|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The WalrusWhen you think
about it – don’t
think about it.
I think about these things, babushka, but
don’t forget the walrus eats the fish. O
the mind’s eye knows them, the hound-basset
snout mouth, those fanger-bangers, turdy flubs
a-blub and with passions
unknown, if you’re lucky.
And who are we to judge.
Fleshy spools, pink and brown and blue,
Containing within multitude.
Neurons stretch electric fingers to fugue
And you, too -
Toe in Water
words that i have learned writing this book:
ontogeny: the evolution of an organism
phylogeny: the historical relatedness evolution of organisms
heuristic: refers to experience-based techniques for problem solving, learning, and discovery. Heuristic methods are used to speed up the process of finding a good enough solution, where an exhaustive search is impractical. Examples of this method include using a "rule of thumb", an educated guess, an intuitive judgment, or common sense.
stochastic model- a mathematical model involving random variables in order to estimate probability distribution of potential outcomes. (This is the sort of model prizbaum etc were applying to biotic systems?)
(examples: quantum physics, brownian motion) not a deterministic but a randomized model
A tropism is a growth movement whose direction is determined by the direction from which the stimulus strikes the plant.
A teleology is any philosophical account which holds that final ca
A horse snorting wildly at the slightest slither;
we are natural enemies, ankle-biting snake against
fetishized freedom, all hair. You pepper-eating poets
seduce me every time. Against my character, might
I add: My nostrils are as dilated
as they've ever been, to detect the slightest hint
of movement from you, a stirring and then
the anatomy of the thing will emerge.
Laundry List: Please buy
Tide, the catalogue of the human soul,
self-cutting. You might crumple up the writing
and swallow it like a spy,
but burning toast is no career, my friend. Perhaps
that bitch poetry is a necrophiliac, never letting dead
archetypes sleep. Yes, I know that Helen has launched
ships from: Vietnam, world wars, the Midwest,
which is landlocked. But you cannot kill the
fat-fingered fairies, the delicate forms. Rapunzel,
Rapunzel, let down your standards! I will give you
a dose of your own medicine, and like a cancer
himBefore I lose my life in this town, I'm looking for a pebble
that smells like anything - the ocean, soil, you - that shit.
Symptoms include an obsession with clocks and a dismissive anything
towards her, the bleak old buzzard who watches with gauze-eyed cataracts
as we walk by, - -we- menacing in white sneakers and suntan lotion - - she -
has been so long above it all that there is no longer any difference between the declaration of independence
and a newspaper article that goes:
Everything was terrible and the people died,
but really she was just having a bad dream.
Really she's okay.
And it was all just make-believe,
and you feel kind of stupid for ever having cared at all.
And the pebble would be shaped like a clear, healthy lung
and burned into it, it would say,
I would follow you into the dark.
In sans serif font, flawless, nothing-eyed,
lining my palm like mouthful of pulpy orange crush,
only stinging where the cracks show, and through them come
the old theo
The first thing you knew about me was
the time I kicked tom out of the house
for wearing an orange shirt, that something's been wrong
and anyway, I have that old photograph of you.
Yes, the surreal one that shows just how many piercings
you paid for by the mouthful of ouch.
But you see, in this kingdom of squalor, I have remained,
as always, devout. And if you were to rot,
pushing up daisies, I would get tenser,
like a muscle, but until I ascend to the kingdom of -
Oh, I don't remember, and there's no need for you
(to ask.) I have learned to do without
None, Zip, Sink
On breathless heights where trees, having been so long above it all, begin to eat their own
my sun-scorched face, once red, gives up the ghost
and, without affect, I press my nose against the mirror until I only have one eye.
This shit is beautiful, I'm telling you -
but you can't take it with you. Not onto a plane,
and I eat some more paper to get through the day
with a great hiss of steam, my pupils grow bigger.
Now, now, now, it will grow dark enough to see,
thicker and thicker, the plot is congealing,
and I have told you this to make you grieve.
