[x]

PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived

and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.

I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
steady indifference.

My spine is a ribbon unraveledYou asked me to write your eulogy,
but there’s three sides to every story
and it is not enough to write.

There is no more music in me:
You bound our spines,
vertebral curvatures
stitched together
where I end and you begin,
but maybe you never belonged to me.

Redthis is the way we are set loose:
like bulls released from their pens -
all anger and bucking fear,
unaware that we have thrown away
the most harmless annoyance

& quivering, we await
the wrath of realized
mistakes - the end
of the fray.

Aurora (Borealis)The vermilion sky melted and slipped
into a barely muddied, ruddy hillside
powdered-sugarcoated, vanilla ice-whipped

The vivacious glory-of-the-snow
sabotages the dead silence of the season
with its vehement, blue-violet glow

Know that I see the gleaming aurora in
your laugh lines, life lines
in the palms of your hands and
pads of your feet, unfurling the unsaid
The north star becomes
a cardinal bindi on your forehead
Know that I feel you are heaven-defined
prophecies pressed into my spine

You want to whisper across my tips and capillaries
breathe in sky-blue butterflies, out sea-green envy
I want to compass through your crust and

upon leaving edensend me far away to where
the sun shines silver like broken
mirrors and wild things wander
through the night; places with
funny names and maps etched
from tree bark & lichened stones
that line up end to end for miles:

where truth is a birthmark that
scars us by, upon the coast
glass of wine- toast to the rising
moon sublime. dreams are in third
person, cupped by the creak of
wild woods that whistle, and teach
us what it means to be alive.

come, nestle up against cedared
fantasy & watch the birds fly south
for the winter, hoping for something
other than white sand & buried treasure.
save all our tragic souls from becoming
what we should

RestlessI’ve been living in the same breathy dream
for too many days now; I’m bed-ridden and
stale and I reek of those moments that come
full throttle like a car crash on a winter night

   this is evolution where weak hearts
   are afraid of the shadows and where
   everything changes,
   an apologetic wind births no remorse;
   he will move on—anchored ship
   set sail, I am the sunken wreckage
   that never learned how to swim.
   he will move on, Darwin says
   I never had a chance

I wish I were the textbook sadness,
symptom and solution and endurance
but I’ve spent too long sleeping on the

Accidentat the corner of boone trails and owen
she learned the brevity of flight:
glinting bumper for launch pad
trajectory approximately 5 feet
across the median.

she pirouetted
as proud, as swift
as any prima ballerina
but the landing
proved rough.

this I keep for her -
the listless weight of limbs
defying gravity, the beastly beauty
of a body bouyant before
its death.

desire in minor keyif only i were strings on your guitar,
to be touched and teased
till tremendous tremolo echoed
in these hollowing bones
fretting for your affectionate fingers to thrum
percussion gently along this rough curvature
my unvarnished body, natural concavities
resonating the rhythm of your sweet phalangeal beats
the heat, in each of your lovely palms, washing over me -
bending me, until i sing into the void
an anthem only yours
give me a voice
pluck calloused, never callously,
the notes growing slowly outward
from this sonorous garden,
my musical soul
sighs a song for you
each note hung, neatly strung, and laced
through my being -
would you find them all for me?
could you release each one,
with the delicate strums from your easy hands?
arpeggiate me amorously
away into the evening
until my frame is fully known
and the very molecules in me hum
as those caressed in your guitar
gently balanced upon your knee
the strings of which you touch and tease
and strum the love
to me

A time before sunriseOut here on my own,
this crushing weight,
lifted,
for a moment.

The burden of a secret
at 4 am,
like a ten minute dream
six feet underwater.

And from our window,
900 million years later,
the last seconds of light
conjure storms
at the end of time
where secrets are told.

An Unhealthy Lack of Vanitythere's an interruption in our dimension;
i found it in the hallway where i became aware
of seven billion perspectives shaping occurrence
into pattern: from nothing, is the hallway where i saw
a line of crooked overlapping fluorescent lights yellowed,
beckoning to your eyes so that your feet must follow,
and they told me: life is the most nauseous pill you swallow,
a blood-thinning laxative that will always lead you here,

where you become aware that the hallway is invention:
and everything is invention, at once.

