[x]

27               [I]

    arthur boyd:

she cried 'transubstantiation' -

why don't you eat dirt and
    feel closer to Earth !(?)

i slipped ,jointlessly, seemless
quicksilver ,going downdown
until I wrapped my serptentine form
around the core
                     , a cold static stone

Recipe for Bad PoetryHow to Write Bad Poetry:

Start with: SCISSORS

Scissors are very good cutting your prose
into pieces (as well as fending off mobs of real poets).
It works better if you start with

From Whence She CameBack down to the sea-floor she goes
back to the coracle-clusters and starfish that
clamour, cling to her heart too tight,
walking barefoot towards where she
came from. It is too hard walking on
earth, the way she wears pain like a wedding ring
frightens people.
Back down, down, crawling on her belly
on the forest-floor, alive with the buzz and crawl
of worms and bird-prey. Back where she belongs with her
crazy palpitating wolf-heart, her bloody
deer-throat leaking in the snow, her yellow
eyes in the dark.
Back down, beyond subway trains, piano lessons,
falling rain, from whence she came, to the snow-covered womb
where she fir

mother, can you mendi.

Mother wished
for those freckles to glide down
the bridge of her nose and
into a generation of fresh sunspots,
but the daughters got the sun's affection
through their hair, one wheaten braid
over another, sometimes
under the needle's eye of the wind

and sometimes split ends
were all there was to mend.

and mother tried to reteach
her Indian braids unity
on young heads,
she tried to get her worn moccasins
to move too-small feet into dance,
but they ran through rivers
rather than around them
and too often had they sinned
before the hands

trampled azaleas under bare soles
and petals between toes

but sometimes the land
w

the cricket and sailour.there lives a man in a desert
with cracked skull and lips.

he is broken and feeble hands;
his back where the deer-antlers
roam to graze.

with the winter winds he is

calm. the sea foam swelling around
his ankles feel like honey, and he is
dragged. dragged through the sand,
dragged until he is salt. salt in a

swollen geography.

the clouds give way to bitter ships.

Whiskey boy, ruby boy.1. It has been twenty seven days since I last let the
hawk-eyed man into my head, ninety four hours
since I last drank myself to sleep, and thirty two
minutes since I last kept my mother from the truth.
Tonight, she still thinks I have hope, but it may be
the last time she believes I'm still whole.

i. Last night, I dreamt of the boy next door, the gun
in his drawer, the whiskey under his bed, the hate
in his eyes when he drags me out of bed to tell me
I've ruined another story, I've fanned another flame.
This boy does not know my mother, but I suspect
they would get along quite wel

ugly consumptionmonday my little girl asked, "what would happen if someone ate
the sun and
how many calories does it have?"

and i wish i could see myself objectively, wish
my skin wasn't worn from
fitful starvation.

have you ever seen your
hands as i do, strange bloated things

in search of bones?

and i wish i could remember when beauty
was a mouth red as pomegranate seeds eyes
like sickle moons. back when it was

more than numbers. ninety-five, eighty-eight.

get down to eighty-five and you will be
beautiful. be

thin and sexless as wet march.

tuesday pa told me: "acceptance ain't something you
can buy at a convenience store."

and i am all ma

An Anatomy Lesson       If I collected the lies I've been told I could make myself a skeleton. 206 hollow bones made of hollow words. The bigger lies are structural support, holding up the rest of me. 33 dishonest "I love yous" could be 33 intersecting vertebrae, composing my curving spine.

       I could gather shards of my 10 favorite broken promises to be my long, sharp finger nails. The 10 runner ups fit on the tips of my toes.

        Spiderweb truths, theirs and mine, will weave my new skin. An average of 20 feet of sticky substance, easily to

Arman and the Flaming DragonIt was the fortieth year in the reign of King Delnadio. His royal graciousness saw fit to hold a most exquisite banquet in honor of this landmark occasion, inviting all in his kingdom be they commoner, noble, or other to attend.

Other, you ask? That’d be my kind. You know, the ones that keep the noble life worth living. The ones behind the scenes. Or rather, behind your chair with a knife.

Anyway, there was the banquet. Everyone far and wide came to the great halls of the castle to partake in the merriment. The privileged few of the higher classes showed up in their carriages and whatnot, dressed as sharply as they dared, although most

fatefatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.

conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.

they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.

in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"

but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog

.vesta.

It is time. We feel the pull of summer along our spines
as we head into hibernation. Bed is short respite for our leaden limbs,
our singed hair. The air aches with the wait of it, where the embers
click and sing like crickets. Snippets of sound from the underground.
"This," someone says, wide-eyed with awe, "is what the insides
of the earth look like" - the world beneath, struck through with
dragons' teeth, pocked with open sores. The slit smile of the crater
in a slack jaw. Our scarred skies are littered with lights, many
mechanical suns spun into the ceiling, glinting like electric sequins.

And in the middle of it all, where our

When God Sleeps.I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.

Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.

II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cas

snowbonesholding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.

they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.

the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.

sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.

EulogyThe dream-catchers are handmade
but each bear the same mark of boredom.
On the reservation,
the dirt is red and separated from the turquoise on sale.
The tops of the mountains have been scraped off
like whipped cream from pudding cups
of beautiful alien rock.

"Plateau," my mother says.
I am not sure if it is a name
or a command.

The lightning storms are brighter in the desert.
I sit perched on the horizon,
the edge of one loss to another—
given up my love, all my bottled water.
The mountains carry their own babies in the muddy puddles,
against the wind they huddle,
but their semi-circle somehow is just one great smile.

memories, making glorious mudhis 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

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2006Dizzy with deja vu,
thick and smokey in heart and lungs
and stinging sockets
filled with memorial moisture
to the
days-gone-bye.

