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Literature
12:23am
it's impossible to tell
if you're angry
or having an orgasm
and yet
i keep trying
because
this is the 21st century
price we pay for
believing in
    something
           #likelove
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Literature
Sleep to Dream (Working Title) - Chapter One
Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle bell rang.
It was the broken song of old steel long abused by its owner, but the sickly melody reminded her that she was home. In southern Ohio, September was in full swing. The grass of every lawn that ran the length of Claredon Avenue was coarse and yellow in the afternoon light. Overhead, a dense veil of dingy smoke from the stacks of the nearby paper factory drew itself outward to collide with the clouds. The sounds of kids shrieking in jest, a riot of water pistols, and the continual hiss of a garden hose seemed to encircle her. A few feet away, her best friend Renada was disassembling a Fischer Price record player in the dirt. Before long, it would be skillfully reassembled into something else. Renada had a knack for that.
She had always been happiest here, grimy feet dangling from the rustiest swing of the set her father had constructed in the backyard, anchored by life from every angle but perfectly and rapturously alone. It would be year
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Literature
anything can happen.
my hair was cropped and wild
the day we never met
     some seven years ago
       
i thought nothing of your hands
or your fingers
or your mid-morning yawns
i dreamed only of consonants
cancer cells, caskets and
the ways in which
our languages
converged
now - peering out from
behind the open curtain
of uncertain symmetry
      i think of many things
i wonder how these sheets
of an imagined night
might curve
and snake outward
along your pillow
i wonder if we would wake
to find our bodies
covered in the grime
of words recycled
from the minds of our heroes
to our gaping human mouths
i wonder how you would laugh
    (if you would laugh at all)
if i stuttered at the sight of you
inches from my eyes
all oil and sweat
bacteria
permeating together
smiling perhaps
or wrinkling your eyebrows
i wonder if i will ever learn
to want what i can have
or if my hair - and these questions -
will continue to grow and grow and grow
until long aft
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Mature content
The Surgery. :icononthemetro:onthemetro 94 47
Literature
release.
She hadn't called for an exorcism. Counting wide cracks in the speckled ceiling above, she reached eleven as her back sank like lead weight into the mattress. Beads of sweat crept across her fevered head; a red blood flushed to her cheeks; her olive-colored eyes were two puddles of dirty rainwater. The silence that surrounded her was not unlike the tattered blanket she'd folded and tucked in a bottom drawer some ten years before.
"How about taking a walk?" he asked, "Fresh air?"
Each word was a riot, storming her streets in a rage of sentiment.
"Of course I wouldn't," she replied, vaguely aware of the gibberish. Still counting, she imagined her body rising up weightlessly toward the ceiling's imperfections. She opened a hole in her mind wide enough to float through. She felt liberated. She felt saved.
He placed a silver locket in the nearest of her lifeless, weathered hands and left the room. The decorated face cooled her heated fingers. Each ridge reminded her of lilacs and automatic
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Literature
the playground.
crawling on all meta-fours
from yer lazy laboratory
to a bed hidden by blankets
(yards of blue fabric)
suspended above us
w/ strings of racing lights
we watch cronenberg's films
projected on the wall
on our backs (bodies bare)
tangled together limb by limb
lips touching hands touching legs
roaming mountains of
newly purified flesh
& pretty faces
i am arrested in the nite
by an unfamiliar feeling -
wrists cuffed w/ the cool steel
of unsentimental veins
now pumping fresh blood
to the withered heart
that has wasted away
in the center of my chest
forcing breath into my blackened lungs
returning to the room w/ words like
you are an island & i've been marooned.
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Literature
trainman.
in his voice
i hear
a westbound train
              whistle-blowing
subtle lapses/ broken bonds
of a love longsince inspired
loud & clear like well-timed
explosions of solitude
we are breaking our own rules
& staying up late
& holding our breath
to taste mere seconds of
       that wicked dreaming life
we built on cool cement
& blistered skin
i am hurling myself further into summer
i am trudging thru his wintry mirage
i am steel & brass & satin
     body screaming SOUND! & suckle
praying to be played
in his voice
i hear
a dinner bell ringing
    calling me home
for meals of pomegranates
sugared palindromes
& uncharted islands of leaves
he is a mirrored image of
he is an architect
he is miles away from here
            and still i hear
a westbound train
whistle-blowing
speeding to
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Literature
a thin line.
gm,
strike my last remark, as well:
my new favorite word is typochondriac.
i can offer no clarification as to why i am about to unleash this ridiculous mess into this little white box, but i'll preface enough to let it serve as a warning (an apology, as well). it could be that eight unsuspecting human creatures and a terrified teen are now dead and ready to be buried in what i safely assume will be the cemetery i pass nearly three times a week (a popular omaha resting spot). i think about death a lot on those walks. it could also be that i'm not feeling well and wishing you were here and trying to marinate on that for all it means/has meant/will mean in the future, etc. it could be that (as you well know) symbols are often best deciphered when put to paper in the form of poorly-constructed sentences.
end preface.
i love you. i know that i love you as i have always known that i love you and at the same time i love you differently today than i will tomorrow (and so on). seven year