SnowflakesPoised on tiptoes, a
snowflake brushes her mouth like
his Eskimo kiss.

Skylight SongsI am not the dysfunctional light switch,
17 times a day on again off again but
I think sometimes I’m caught in the parallels of
my own distorted perception and I just see
a jagged world falling fast and
and

you are blue, the deep
cyan-scented thing of night I crave, blue.
beautiful bleeding blue who cries like
the breaking sky and sings like a summer night,

I am invisible, changing before your eyes.
nauseous regurgitation of every color
I’ve ever loved,

while these crystalline dreams tinted teal
cradle me to sleep

Midwestern Roadmapsi.

wine-fed confessions
are what brought us together;
with a stir of paint chips and skin,
we made clumsy love on the concrete
of a condemned factory,
moving in the shadows of machinery
that loomed like winter trees
or judgmental Gods
who still stopped to smell the alcohol
in our pores.

ii.

"will you pass me a cigarette
and along with that sign your lust
on the paper that will gray in a flicker,
bitter acrid and addictive
like the first high of tobacco—
a euphoric quiver
that lasted only a minute,
gone when you inhaled your second
seeking the same."

iii.

indiana is the land of crossroads,
where the wind blows
to find a better des

AcquittalWon't you leave me? I will love you
more than if you stay, transfixed

to the point of reference, our bodies
melding a sad, soft sublime, the back

spine of a little universe blown out
like a crafter's hot glass, the growing

moment, the wonder, the expansion
before a chill.

Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,
we were reckless;
Children
chasing fireflies
in a field of mines.
We traded kisses
and carefree caresses
for shrapnel
and blackened skin.
Short moments
stolen pawned
at the cost
of darker afternoons,
the twilight
of the dying season;
We didn't ask,
we never questioned
the interest
of our expenditures.
I shed my skin
in the Autumn of youth,
peeled back
the viscera and
bared the bone --
Rising up,
a scarecrow of worms
and raw meat,
amongst the stalks
of reddened corn.
Tonight
she clings
to dusty artifacts,
shelved trinkets
and
wrinkled sheets
laden with memories
of decaying potency;
The wisps
rising from the cooling wick
will never be
as sweet as
when the flame
burned brightest.

Browse More Like This

Download Image
JPG, 1700×2191 more ▶

More from =Sammur-amat

CoastalSubtle surly winds from the southern islands blow in and the tarrying spumes that were collecting by a few buoys meters from us are now slowly being swished away.

I feel us bubble and dissipate under the very same, simmering sun as we become awkward and irritable, itching and burning each others' feet and fissures, remaining staring and standing half-soaked and sun-burnt in skin-trapped dollops of sea-salt and sandbar bodies; we are overcome by listlessness, leaving us wincing at our own distorted realities and discomforts, wavering with only a genuinely pathetic excuse for our often wet waterlines.

When will we reach the destination where

Confession BoothI have a confession to make:
I have a not-so-secret admirer.

Every two or three days, somebody makes sure to send me the sweetest text messages from different numbers, yet somehow, I am certain that they're all written by that same somebody. I mean, sentence structure, grammar, and punctuation patterns can't be that difficult for a linguistics major to decipher, now can they?

All the while he, he casually greets me every morning by the bus stop as we head out to our respective businesses; one could never have guessed that he is the culprit who never fails to discover on a daily basis the status my health and general affairs. Although he ra

Totem of Us They've heard such hearsay about us
They say we know how the devils cuss
and I just can't help but snicker
as they keep up this silly fuss

The stars shine bright as our puppy croons
while our kitty smiles at the quarter moon
and I always seem to wake a minute too soon
Yo

MessiahAll heed
As the messiah takes center stage to speak
Hear the children's stomach squeak
Feed us

Feed us not with sinus-stuffed nasal sympathy
Feed us not with hand me down's and I'm so sorry's
Please
Feed us fish that you taught us to catch
Like little tadpoles we need to hatch
On our own unto unknown waters
Unto this estranged world of deranged men
We need to learn of life after dying over and over again

Starvation of the soul is
Deprivation of the dear from their departed
Victims of war with no visceral, physical remains to bury
And pay respect to

While there are women who can only watch
Never show face in daylight again
After the disgr

