable. "If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."
What did this person want?
The answer lay in an advertisement attached to the e-mail: "Now listen! This stock could help you make huge amounts of money in weeks!"
It was spam, but a modern literary version. Spammers are still hocking stocks, selling schemes to shrink your waistline or make other things grow bigger. But they're now enlisting great writers in their efforts: Charles Dickens, George Bernard Shaw, or in this case, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The lines in the e-mail were from Sherlock Holmes.
Greg Newby immediately guessed that. He's the director of Project Gutenberg, a nonprofit that has posted online the full text of books since the very early days of the Internet. Newby says people sometimes contact h