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Literature
Love in Stone
Love in Stone:
Oh lamented cement is my heart; that which drinks the water of your presence.
The lifeless pulverized stone is brought about and lent breath by your deluge.
As the cement is given structure in bathing so my heart solidifies and strengthens bathed in your beauty.
So again is my love as such in your absence. The powder, so brought solid by moisture, cracks and dulls as it dries.
This waxen spirit mine burns calm and slow in your cool embrace, then melts and gutters as you disengage.
My heart, so emboldened and nurtured by your adjacency, is brought to ruin by your tragic distance. My vision throbs and wavers as my eyes are reticent to give my mind evidence of your departure.
I watch in vain, your carriage, as it carries away my very life's elixir, my heart's own blood. In waves you leave me, and, the expected retort, swells of grief hammer me in my despondence.
But similarly as the tide, you return, and the cracked sands of my pulmonary desert thirstily greet your welcome
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Literature
Living Lie
Living Lie
Alone, eight years old.
listening quietly to the rages of his parents
Their voices resounding
off the walls like the yellow ball he smashes
against the play structure at school.
He is a symbol of their love
for each other,
he tells himself,
though he can barely hear his thoughts
above them
in the other room.
He represents their devotion, their caring,
their understanding; the reason they stay together.
Doubts play
through his head, like so many seagulls
dancing in the wind.
Pirouetting around the gusts of justification.
The seagulls...
They swoop through his mind.
Leaving splotches in their wake
in their expected manner.
His mind wanders as he tunes out the tirade,
again,
he thinks of happy times.
Of times when the fighting stopped.
Or even times when they didn't get to yelling.
It was getting worse.
Now, at time, they would start
yelling at him,
as if they had not met their quota,
and he was their only remaining outlet.
They had stopped,
as they always did,
eventually,
outs
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Literature
Of Space and Dreams
We are battered by soliloquies of song and sonnet and psalm proselytizing, advocating, marketing fear as a commodity, amassing a supply that far exceeds demand proving only to devalue all emotion and delivered with fervor unmatched by whispered pleas for justice or reason. These profiteers and prophets feed on the stew of madness while brewing larger and stronger batches of hatred and xenophobia as a layer cake iced with nationalism, and seasoned with blood.
Offering tears of solace in one glass and the blood and wrath of vengeance in another they approach us as saviors, asking only for our consent to be saved from the bogeyman, the unknown, the other, the very threats they've worked so hard to make real. We are asked to suspend our cynicism and distrust of power and their misappropriation, misinterpretation, misapplication, peculation, of our rights and offer in trade the irrational, aberrant, injudicious, incongruous concept of both trust and fear based on faith in their word.
Our mo
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Literature
Never till the end
And in this our world we spy
the words and images that make us who we are.
While gorging our minds with media
and news we don't notice reality
pass us by on golden wings
calling to us from afar.
So for this day this hour this minute we have a truth to tell the world that might listen,
may care,
could see, what would be
if our imagery could reflect the scope of our thoughts.
The clouds tell more than the sun
as it burns our days to dust and ruin,
etching its radiation into our souls
and coming out of us in each exhalation of air
to be eaten by plants and regurgitated into more fuel for the fires.
Into the self we must dive and hold our collective breaths
so not to drown in the murk
and grime we hold so dear.
But for today, again,
we feel what we touch, believe what we see, taste what we chew
and swallow our pride
to wake up and smell the caffienated future on the horizon
that wanders ever farther for all that we strive to catch it.
As in this and all things we can grasp the meaning we h
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Literature
Where we run
So this at last is where we run to,
where we seek the peices that we've missed.
There's no where else that we know of, this is all we have left.
No where now but still running, fleeing the past and fearing the future.
The strip malls, department stores, and downtown centers please us
with distractions and feed us cheap chintzy hope for a capitalistic holiday and
an easy off oven cleaner.
The candies and gems that the salesmen show us are rotten or cracked
but taste or shine the same if we look the other way.
With car washes, psychiatrists, and plastic surgeons praying to the gods of commerce and showing us the way
to a $.50 scrub and wax, a cookie cutter personality,
and a face only Michael Jackson could love,
who needs love, who needs friends,
who needs...sincerity.
Climb on the train, fall off the wagon, bend your knees to progress,
let's all join hands and have an ankle grabbin' good time welcoming the new age,
or a time when even plastic itself is fake, and we've lost all the molds
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Literature
Interrogative
Via cadillacs and suburus we travel
to the known beyond, yet,
with minds like traps and souls of ash, we draw the line of no return
between today
and tomorrow.
Still are the thoughts of the interrogative,
for they spin out their tales for no one
into the vacuum of independant media, and it is
absorbed by the great double-think machine of Washington,
and Hollywood,
and Disney.
And that is the way that we know what there is not
to know,
what there is left to know,
because what we see everyday is that which we have been told to know,
and that which has BEEN known
by others to be wrong.
So hail the interrogative and hail the thoughts
of all as one, for this is the age of information,
and catalogues and happy endings,
of savings cards, and interest rates,
and online memberships.
And only you can prevent forest fires, and global warming, and water pollution, and air pollution,
and Donald Rumsfeld.
But to hope and dream of a cleaner, brighter, perfumed tomorrow, is poison
to what may come;
if
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deviantID

kasmel
Richie Harris
United States
the watermark is over this image cause it's not my photo...I'm just in it

Current Residence: Eugene, Oregon
Favourite genre of music: probably blues
Favourite photographer: Ansel Adams
Operating System: XP
MP3 player of choice: Creative Muvo
Shell of choice: debian
Skin of choice: epidermis
Favourite cartoon character: Zim
Personal Quote: I'm not conceited, I'm too good for that.
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