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SonnetsAnd I don't know why I don't just write you sonnets, wind autumn leaves through my typewriter, punch your name out across their veins, bruised green, these vital vessels for my words. And I shouldn't be doubting like this every day in this Othello love (and I loved her that she did pity them), this silent undercurrent of broken English questions ever since you stole my words with vaudevillean fishhooks from the lakes of my mind, open to you like an ally's borders. Bring them back, dead puppy like and shoeboxed so I can have myself all for myself, whole again and building dreams from the invisible vowels in their dead souls. And you don't know the half of it, you talk of dead poets like they were alive, you more a corpse than they (there's a fine line between you and the walking dead). Here I recall white knuckle concerts on the mezzanine at three in the morning through phone lines and tears, tapping my head lightly against the glass, resigned and doubting, looking for a loophole in the
O, what stultifying speech,O, what stultifying speech,
what inspiring silence,
what pleasant strain of music from your mouth
doth reach its hand and gather in a violent rage
against my soul,
cling tightly to the likeness of your Lord,
to bow and pray to, chastise, reprimand, extol,
You know the itching skin of every dying man
will not seek truth but remedy.
Throw bodies on the rocks like rotten fruit,
see bones dissociate from skin,
leap distances like shards of fleshy glass:
a sound so primal, so unique.
Let me buy you watermelons that you might share a little in the pleasure.
Be not the martyr nor the fly,
a spider's willing pet,
bite not the hand that feeds you
but rather infiltrate the mind
and through the spine suck marrow from the bones,
quick darting eyes in search of victims. Tears?
Why, what absurdity? what willful punishment,
a sentence unto death walked with such vile and doubting steps.
Alaska sleeps -
the fresh and tonic-water winter will abhor your presence
in its white and chaste and silent ______
Fishin'Methinks the fisherman has caught himself a shark -
A fish his nets can't keep and boat cannot support.
Yet he he maintains the line. Hooked firmly to his bark,
The beast is tethered tightly and the line is taut.
What use has he for her? A stew, a steak, a dish
With spice and wonder or is she but testament
To skill and courage of his crew, meant to distinguish
Men from boys as women brim with wonderment?
A shark! The whispers gather on the deck like smoke,
A haze of fear and pride, they savour their reward
While their night's catch fights vainly 'gainst unyielding yoke -
The sun picks out staccato splashes overboard.
Beneath a full white sail, the plunderers of the sea
Debate their options: cut it loose or keep it snared?
Under their captain's caustic eye, they all agree:
The line cannot be hewed, it holds a catch too rare.
So they return to port, the wearied beast in tow,
Dragged by determined boat t'ward hungry waiting lips,
Ready to feast and praise and drink and sing 'bravo,'
La vie. i-5She tests the tepid waters of her fate,
first with a toe, then, hems in hand, she wades
through deep uncharter'd waters and creates
whirlpools and waves and finds her life unmade,
the surface rippled and unsteady by
uncertain steps and inexperienced gait,
smooth liquid parted with a faltering thigh-
thus some years pass, her life still inchoate.
She grows but more unsure with time, thoughts thick,
her faith is thin and hollowed like old bones
chilled by a wind of ennui, she picks
warm company, yet feels herself alone.
But why is she unsettled? For in truth,
too young to be concerned with aging and
not old enough to mourn a fruitless youth,
she's yet unmarred by time's unwelcome hand.
Still, she observes each day the dying hours,
afraid to know how many might remain
clean, waiting to be soiled, fresh, to be soured
like autumn fruit under the winter rain.
She prays that they might pass her by unheard,
with winged whispers: drowned, coccooned and hushed.
She prays by night in tears with f
How to prepare a meal of...How to prepare a meal of those you love
Take your mother, wash and quarter her,
Season with pepper and sterile insouciance.
Submerge in warm milk, roll in seasoned flour
and yell mixture into satisfaction.
Fry in one inch of melted lard and spend
2-3 minutes remembering long November road trips
With half a country crawling through the window.
Serve with finely chopped corriander
And a side of steamed seasonal vegetables.
Bring a generous pot of salted water to the boil.
Skin and cube seventy pounds of pre-marinated father.
Place raw meat carefully in boiling water and
Add sliced beetroot, chopped onions, a bouquet garni
and a handful of dissatisfied questions.
Simmer on a low flame, stirring sporadically.
If a thicker consistency is desired,
Leave to stand in shock for several hours.
Infuse with distilled hope to taste.
Import slightly stale lover, allow thirty days for shipping.
Consider momentarily the two-for-one discount
But decide against complicated condiments.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More