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Literature
the story of my life.
i was born w/ a wedding band
wrapped around my tiny finger
and on it was engraved:
to anyone who'll have her
twice divorced at twenty four
and tied to a broken typewriter
i sometimes wonder if god
had a good hard laugh
the day he pulled me up from hell
to announce my new beginning
i imagine him holding me high above his head
a translucent ball of rage and fearful indifference
and hallelujah'd he had found another orphan
left in a pet taxi at the doorstep of the devil
w/ a pack of filtered cigarettes and a note
that warned of silhouettes and lies
i imagine him then thrusting me into
the vacant womb of an unemployed actress
who wanted a baby to save her marriage
from an oncoming train
and when the doctor cut me out of her
she sang softly the lyrics to spiders from mars
strapped a girlish name across my chest
and took me to the city for some swill
and when her husband left
he left behind a legacy of busted strings
the smell of factory grease and six kittens
all named for con
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ID: evidence? by onthemetro ID: evidence? :icononthemetro:onthemetro 1 1
Literature
Mona, Intro.
It was during a late night discussing cat food and the rising cost of gasoline that Mona told her husband she was no longer in love with him. She hadn't intended to say it at that particular moment, though the words themselves had been arranged and rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror for months. Leaning against the narrow door frame that lead into their tiny kitchen, a room Mona cherished in spite of its dirty brown tile and stubborn cabinet doors, she felt a familiar wave of urgency rush through her. She had to end it. It wasn't because she couldn't remember the last time he had taken her out, or kissed her simply to feel his lips touch hers, or driven for more than five minutes without shouting obscenities at nearly every driver on the road. His obsession with her health and the subtle criticisms which complimented his concerns were also not the reasons for her hurting him so terribly and without warning. She simply felt that all her enthusiasm for their marriage had been slowl
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Literature
periphery.
and in the nite we travel
thru portals of misshapen words
steadfast & thought-hungry
               however unknown by
the syllables themselves
we are baskets woven
with broken leaves
cold concrete laid beneath
the weary feet of urban alchemists
up to their necks in botched attempts
to transform our love into bricks of gold
we are summer sweat & pseudonym
we are long letters lost in the mail
and in the nite we travel
to a time of smoke&mirrors
            borrowed blankets at 4am
    coffee grinds, cigarette ashes
song lyrics, black ink
& body parts
holding hands to keep the tide
from pulling us too far from that
         un-sanctifying shore
we peeled back the sour rind
of our youth & tasted a sweet
obliterating silence
i want to tear out my liver
i want to give it to you
i want to fog ye
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Mature content
domestica's lament. :icononthemetro:onthemetro 4 4
Literature
acting indifferent.
i see a thin stream of bright light spilling onto the floorboards from behind a bolted door. standing stark naked raving mad amidst heavy traffic with screamers and pushers and passive passenger sides looking back at buildings in which they might never sleep well again. i am Retrospectia. i am posing for photos in a broken booth, grinning with locked lips, hiding black teeth from the world. i am dancing in a room i painted red before i ever spoke yer name. i am smoking cigarettes because i am tragic and this is what tragic people do. i am spinning circles and thread in the rain. i am writing letters to the dead, slipping them under the matress, piecing phrases together from a well-worn alphabet, laughing in the familiar faces of the villains in my dreams. i am making bad decisions and watching documentaries and leaving the lights on and neglecting the books i should've read years ago. i am not sixteen anymore.
i should throw this record out.
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Literature
verbatim.
i hate to look at you
my memory matches
the photos exactly
and i'm not used to
remembering things
               so well
i hate to look at you
hair teeth cheek jaw
screaming drunk or
daringly sober      it's all
familiar     even when
hidden behind new
curtains of living
fixing what's broken
fixing what's broke
fixing what?
how dare you apologize
i hate to look at you
because to look is to touch
and my eyes are weak bastards
    who know no restraint
and lose focus w/ all of yer
entering rooms
i hate to look at you
because it is an art
     i perfected
that never paid well
i hate to look at you
because once i start
  i cannot STOP
and i haven't won
many contests lately
i hate to look at you
because yer taste in hats
has not been wasted
   and nothing is more
tempting to me than
a well-smok
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Literature
tristan.
you've swallowed my pen
it's swishing backandforth
at the bottom of yer belly
stirred disturbed disrupted only by
third rounds of Blood Red Bruises
over baileys in yer breakfast of
black coffee and filter-y death
the kind i sucked from
the tip of yer tongue
when i was thirsty
i look down at the wrists you slit for me
to see the tattooed trust across my skin
i should have it removed
but my wallet is empty
of all but a picture of you
i think of yer tom waits and edward abbey
of yer cigarettes and violets and violent sex
i think of all yer efforts toward a better life
admittance/acceptance and bicycle spokes
pulling yer jacketed shoulders
ever-closer to the sun
winter has penetrated the four walls
of this nebraskan afternoon and
i've written more for you than
i have ever laughed for him
but ohio is a long way from omaha
and i'm getting better at forgetting you
the way you push just hard enough
and smile when i'm suffering
and vindicate my tragic life with
sentences and sounds
i have vows
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Favourites