I do not write,I do not write, I bleed
schematics of synecdoches and similes
and au courant, automatic mechanisms
scratching at my skin and
sprouting from my soul
leaving me a scabbed superlative

I do not write, I breathe
alliterations and allegories in
novel repetition as nifty
contradiction to common beliefs

I do not write, I believe
in non-sequitur sensibilities seeping
stirring once sleepy sanguine spirits
while borrowing words from different
vocabularies, maintaining macaronic
anarchy as I do what I please

Heirloom
I am a sentimental syndrome
Wherein my gossamer grooved belly lays
Shades of chiffon and sheer cotton
Felt boxes of fine pins and spare buttons
And your great-grandmother's mother's Russian

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#pencil-box
All forms of traditional art!

#Madmen-Asylum
You are alone inside of Yourself

#LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls

#WeLoveTraditionalArt
Traditional art lovers

#Written-Emotion
All of your emotions in writing

#Poets-N-Prose

#Poetry-Screams

#Love-Literature
For The Love Of Literature!

Show all (9)

Details

Submitted: December 2, 2012
Image Size: 1.6 MB
Resolution: 1700×2191

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 42
Favourites: 13 [who?]
Views: 278 (1 today)
Downloads: 4 (0 today)

[x]

And you and Iby =Sammur-amat

Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Visual & Found Poetry

And you and I are but
foolish mistakes bound to
each other like H₂ is to O and you are
the proof of my existence that way
the ebb and flow and I long for
you like roots for soil
and like chopped wood we are
robbed of age and
like shreds of
paper in fire we
perish in the silence
and undone seams
and nothing
remains.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Since I've been pestering people to show me their handwriting
I think it's only fair that I expose mine

Art and free verse poetry

Your feedback, as always,
is both highly anticipated and appreciated.

COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS, ALWAYS LOVED!! THANK YOU!!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Critique:
Is the continuous flow form too much of a distraction?
Is my drawing getting rusty?
Two-cents please?

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~randomphilosopher Dec 30, 2012 Writer

I don't think the continuous flow is a distraction. I actually think it adds to it, showing the ever-rushing-on of two people in love.

I don't remember any of your other drawings, so I can't say whether or not it's getting rusty.

My two cents, though I don't deserve to give them... hm... "that way/the ebb and flow we long for" ... is this supposed to be the way? The line "undone seams" confused me at first, but on second or third reading I thought I got what you were trying to say. Is it just one more image of coming undone?

I really like it, by the way.

I especially love your images of H20 (but how do you make a subscript in dA?) and chopped wood robbed of age.

=Sammur-amat Dec 31, 2012 General Artist

Thank you for taking the time to read and comment on my work, I truly appreciate it!

Well it depends on how it is read, I meant for it to read as
you are
the proof of my existence that way
and not
the way the ebb and flow
but that's what I get for disregarding punctuation, really

Yes it is

Thanks again for your time your very kind words. (you just type < sub> enter any text without the spaces) much like html formatting.

~randomphilosopher Jan 3, 2013 Writer

Haha, I see having second or third reading I also copied down the line wrong. I get it now, and thanks! Also, you're welcome.

=Sammur-amat Jan 4, 2013 General Artist

It's no biggie, sweetie!

You are super!

~disrhythmic Dec 19, 2012

Is the continuous flow form too much of a distraction?

Quite the contrary. The piece is all the better for it.

=Sammur-amat Dec 20, 2012 General Artist

Thank you so much for the kind comment, darling!

~disrhythmic Dec 20, 2012

Anytime, love.

=Sammur-amat Dec 21, 2012 General Artist

~Flummoxative Dec 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is gorgeous. The continuous flow works really, really well; gusting and gushing and out of breath. Your drawing skills are far from rusty, but I just wasn't feeling flowers while reading this. (does that make sense?) But all in all, this is beautiful. Reminds me a bit of this, which is just incredible: [link]

=Sammur-amat Dec 8, 2012 General Artist

I'm so very glad you enjoyed the piece, precious girl!

Oh yes, the flowers definitely aren't there to depict the poem's direction, that's for sure.

You are beautiful, darling!

Thank you for introducing me to such a stunning writer! I'll be sure to lurk around her gallery soon enough!

More from =Sammur-amat

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

And you and Iby =Sammur-amat

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style