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Deviant for 7 Years
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Wolf in the teacup.
Dark, fevered creature's boiling.
The skylight crashes.


Their mascara runs,
Sweet youths, the cusp of thirteen.
The sulking roses.


The darkness whistles.
Candles and constellations.
A party for ghosts.


Paris in August.
J'adore faire la promenade!
Your kiss: old city.
8/25/16 GH.
Your breath remembers
dancing backwards,
old steps, sliding up
and barely leaving ground.

The lungs kicking.
You're tuning back,
tripping hard and twisting soft
to that song. 

The night is not for looking back.
You're tuned in, everything still.

And we are novel like this.
Novices at this. These naive
breaths skip and shake hands.
Quiet children, what are you thinking?

Trust is an odd grace. Everyone watching.

Familiar song.
Simple dance.
We are turning,
stepping aside,
inside the fog is holding,

we are pushing forward.

We are learning
walls aren't for leaning.

The mist is holding.
Your breath is moving to go.

Inside everyone's watching.
Outside everyone's

Grace is a strange trust.

The night is not for looking back.
GH 8/25/16 
square circle
square circle
square circle
square circle
square circle

Big in Yellow. East.
Roll back like a block.

One! Two! Three! / One! Two! Three!

The wheels on the bus. South. Two drive.

White Purse Like A Cloud:
"It's a really good sign that your dreams--
everything's going the right direction."

Children! Pigeons! Wing song.
"BYE JORDAN!" Antistrophe, --"Bye."

Shy-eyed Iris, hiding from the white paper, like a mirror. Why are you afraid of my son's reflection?
Look away. The dark park hides its heart from you.


Yellow south.

Silver screams into the East. To the lake.

White cloud:

White Purse Like A Cloud:
"August 19th he's done?"

White.sheer.shirt walks. South.

(Thursday, 14th of July, 1:35 PM) ...

White Purse Like A Cloud:
"Wow. That's insane.
Wow. I can't believe
he's actually doing it. It's
insane. Yeah.

That's good. Yeah.



Red. West.

White Purse Like A Cloud:



White Purse Like A Cloud:
That's good.

I'm glad.

M/CA. Thursday.
7/14/16 1:35pm. Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago.
Fighting with an orphan this morning,
kiss-or-kill inner-kid kicking cans across heartstring alleyways,
knocking his little tin Campbells drum set-- cackling like a cowbell
against the unpaved gravel-tongued streetway--
there under the jaundice-compassioned lamplight,

metal sobbing and crashing into the fast-talking cross-examined highway.

And the light plays harder and harder,
blood leaks beyond the cheeks, his nose glows pink.
Skin like paper, always kissing the plain air.
The heartstring alleyway exhaled dirt like cigarette smoke,
marking chins like warpaint,

neither freckles nor fractures here.

Rubber tires are unsentimental but sensitive.
They hate being interrupted.
They have no time for tin cans.
This kid might pop a tire in my brain someday lately.
Metal on metal on metal on metal.
Unsentimental but sensitive.

An airplane scrawls some calcified, untutored letter--
some otherworldly sigil-- on the cerulean-slated atmosphere.

Out there.
In here.

Kiss-or-kill just wants to play.

The heartstring alley is empty,
and the cross-examined highway is sprinting.
Coming or going, it's always running away.

Kiss-or-kill fought like an orphan today.
There was once a dream of me--all 3D,
a thing protected--
dust held within the light projected.

I was something shifting, sifting through the drifts within the wind,
caught within their rifts so thin.

I awake-- a faraway Meanwhile-- 
my phantom-dusted self caught anew within some holocaust--
black and white--
now just a font upon the shelf.

Someone won, someone lost,
caught in the printed RGB & Key holocaust.
There was a dream of me, all 3D,

a thing protected.
These dimmer dimensions once seemed so thrilling--
no fear of death or killing--
but life was never a thing expected.

I was dust caught in the light projected.
12.10.15 gh.


United States
I'm excited to say that I'm back. I've been busy taking care of adult life and feel like I have neglected my writing and my page and all the great work that's been going on through NaPoWriMo up until now. I have sheaves of everyone's work to read through and enjoy, so don't be surprised if you receive a random flush of faves from me. Or be surprised; go for broke and be shameless in your delighted alarm. Or don't: I'm not the boss of you.