Addicted to Messy Kisses (Visual) I want to sit on the
roof top in your boxers and kiss
you while listening to you telling me about
the stars that made the constellations on my
face. I want to kiss you when you photograph me,
because that's what I want to remember: loving you
endlessly and boundlessly. I want to kiss you when you
are too tired and too drunk, and watch you slobbering all
over me, while I laugh in your breath on my lips. I want to
kiss you in libraries, when you'll blush and tell me to sto
organized chaosHis brain's like
reflecting muted light.
His brain is architecturally sound,
with perfect corners
organized into neat sections,
metal cutting the spectrum
into cautious pieces.
He tells me he's nothing.
He tells me that he's grown up
from the cracks in the sidewalk
like a dandelion,
and he's been waiting his whole life
for someone to come along
and blow his fucking head off.
He tells me he comes from a bad place,
and I nod
when all I want to do is shake him
and remind him
that everything beautiful
must grow up out of the dirt.
I wanted to write you a lovesong.i.
Summer rain has nothing
on the sound of your laugh,
little pinpricks of sunshine
lounging across the cobbled
streets of midnight,
cooled grey eyes, shining
tears of nightlights
glowing like stars in your cheeks;
in darkened archways,
hollow stone walls
reverberating through my skull --
back to earth, loving
taking root under the city floor,
breathing across cool hands
in warmer songs, notes
bundled under my sheets
thoughts that last all night
and drift between the rafters
of my chest
wanting at last;
pure, starry sky and
dawn rolls down the mountainside,
turrets and towers
crinkle-eyed smile batters
falling -- falling --
more delicate than down
softly into the clouds.
one life into another
the moon has sunk
into my soul; I am losing
but the bloodl
BloodlustIn our private heaven
We satisfy our bloodlust
By breaking each other's skin
With a shinny blade
And tasting the crimson flow
The flow of life
A life of lust and love
The love we feel
For each other
A bloody and guilty love
Of voluntary wounds
And beautiful scars
Our reason to live
Our dirty secret
A secret we both carry
With great pleasure
The only way
We can feel happiness
Two LilliesI found my soul,
in a white lily atop a hill,
a red wine sunset
splashed against the sky.
My heart felt her before
I could see,
the flower strongly rooted
petals blowing with a battle cry
against the wind.
The gusts overtime,
testing and strengthening
the precious growth
roots sewn deep.
I sat beside,
your petals open wide
nothing left to hide,
shades of white
despite the soil you came from.
Yet alone you sit
a secret scent,
for me to enjoy
as I read a book,
and talk to you about everything and nothing.
Late into the night.
dew like tear drops,
and I couldn't take you home with me
but I would return again,
Until the day I join you.
How the waves tasted your anklesSince you are the only sailor
of the sea that my moon-
child eyes so easily bleed,
I crumble to shoreline pieces
every time I press my lips
to half-neglected sea glass,
haunted by visions of the way
you rolled cherries on your tongue.
Lover, I will try to forget you.The moon is braiding
her sighs into my hair
as I tell her 'I
dislike the thought
of being perfect.
Even more because
I always tried for him.'
There is turbulence
in these bones as he
ghosts past me and
into the skyline.
Perhaps it is time
I stop following.
StarsYou fill me up with bubbles,
dreams and futures floating for me.
Using a line of chalk to draw my life plans on me,
outlining where we can go together.
Stars scribbled across my forehead,
highway across my belly.
Breathing in the cars, making a map of our love.
The Safety of Familiar Objects
Splinters puncture membrane-covered clouds
time and time again her yellow breath
of smog and fog and ink on wet newspapers
sticks to black asphalt covered with May-colored sprinkles
and geometric daffodils unsnapping necks.
A condom wrapper defies the suckwhirl tide and clings to driftwood
and bangles of sky glimmer in a rainbow collapse
of oil. There's metal in her nostrils and linoleum in her eyes;
she slips piles of nails and bloody slime down my throat
along with percussive bells and a flower like stained napkins.
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More