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About Varied / Hobbyist Official Beta Tester Diana G.18/Female/Christmas Island Group :iconthe-irrelevants: the-irrelevants
 
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the dove sings what the dove can’t see. she is the oceanside slant, throwing the shifting shadow on white plaster where people sleep
these buildings are decades old repainted on splintered crimson wood, she said,
the woman with the ashburnt voice said

when the cathedral caved in on itself
i said no i do not want to be the withering bones in your body
he said there are heights you have never reached never reached, "reach
high into the branches where i am "
but now i only stand there and watch the remnants of autumn disintegrate into protruding bones

i heard that the winter creatures were looking for their messiah
so i stood by the doorway with a half eaten apple and watched the trees of gold losing themselves in the wind

and in the museum i looked at dead creatures
their arching skeletal frames like some hollow abandoned cathedral,
like the one  we built out of far-fetched imaginative nonsense
so in the end i guess the dove sings what the dove can’t see

why do i wait for a letter from the graveyard? why do i wait
in the gas station parking lot, praying at a stream of ersatz consciousness
praying for the lottery to have mercy on sherly’s father
to give him one more day to sit on that balcony  
him just sitting there mute and wordless, quivering in some nonreligious fever eating cubed mangoes all the way from china
MANGO to the power of three
and then to the power of holy trinity
to timelessness
to the heroine shooting in your veins

[he said i should not grow into his bones but i already did, i had done what i did, i did what i had
already done what I done, did what i did and done what was done, it was what it was, it was nothing it was what i did,
it was done, did, final, i grew into you, i grew so much,
i am sorry i grew so much into you ]

on the seventh day of college smoking a Marlboro on a dawnlit parkbench
i heard a boy play violin in a tree in a throne of leaves, and i cried
shh, said the moon
shhhhh, said the open palm, he was holding something out to me
i asked the night to hold me
when i touched it it was gone, hollow
he laughed at my deification of wallace and faulkner  
but he also once wanted to live inside me,
i am not your holy mother, not your virgin mary, you didn’t want to believe this was the ending
or the last page to another one of your fucked up bedtime stories

the dove sings what the dove can’t see
in a vault emptying what i’d never seen before,
the body emptied itself of heaven
naked and unclothed i hide the dove feathers under my bed
and hope that Mother never has to find them in her heart.
swarms of warm skin soft to the touch
a head of golden hair swims through my hands
when he takes off his shirt he is atlas, over and over and above
oh angel, why are you so lovely?

~
a haven of four days. we wandered through neighborhoods
loud ones, bad ones, hallucinogenic railways sank low beneath us
people came and wandered away, we stayed, for some hours
just whishwash, white bright commercial blur,
drank void-infested neon Eternity at timeless square, drank vodka in paper cups
smoked vapor of the city
saw floating city fries in glass domes

in medias res:
we train-dreamt all the way to the end
where the mono-units people call home are doves streaming
softly to the internet hum.


a few too many unlit hours: you were an archangel from the softened pages of a gospel, a prayer of golden ash, a body of celestial underthings. when drifting to sleep your hands your palms are still open but it will not rain tonight, nothing of fate will fall into your silent nonsense or sweet nothings

your sweet nothings are words strung to a guitar loop of breakfast cereal, you weather the storm like any grown man would but in you i saw things that were not really there

i cannot be an angel with you any longer, you are earthbound with other wide-eyed prayers, planets
so maybe, rotate:
your palm is open and you take what is not yours, you ask too much of the rain
I should not be your rain or your bedridden angel
her body sleeps there.
wither the trip, the winter, the curled sleeping tea bud
the curved indica afternoon sleeps
sleeping sleep seeps through the place where spiders grew deep

red clouds swarm and swam in sweltering morning
in distasteful consciousness, in heartache
in half-formed conversations started by half-formed people
by floating heads and cherub hands
raised in childish prayer and

in sleep i torment the dark that never left me  
or the two-faced ego that took tyranny over what was already dead  

masculine energy radiates and illuminates
dear angel, i know you are there
(and what's in my head is only doom, wistful arms holding empty ideals to sleep )


she is cyclical, natural symmetry manifest, red energy
& black eros
(remember, remember what she reassures in you








note: you are not alone, and never alone
because there is no such thing as being alone, we are all part of the ongoing, part of the movie, and we come to see the universe as a cyclical dance and nothing else
there was no hero from the Complication

his sleep high came from deficits, net-zero possibilities, ignorance charred and bombed and swollen,
into bird bellies decomposing
into plastic guns
this is the widescreen TV lecturing our devastation, our solipsism, this is the belletristic poem with no solution. at dusk, what is illuminated is ascending purgatory with a haughty crescent shedding stolen light,
ersatz heat that fuels the ancient desperate tremor in lungs that are made of earth, of circadian rhythms created out of nothing, of cyclical doom hiding itself

this is the hollowed wilderness commenting on life’s absurdities and its children, brother in arms of sorrow
sorrow, perhaps, breathes the sign of the living, but Time…
time has gone to mars
gone from the gods of Day, from
the nuclear tree sleeping in your womb
swarms of warm skin soft to the touch
a head of golden hair swims through my hands
when he takes off his shirt he is atlas, over and over and above
oh angel, why are you so lovely?

~
a haven of four days. we wandered through neighborhoods
loud ones, bad ones, hallucinogenic railways sank low beneath us
people came and wandered away, we stayed, for some hours
just whishwash, white bright commercial blur,
drank void-infested neon Eternity at timeless square, drank vodka in paper cups
smoked vapor of the city
saw floating city fries in glass domes

in medias res:
we train-dreamt all the way to the end
where the mono-units people call home are doves streaming
softly to the internet hum.

deviantID

ersatz-moon's Profile Picture
ersatz-moon
Diana G.
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
Christmas Island
shh...just listen

college kid.
Interests

inspirational people

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:iconfootnoting:
Footnoting Featured By Owner Apr 9, 2014
And thanks for the watch, too.
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(1 Reply)
:iconfootnoting:
Footnoting Featured By Owner Apr 9, 2014
Thanks for the fave.
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:iconaeronautics:
aeronautics Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2014
aww man i missed it. happy late birthday!   Cheerleader 
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(1 Reply)
:iconshiningsteel:
ShiningSteel Featured By Owner Feb 15, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday! :iconcutecakeplz:
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:icon0hgravity:
0hgravity Featured By Owner Feb 15, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday!

hope it was a good one.
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