Wednesday Addams by AIDSclown Wednesday Addams :iconaidsclown:AIDSclown 117 27 Black Butler: Grell by SlothGirl Black Butler: Grell :iconslothgirl:SlothGirl 700 120
Literature
keep writing about Wings
i keep writing about Wings because i am jealous of them
our bird is black,
so the maggot is white.
wings are spread of creatures who delight
in swallowing flies, after flies
have sifted through the throat
of a dead winter's deer.
three perch beside a stump
of mammal. as with every occasion
it is a carcass that brings the family together.
it is said
   every organ must be lived in;
   our children must be reared in blood.

i am the one who never questioned it,
falling in love with the all-stinking earth.
now no more than a feather chased by wind,
the way i have blown; a winged thing,
no more than a quill.
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird 4 31
Literature
owI
the owl is this
and there its fist
with feathers
such owl of bard,
preying poet bird
with a mask to grow
so nocturnal its face
its place a bloody beak
to speak its danger song
rat-eater, lover, wingspan
and talon-fingered claw
creature to hover around
all and each
wound of trees
easily to kill a rodent supper
if you will align yourself
into a star
i will
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird 8 8
Literature
out of Garden
what sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
what tide
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh…
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of honey bee’s minus harvest
one from sands of human crust
when traced is an orb monster, Jupiter
around your left breast, so that nipple…
a blood storm just under the skin
and asking where you sowed the marigolds
is only to hear you choke the words time and water
in the same sentence
to hear you say there will be no rain for a week
while an ocean is
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird 170 39
Literature
an arc is an infinite number of straight lines
say i
& you too
like mad
we wandered
wherever
to god
& asked it to appear
& so it soul-sprouted out of earth
or spilled all star-dusted from heaven
or emerged from a gang of goliath worms
& was so splendidly riddled with prisms
or not
we saw god in marvelous feathers
of flaking gold or seven robes
of mica or divinely impoverished
with a putrid buzzard’s beard
or whatever
we were destined
to perceive
our phantoms of truth be
so distinctly two of these
that they must eventually
become one
see:
down inside the kuk, kuk & skow
crackling out each green heron beak
is a different sort of time
or now than is
grown within the roh-roh-roh & awk
of every great blue one
so
deep within a claw of bear
black & river-blessed
exists a unique air
of holy space
which is oh-so-never
alike that which is
sewn within a talon of owl-bird
silent & flying ready-spread
with fiery night-sky eyes
so
far along the sweet flag
patch of summer swords
withered & seeds to set
wea
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Literature
memories, making glorious mud
his memories are making a glorious mud
i.
it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.
it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates
its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,
where she stops, lets the carver out
to start again from the beginning...
no lumberjack lives here,
no whiskered axe-man wakes to the rooster.
a daring cedar deadened him flat as toads who nap
beneath some winter stones. his brain was stapled to earth
with a mighty red branch and there have spread rumors.
the truth? his memories are making a glorious mud.
ii.
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird
:icongetbeneathmebird:getbeneathmebird 137 24
Literature
home
My heart is tethered
between wrought iron
and quick tempers
In the house, a man was waiting:
silver skin, sharp chin
eating the remains with his corbeau mouth
My cloaked heart slips through the gate,
and past March, April, June
my palms are stained with the smell of rust,
dust and rotting wood under my tongue,
unopened mail behind each rib
What's heavy will hurt.
