She has a name like Charisse
or Clarette or Gabrielle.
Something French like that.
Of course she smokes
one of those long minty cigarettes
with her legs crossed
on the Bistro's patio.
she's ordered a salad
mostly for the complimentary wine.
Smiling is foreign to her
like a burka in Beverly Hills.
The best she can do is a smirk
that says just what she thinks of vous.
She wears black because it's classic
and as dramatic as she is
as she ignores the waiter
bringing her wine and salad.
Cesar and Cabernet.
It's what she ordered
but not what she wanted.
Eye contact, say goodbye.
Goodbye!
Eye contact!
Pay attention, be attentive,
eye contact makes a
social man. Keep it up
and keep it constant.
Keep all the eye contact
you can!
There once was a happy butterfly and a beautiful rainbow. The butterfly loved the rainbow, because it made him happy. the butterfly flew under the rainbow. The butterfly flew around the rainbow. The butterfly flew through the rainbow, letting all of its colours dance on his wings.
Finally, the butterfly decided to fly over the rainbow. The butterfly did. He flew up and up and over the rainbow with all its pretty colours. he flew right into outer space where it was very cold and had no air. The butterfly promptly died. Then he wasn't so happy anymore.
Alone I stand
A single entity
Alone I stand
Forever
As mountains crumble
And turn to sand
Alone I stand
Forever
When great men kneel
Before eternity
Alone I stand
Forever
As lovers part
With stoney hearts
Alone I stand
Forever
I'll outlast them all
And watch them fall
But alone I'll stand
forever
Streetlights and shadows
Dancing in air
Over faces and places
And my stone chair
Streetlights and water
Under starless skies
Mimic the starlight
In lost lovers eyes
Streetlights so much like
The lamp posts back home
So far away now
With me so alone
An open casket funeral
All painted in rich black
Drawn out in damp frowns
The Undertaker hovers 'round
Mouthing empty sympathy
Funeral in a field so full
Of sunshine and headstones
Neatly arranged in rows
One brown pit dug in among them
Waiting to be filled with dust
Dead to the realization
Peaceful in it's descent
Never to learn the truth
That death is not the end of life
But the end of memory
Howling through the gnarled grove
Of dry, cracked old oak trees
The wind, like an eagle, dove
And brought me to my knees
Howling on and on and on
With a rage without an end
It was the wind in that early dawn
That caused my knees to bend
On the raging torrents to me came
Three sisters whose looks were wild
Before whom my tongue was lame
And my demeanor like a child
"We are the sisters of the wood"
Spake the first of the three
"Who ride the winds of Morbichaud,
Which have put you to your knee"
The wind still rushed
Through black old trees
And the underbrush
As the second spoke to me
Her eyes were full of scorn and pride
And
Another bloody nose this morning
As I woke up from my bed.
It burst while I was snoring
And streaked across my head
There is red upon my pillow
And crimson on my sheets
Flaking from the fabric, Oh
How I wish it were more neat
What happens late at night
That makes me bleed oh so much
And look like the loser of a fight
With a boxing Osterutch
Perhaps a ghostly beating
At the hands of one undead
I sleep through my own bleating
As the spirit smacks me in the head
Or maybe little pixies,
Like to play inside my nose
Doing cartwheels and tricksies
Oh 'til it gushes like a hose
It is something while I sleep
Long after I go to be
Horses neighed and soldiers stood fast
No one knew if their courage would last
The red-clad soldiers manned the walls
Clamoring to obey the commander's calls
Braver men watched the enemies mount
While meeker men would silently shout
For their God, their wives, their mothers
Each prepared to fight alongside the others
Red-clad soldiers watched enemies in black
As the dark commander sounded the attack
The Black Tide roared and forward rode
Straight toward the Crimson King's abode
Against the walls, the black hordes crashed
Like an obsidian wave, they ground and mashed
The red garbed soldiers upon the parapet
Shouted as one "Boys,
The warlords rage, with death their language,
battle-breaking young mens' marrow -
and corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
In lovers' fields once greenly passaged,
where the youthful dreamed of hope -
the warlords rage, with death their language.
Their thoughts are steelclad, grimly savage,
rhythmic with their tireless blows,
as corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
In following their brutal adage -
'fight or die' blood-etched in stone,
the warlords rage, with death their language.
Ablaze, their fires rave and ravage,
scorching land and searing bone,
as corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
The death-knell dirge is sung wi
Her dress glows pale under the crescent moon as it gently blows in a summer breeze. He watches the rays of moonlight peirce the trees and illuminate her thin body. The night gown she always wears clings to her rib cage while her stringy black hair futily fights the wind to hide her ghastly face. The canopy above is dark and haunting despite the clarity of the night, nothing moves in the perfect blackness beyond the trees. He sings softly to her, calling her "love" and other such sweet nothings. Every night he comes to see her, every night he's there to sing and smile and every night the moon reveals more erosion of time on her frail body. He
Read blood swells, in fear-wrought fonts
page-bound by ink; wells up in thoughts
caught in small words and minds for war
all fought in scripts of 'done before'.