ILTIOLIAPAFBIMIHBPTSJOMLI like the idea of living in a post-apocalyptic future because it means I'll have bigger problems than spilling juice on my laptop.

When every moment could be your last
You don't care
if your dishes match
if it's its or it's
if setting the book down like that will ruin its spine
if you miss the latest webcomic update
if you aren't that good at a hobby
if it's macrobiotic yogurt
Or if you're the fully-actualised human being your therapist says you're capable of being.

Because instead of all that, you care about being alive.

And you don't have to feel guilty for being unhappy when you're supposed to be happy.

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Submitted: December 27, 2008
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by ~Elle-Oh-Elle, Dec 27, 2008, 9:34:17 PM
Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

[This poem has been removed as it lacks the emotional and verbal depth to be a real poem.

When submitting please remember that a real poet is an outcast and eccentric, with real emotional trauma, and lacking these qualities nothing the submitter writes can ever be considered a poem.
If you wish to re-submit your work, please follow these guidelines:

  -o-  Please remove all instances of self-depreciation and any words that clearly allude to pain. These are "emo" and therefore not real poetry.

  -o-  Please do not write about love if under the age of twenty-one, as an adolescent obviously knows nothing about such an adult emotion.

  -o-  Please do not use common place words, nor anything too obscure. A real poet will know which words are permeable.

  -o-  Please do not write poetry about the fictional media- it is not real enough to provoke deep emotion.

  -o-  Please do not write poetry about real news- anyone with time to write a poem about it couldn't possibly understand what they are writing about.

  -o-  Please do not write poetry that cannot be related to every person who reads it- these people are your audience, and you must please them all, whether you've ever met any of them or not.

  -o-  Please do not write controversial poetry- this is a medium of self-expression-as-long-as-it's-politically-correct.

  -o-  Please do not write bad poetry. Any cases of bad poetry are obviously intentional, as anyone who writes poetry must have natural flair for the medium, and every poem submitted is clearly the result of weeks of careful writing, not a spontaneous attempt at self-expression.

  -o-  Please remember that any person who reads your poetry suddenly knows everything about you, and therefore their comment -be it critique, compliment, or verbal abuse- must be taken to heart. If they've taken the time to express their opinion, who are you to disagree?

We hope these simple to follow guidelines will help your next work reach a level we consider worthy of our notice.

Thank you for your time.]

This poem has been removed.by ~Elle-Oh-Elle

Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

I didn't realise this needed saying, but SATIRE SATIRE SATIRE THIS IS OBVIOUS.

--

This is not directed at deviantART staff, this is directed at a small number of the people who comment on poetry.

I actually wrote a poem, and deleted it, then wrote this on the same document. This wasn't how I thought it would turn out, but I like it none the less. Better than the poem it covers, at any rate.

Edit: changed the category since the available categories changed since I first posted this.

Daily Deviation

Given 2010-11-30

This poem has been removed. by ~Elle-Oh-Elle is a short, satirical and amusing guide that, as the suggester says, many veteran poets may wish to show to beginners. The suggester wonders, though: "I mean, what else is there to write about?" ( Suggested by ~twelvedaysofjune and Featured by !GwenavhyeurAnastasia )

~ponyfagg Mar 14, 2013 New member Hobbyist Digital Artist

Always those people who can't see satire/sarcasm/sardonicism.
No matter HOW blatantly sarcastic you are, even if you literally dont spell ANY words right to emphasize it, or just how obvious it is, people ALWAYS fail to see it.

~Elle-Oh-Elle Mar 14, 2013

Yepyep. It got... tiresome.

~razielalucard Sep 30, 2012

This was nice, I like it it made me smile ... so much so I had to share it

~Elle-Oh-Elle Sep 30, 2012

Thanks very much! I'm glad you enjoyed it!

~Serendipity0039 Jul 5, 2012 Student Writer

I find it beyond amusing the vast numbers of fools that took this seriously. There really is a need for a sarcasam font or something.

I think this piece is genius, it always brightens my day when i find someone who has the same opinions as me. Poetry by no means should be placed in a box like so, and judged by these 'rules'. Poetry is self expression, and no one can put chains on that.

~Elle-Oh-Elle Jul 5, 2012

Thanks very much, I'm glad you enjoyed it!

And there is totally a need for sarcasm font. There wasn't a vast number, but it each one was ridiculously annoying (I'm just touchy

) and I'd been wanting to change the artist's comments for ages so when I suddenly could, all my angry just sort of exploded.

*Hama-Girl Jun 7, 2012 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Yes it's obvious that this is satire- but yet I disagree with this:

-o- Please do not write about love if under the age of twenty-one, as an adolescent obviously knows nothing about such an adult emotion.

People used to marry below the age of 21! If I'm an adult at age 18, then there is no reason why I should not be able to feel love. I am nineteen and I am in love- who has the right to tell anyone they are not in love? I can understand if they've been with their partner a week and are all 'I love you so much!'- but what about when you've been with someone over a year, despite whether you are below the age of 21 or not? Am I still denied the right of being able to state myself in love? Or am I qualified?

~Elle-Oh-Elle Jun 7, 2012

Um, I disagree with all of them. That's the point.

That said, people used to (and in some countries still can) marry at 12, love has nothing to do with marriage.

~ponyfagg Mar 14, 2013 New member Hobbyist Digital Artist

Even after you emphasize its satire, they still argue...

~OriginBillionth May 5, 2012

Good ideas for good poetry. Even though it is a satire, it is quite true!

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