I took a small boat away
Half way there
I lost my oars
(abandoned)
Flung and tossed like a child
into the channel
"Are you afraid of what's below?"
you're just froth below the horizon.
you're just a speck in time
The dark whale should swallow me whole,
but instead I lay my head in the day's end,
like resting on warm thighs
My mother's own.
:iconNSH:NSH
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Literature
Not you, but me
Not you, but me
I've crossed every stone,
A trail through the bay to your heart.
Tossed among sunken ships,
Just a wreck in your deepest harbor.
You're the coral I cut my knee on
And the salt in its wound.
I swam over you at low tide,
Should have known not to.
Torn at the seam,
No comfort in the folds.
Just an old towel hanging out
On the porch to dry.
I'm a stagnant bay,
sand trapped under my tongue.
No words to undo.
You drew a line as you
walked away from me.
Farther and farther,
A distant island hidden by the clouds.
:iconNSH:NSH
:iconnsh:NSH 6 3
Upgrade by jasinski Upgrade :iconjasinski:jasinski 407 27 love by avivi love :iconavivi:avivi 18 5 Avivi by avivi Avivi :iconavivi:avivi 5 0
Literature
visual inventory, a days'worth
sticky feet on a cold, wood floor,
a gramophone,
wrinkled pink satin,
the pain in the middle of my back,
the dark mirror of a train window at dawn,
the twisting of the intestine,
wetness beneath the arms,
a damp handkerchief,
a cold nose,
spanish, the language, echoing in the back of your head,
italian on a page,
a sweet spliff walking over grates & manholes,
the stocky waddle of a law-enforcer,
the clamor of two hundred phones ringing,
the beige carpet & walls & desktops,
a pencil being sharpened electronically,
           its guts flaking into a plastic basin like snowfall,
the cigarette,
the whiskey,
the cigarette,
the whiskey,
the black mirror of a train window at night,
the splitting gut & growling abdomen,
the smell of seared flesh,
the sound of wine being poured
the feeling of wrinkled green cotton,
& sticky feet on a cold, wooden floor,
& the moment of rest before the lärm.
:iconshes-a-vamp:shes-a-vamp
:iconshes-a-vamp:shes-a-vamp 1 2
funerial shoes abandoned at the beach by critmass funerial shoes abandoned at the beach :iconcritmass:critmass 3 4 To sleep... by khavi To sleep... :iconkhavi:khavi 655 134 Self Portrait by MissZillah Self Portrait :iconmisszillah:MissZillah 1 0

Activity


deviantID

onthemetro's Profile Picture
onthemetro
Molly O'Blivion
United States
"The mind knows what the mouth wants..."
Interests
  • Listening to: the pAper chAse
  • Eating: other people's words
  • Drinking: coffee (as ever)
Lots to read; my eyes are excited.

-M

Comments


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:iconbeingnaked:
beingnaked Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2017
When life hands you lemons, make a gin and tonic
Reply
:iconcritmass:
critmass Featured By Owner Jun 12, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
miss ya
Reply
:iconbeingnaked:
beingnaked Featured By Owner May 2, 2014
Long time no see, How are you?
Reply
:iconartandmusic4life:
artandmusic4life Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks so much for the watch! :D
Reply
:icononthemetro:
onthemetro Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014
You're so welcome! Thank you, as well. :)

:heart:
Reply
:iconatropaean:
Atropaean Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2011
hopefully you will post some new writing soon,

nyasa
Reply
:iconcritmass:
critmass Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
amen and amen
Reply
:iconshes-a-vamp:
shes-a-vamp Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2010
come back, omaha girl
Reply
:iconshes-a-vamp:
shes-a-vamp Featured By Owner May 10, 2010
i mean it. :(
Reply
:iconcritmass:
critmass Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
sometimes i hope you are randomly peeking at your deviants friends pages on the sly and staying somewhat current and smiling and remembering and keeping a piano wire in your back pocket.
Reply
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