Red blood wells, and fear-sought peace
is drenched in oil; swells up like gas
in days-old dead and brand new cars
both fuelled by 'black gold' greed.
It's all old news, in brand new print
and bound with lies; sold back 'at cost'
for the read, and the dead, and the red text -
all that makes that first cup of 'wake up' so good.
Saxophone smooth in a three-piece suit
enters Blue - cool and suave, disdainful
to those of duller class - the crass
beiges and browns seen down the street
and around the town.
Electric, Blue glides bar-ward, in charge
and smug with martini charm - rhythmic
in conversation, his words slide
like the saxophone ride he came in on.
Red can't leave him alone.
He presses convivial keys, playing
the spectrum with a smug smile -
It's an old game with new names
and people to mix with. He smirks
his way to Ebony.
'How have you been?' and all that jazz,
just the casual quips and usual digs
of the typically hip, tripping
over tongues an
I will always remember that mosquitoes leave at exactly 11:26 at night.
I will also always remember that you can catch smoke from a campfire in a glass jar. But you will have to clean the jar in the morning.
I will remember other things, too – climbing trees, for instance, is better when you take a pillow with you. (If you can. Sometimes it's hard to carry a pillow up a tree.) Lakes are best for swimming in, even if the water is so cold at first that it makes you numb – eventually it gets to feel almost warm. And it's usually the things that you wouldn't expect that taste best together, like blackberries and marshmallows, or anything with
A Thousand Perfect Moments by disgruntledlemur, literature
Literature
A Thousand Perfect Moments
A Thousand Perfect Moments
1.
They met at the bus stop in the rain, waiting to go somewhere dry. She noticed that he was holding something inside his coat and thought, before he saw what she was thinking and opened his coat to show her what it really was, that he was hiding drugs.
It was a book.
She liked a man who would carry a book inside his coat to protect it from the rain. She liked the way said coat had no hood, so his hair got wet and his bangs hung in his face, so unconsciously sexy.
He asked her for her number on the bus, right after she missed her stop. He called her that night.
2.
They met at college, when they literally ran
Streetlights and shadows
Dancing in air
Over faces and places
And my stone chair
Streetlights and water
Under starless skies
Mimic the starlight
In lost lovers eyes
Streetlights so much like
The lamp posts back home
So far away now
With me so alone
Current Residence: New Brunswick, Canada Favourite genre of music: n/a Favourite photographer: Ansel Adams? Operating System: Another victim of Microsoft's Vista-rape. MP3 player of choice: My iPod never leaves me. Shell of choice: Snail Shells Wallpaper of choice: Wallpaper is a lot of work... just use paint. Personal Quote: Art makes you famous and important, about 300 years after your starve to death.
Favourite Visual Artist
n/a
Favourite Movies
I've taken to watching anime recently. I'll get over that though.
I thought for sure I told this DeviantART account to self destruct. I distinctly remember thinking to myself "Wait a second, no one will ever pay me to print something I've written if I go ahead and let people read it here for free" or something along those lines at least. It was three years ago, so what if I got the exact quote wrong? Huh? Huh? Misquotes are better anyway.
Anyway, I was going to make a new one, but seeing as this one didn't die quietly like I'd told it to, and DeviantART was rabidly opposed to the idea of my making a new one so long as this account was still plugged into life support I guess I'll revive the ol' girl.
Eat y
... it rotts the soul. I haven't written anything on dA in a very long time, I haven't written anything for myself in a long time either. I've been looking for something to do; I've been losing all my interests and it's starting to be noticeable.
I've lost my appetite. I don't know why but I haven't eaten a full meal in at least a month. Videogames just don't interest me anymore. I can't get myself to sit and write anything, or draw anything except doodles on desks and tables. My music doesn't make me feel as powerful as it used to. I can't stand to think about home, but everything reminds me of home now. I was walking last night and for a f
I haven't put anything new up in a long time, I'm really sorry about that but I have been pretty busy. University expects you to work apparently and I haven't gotten around to writing anything new in a long time. I'm going to though because I'm afraid that if I stop I might not take it back up. That would be pretty bad since I intend to be an author for a living.
Right now there's a bit of a party going on, I guess it comes with being in a party dorm. I'm just ducking in my room for a bit, I don't like most of the people I usually hang out with right now. Alcohol is making everyone act differently than usual and they're starting to annoy me.
~schmiale
Alex Schmitt
is a General Writer
is Male
is a deviant since Aug 6, 2004, 12:03 PM
has 400 pageviews
is located in Canada
last visited 3w 4d 1h 39m 32s ago
is currently
is an MSN Messenger user; schmiale@hotmail