And I HAVE been reading through a lot of great work. I am constantly so impressed by everyone's ability to create and develop new work and ideas. The virtue of this site (and what consistently feeds my fire) is that it has the potential to create brand new styles and movements of literature in a time when classic forms become rote and stale. This is a beautiful little crucible, where a single idea or word or turn of phrase can become a catalyst for a brand new way of thinking about communicating and communing with the public. Literature is evolving with and adapting to suit a new, technological canvas and a fresh generation of minds that have never known a world without an intimate relationship without computers and highly sensitive technologies. I have seen my own style develop overnight because I have a screen in front of me instead of a sheet of paper. And although I still write some things in longhand, writing with lightning at my fingertips has shown me new thoughts and avenues of my imagination that would otherwise lie dormant.

I've been fortunate enough to be a contributor to the group GlitchLit, which is a great forum for creating and exploring the human condition and the human's relationship with communication in a digital age. Humans are fallible in ways this technology is not. I think this seemingly infallible medium exposes our humanity as well-- if not better-- than a page because of its superhuman efficiency and odd fragility. As the global community becomes smaller and better connected, zeros and ones become our new, global phonemes. Our digital data can last theoretically longer than in notebooks and can connect with anyone whose mind is on a similar wavelength.

Our languages begin to mix and divide again and again. New symbols come into play. Code becomes earthy and Earthly. But technology is more fallible than we are in profound ways. I'm passionate about GlitchLit, because it builds the bridges that future generations of poets will look to as technology brings us closer together. It sets the precedent for a new frontier. It allows us to make messes without getting our hands dirty, which is, in my opinion, crucial to the creative process. Being bold, making mistakes on purpose, exploration, experimentation, and making madness for the sake of new methods, PLAY, is mandatory for me. Many will disagree, and I hope they do.

I can understand how I may be alone. Art, and especially poetry, is diffuse by nature. You like what you like and create what you know. But I want to spread the word about this groovy poetry sandbox where you can build a castle or a mud pie or sling a little muck or dig to China with a rusty soup can if the spirit moved you, and the process and product will be supported in equal measure. The currency is respect and a sense of adventure. So, if I have not bored you with pontification this far, I hope you feel invited to share your tech-happy poetry or experimental work with GlitchLit. This is my one shameless plug for something that I am quite passionate about, and I hope you join in the fun.

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Add a Comment:
spoems Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2015   Writer
Thanks for the support. 
50ftBuddha Featured By Owner Nov 27, 2015
Thank you so very much for the watch Frito.
nawkaman Featured By Owner Nov 25, 2015
thank you kindly for the fave-y faves and other self-descriptive things. like burger meat. or text message.

ahem. thanks.
siren-crypt Featured By Owner Nov 22, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for adding me to your watchlist. <3
SheDares Featured By Owner Jul 7, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the favs :heart:

Eins, cinco, treize, twelveMais je suis trop triste,
trop désolée pour
cette monde de
we ran for all we were worth                  
[ M I S T A K E S ]
                   but it was never enough
Y no hay fuerza...
¿Para qué propósito me llaman
una chica buena cuando
soy un desastre?
we screamed until our throats were raw                 
[ B U R R I E D ]
                   but it was never enough
Und ich habe meine Glück geficken.
Dieses Scheiße ist
we dug until our fingers bled                       
[ A L I V E ]
Power lines// Maybe it's time we ran side by side //
                                         instead of logarithmically //
// forever converging yet never quite close enough to //
                                                      - t - o - u - c - h - //
// where χ^0=1 no matter what you use
                                   to mark that infamous spot of //
       // legendary treasure //
                               a marriage of ∞ //
Embracing destructionAnd we'll run with the fire
l e a p i n g   from out fingers,
licking $cArl3t, aMb3r,
g01d as the sunset
over a city turned to ash,
the rubble of a once stable mind,
marble pillars reduced to
ammunition veined with Nav¥
ink   w/e\a/v\i/n\g   silent curses,
cynical prayers, laughter
bordering on insanity
echoing, bouncing, ringing
clear into a desolate sky,
1v0ry fangs grinning dry humour.
                        Have I not entertained you
                        with my blades thrown at
                        closed doors and glass
                        shattered through
                        bare souls?
FritoB Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2015
SheDares Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
bedlamfornow Featured By Owner May 19, 2015   Writer
Thank you for the watch. :heart:
FritoB Featured By Owner May 19, 2015
Thank you!
Add a Comment: