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About Deviant LenoreFemale/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
Glass
Glass
There are too many lights hurting my eyes.  Different colors flashing. Want to close them.  Want to sleep.
He's saying: ma'am, ma'am, can you hear me?  I need to you tell me what happened.  I need to you to remember and be as detailed as you can.  Someone puts a wool blaket around my shoulders and it's summer time in the desert and I want to scream but my face is numb.  The blanket is scratching at my neck.
The lights flash.  Red.  There is a small figure covered by a white sheet.  Blue.  Broken glass shimmers on the road like ice.
In the pines, in the pines...
Someone shines a flashlight into my eyes.  They place two fingers on my wrist.  Red.  There is blood soaking through the white sheet.  I feel a cold spot on my head and my fingers come away wet and slippery.  I don't want to look at them.  Blue.  I
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Literature
Gabardine
Brian likes to play detective.  He comes homedrunk and late in his gabardine business suits and looks through my drawers while I pretend to be asleep.  Last night he found a letter from an old college boyfriend of mine.  Someone I had lost touch with for years.  In the morning, he throws it down on the table in front of me and says, "you fucking whore."
Brian is cheating on me, but he doesn't know that I know, so occassionally he pulls theatrics like these.  He turns the attention to me because he feels guilty for fucking his secretary.  She's twenty-two, has C cup breasts, and a tattoo of a daisy on her right shoulder blade.  She's everything I'm not.  
I move the letter aside and go back to reading the paper without looking up.  "Listen to me when I talk to you," he says, and I flash him a smile so complacent I know it startles him.  Something crosses his face, like he's afraid I've fo
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Literature
Substance
She closed the door quietly behind herself as she reentered the apartment.  Part of her wanted to slide along the door and collapse on the concrete flooring, putting her head in her hands.  People often did that in movies when they couldn't deal with the situation outside.  But she restrained herself, and went to sit on the couch instead.  
There had been a heavy breeze on the roof of the apartment, and it had turned her long black hair into a thousand bird nests.  Her fingers got stuck in it when she tried to get the tangles out.  Wind always made her feel tangled, and when others remarked how invigorating a cool breeze could be on their cheeks, she usually said she felt like a homeless woman, or that she was stuck in Siberia.  She burrowed into the couch cushions, pulling her sweatshirt over her knees and considering how many minutes of solitude she could get away with.  
There was another full bottle of
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devID by Fancydelic devID :iconfancydelic:Fancydelic 0 1
Literature
Still
There was something super human about those people on the side of the road.  It must have been at least one hundred degrees out there in a part of the desert that can't even support most animal life.  We were on a state highway in the midst of the wasteland that is southern New Mexico, one of those perfectly straight line highways that disappears on the horizon into rolling waves of heat.  It really made you think you were heading nowhere.  Even the ranch roads ambled off into the desert with no evidence of civilization at their  end.  
All of that desolation, and yet, I had never seen so many people walking on the side of a highway.  It was a hitchhiker's nightmare, but these people weren't hitchhikers.  They plodded forward slowly but surely paying no notice to the passing cars.  A few of them had shopping carts filled with blankets, boxes, miscellaneous belongings pulled out of dumpsters and dr
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Literature
Communication Break
Public places felt safe because you always had to hold something back.  It was the only way to talk, you had to keep your head.  
He was sitting across from her, but he had decided not to be present.  His jaw was strongly set and a defensive flair of anger was in his eyes.
"Look, I don't know what you think this is, but I'm sure it doesn't warrant that look on your face," she started.  "We just haven't had a chance to talk, to really talk, in a long while.  I have a lot of things I've been wanting to say."  She paused to give him room to speak, but he stayed silent, giving a little nod: permission for her to continue. "All right," she took a deep breath.  "I know I've been kind of dropping the ball in this relationship.  I've been really screwing things up, and I know that.  I'm sorry."
He picked up a pen and started to twirl it slowly between his fingers, eyes still on the table.  
"The
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Literature
Dreams
In dreams
I can kiss you,
ask what you think of God,
where you find beauty,
follow the roads
that cross your depths.
Your hair is like it was,
falling raven black
just below your eyes.
We can touch noses
shoulder blades
or the tips of our fingers.
While I sleep
our edges are still soft,
and you are always smiling.
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Literature
Scripts
A half moon face
hangs low over the city
pocked and jaundice.
The sad period
marking the end of the night.
You are still with me
your face the mask of grotesque tragedy
and our speech
our dance of pleasantries
filling the performance space with emptiness.
Would we recognize each other
in plain clothes?
Out of character?
Would our lives
match the scripts we've written?
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Literature
This War
In this war, too,
they list the dead
in silence.
We stare blankly,
unfeeling,
trying out sympathy
and sorrow,
but the heart has been beaten
out of us—
the atrocities of humanity
shut us down
with guilt, and discouraged,
we wave it out of our lives.
We spoke out
once, and our voices
were strangled
and left quiet.  
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Literature
Please Stand Clear
The train car goes underground.  The lights flicker and the roar heightens.  We are thrust into a deafening entropy.  Across the isle a wide-eyed girl bobs her head to each new passenger's footsteps.  Her face is bleached and bony.  She has the eyes of a wild horse.
At each stop an automaton comes over the speakers.  "The doors are closing.  Please stand clear of the doors."  I close my eyes to escape the girl's stare and the train rattles on, black and bleak.
"The doors are closing.  Please stand clear of the doors."  My eyes are opened by the screams of a baby.  A mother struggles in with two little girls and the baby clasped around her neck.  She collapses into the seat next to me, sagging shopping bags surrounding her and big blue circles under her eyes.  She holds on to her girls with such determination, you might think they would vaporize.  They nestle on the floor next to her legs, among the bags.  I close my eyes.
"The doors are closing.  Please stand clear…"  An old man stumbl
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Literature
The Disappeared
He disappeared then.
His smile torn from the page
and the man next to him left solo,
face blurred like a burn victim.
He left a void.
The replacement some synthetic draw-in
or the silhouette of wildlife
and even I was impressed
by what they did with the absence of his hands.
Two expertly blurred patches
making to be sunlight.
And did they tell his mother
what messy business it was
removing him to save face?
Or why he was completely
impeccably erased?
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Literature
Return Flight
Abandoned at the airport,
stepped off the plane bereft,
in between possibilities,
wandering up and down counting gates,
waiting for my flight into Albuquerque.
Next to me a man chows down on a Big Mac.
I am sick with the culture I have been steeped in
and I long for the simplicity
of my foreign self.
I curse Europe
and my immigrant great grandmothers,
wrapped in wool and babushkas,
who brought the family here,
leaving me with these walking Styrofoam cups
pizza boxes and biggie sized drinks
that chatter past?
I look at my bony wrist
and wonder if I didn't get on the wrong plane
by mistake.
I am embarrassed by the stereotypes
flying into Albuquerque.
Cowboy boots and big turquoise necklaces.
I hope to myself that they're tourists
who don't know any better,
but they speak of the place as home.
It's time for the plane to board
and I know at that moment
that I could chose any life,
that I could disappear at the airport
and go anywhere,
but I chose the one that I already know,
the old routin
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Literature
Cottonwoods
The inches of muck on our shoes
from the dying and decayed
bogged us down.
Our lungs filled up with cotton
and burned with pollens.
Cottonwood beetles
black and white, grotesque,
dropped from branches
clicking their limbs at us, the intruders.
We ran like convicts away from the city
around obstacles of fallen logs
of twisted rusted metal
left behind by fantastic machines.
We ran until we reached the water
a sick, muddy trickle
and drank
filtering out the pollution in our bodies
with more pollution
and pretending that the water was clear.
The cotton swirled and sank in the current.
One might have thought it was snowing
but we knew better,
beads of sweat
dripping down the sides of our faces.
But by the river it was cooler
and we soaked our aching toes
staying still enough for cotton
to settle in our hair,
and we watched the sunset
spread fire over the water,
dreading the moment that nightfall
would beckon us home.
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Literature
Desolate
Falling leaves cut the wind, glinting like razors.  
The street is empty save a woman bundled
and hurrying behind her headscarf.  
A desolation in the Dickensian quarter of a rich city.
Sitting in a doorway
with nothing but a cap from laundry detergent to beg with,
a girl sits singing to herself,
and I wonder if Hell didn't just sidle up next to me
as I pass her giving nothing
knowing full well that thirty dollars
are sitting unneeded in my purse.
One old woman stifles a sob
before biting into a pear,
and everywhere the unbalanced scales of finance
scream from their straining gears.
There is no music in this city.  
Industry rings her flat bell at nine and again at five
and everyone scampers through the streets
to their garrets or their penthouses
avoiding each others eyes in case one of them slips
and spills the fruitlessness of their labor.
Hostile and hungry eyes
behind a neon vest at the cemetery
stare at my chest which no magazine
would be caught dead
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Literature
Blind
I don't see dirty streets,
I say,
or ugly people.
You shrink away from the paper cups,
the searching eyes.
You cling to your change
and say things like
"They put themselves there,
anyway."
I empty my pockets
and wish I could give more
to everyone
with a reflection of the world
in their eyes.
People are people,
I say.
Aren't you Christian?
I say.
You nod to both
reluctantly.
As the night grows later
and the fog rolls in,
your eyes soften
and your pockets open.
Little by little
I see you taking in the world,
turning it over inside yourself,
asking the right questions.
I say
trust people.
Love them.
I say
this is just the first taste
of your fellow man.
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Literature
Balance
The ring on the other end is tense.  It is screaming to be picked up, and I imagine her hand hovering indecisively above the receiver.  The automaton who has replaced her answers and asks me to leave a message.  I hang up quietly.  "Maybe she's not home," you say.
"Maybe," I repeat, but I know that there was life on the other end of the line.  It was not the sound of a phone ringing in an empty house.
You kiss me on the shoulder and give me a reassuring smile.  I have been calling her for four days, and still, there is only a machine to answer.  I have the distinct feeling that, at that very moment, I am having an affair.  You catch me gazing out of the window, brow furrowed.  "You can't do this to yourself," you say, and I say "I can't do anything else."  These are complex loyalties, I think, that you don't understand.  
"She's not going to call back tonight," you say, and lay
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Favourites

once upon a time..... by foureyes once upon a time..... :iconfoureyes:foureyes 11,633 1,187
Literature
Dead Mothers
I've been dreaming dead mothers. Night after night
I lay my head down and, instead of sleeping, dream
a woman being killed. The death is always sudden.
Either disease - a sudden onset, a quick decline - or murder
at the hands of bandits. There's no other kind of violence,
no rape or anything. Just the death of someone's mother
and then grieving.
The first night it was my boyfriend's mother. I don't
have a boyfriend, but his mother got sick of cancer
suddenly, one night, and he called me at four in the morning
to say, "Kyla, my mother's dying." And I said, "What?
How?" the way my mother says What?! when she hears bad news,
with indignation in her voice, as if daring the world to really
kill her people off like that. "Kyla, she's got cancer, she's dying."
And I said something like, "Oh Jesus," or "Oh, hon," something
American and wrong for four in the morning in Lahore,
and he just cried or was silent, I couldn't tell on the phone,
and then he said, "Can I come over?"
Of course I
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Literature
dictionary and trip to the sea
The sink is clogged with asterixes -
fool, you're supposed to rinse the kettle
before just sloshing the whole damn
pale-blue mess down.
The dishes are corroded with semicolons,
the apostrophes are spilling from
the chipped, pastel mugs.
It's all going to get caught in the filter,
anyway, he yells, the flicking of his
tin lighter like typewriter keys down the hall.
The towels are gasping, wincing,
with their wrinkled terry-cloth tongues;
when I sink into the scummy tub
for a soak later, they'll still be
whispering about his hullabulloo.
Someone with slow, accented words
is muttering about cocaine
on the radio - scrathy,
tunnel-voice - and my toenails are
lacquered red, flaking, too long
for socks. Has to be Sunday.
Pulling the filter from the oil-colored water,
there's the promise of little prayers
over whiskey for the screaming
underscores and periods caught in
the spiral;
wish I could explain the physics of
whirlpools to them for comfort;
they've lost it.
Perceive, perceive, pe
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Literature
that, and
i
he said to me he
said
if you are underwater all the time
i will have no one to
fly with
ii
i cannot wait to see the ugly people
i love them like they were my dirty little children
indeed the weather shapes them into wrinkles and folds
iii
you're the only one who knows about this.
iv
Things are wonderful
they smell like raspberries and cinnamon and vanilla and olive oil
v
I could see you screaming prepositional phrases rather than mathematical equations
vi
he said to me, he
said
if you could have gills or grow wings and fly which would you choose
and i said to him i
told him
that is the hardest question i have ever been asked
i said
that and
do you love me
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:iconjenmussari:JenMussari 26 71
Literature
Pathological, part one
Part One: Day
"She has tried to eat her hand again,"
the nurses say before I've taken off my coat.
I tell them not to bind her.
She must find out by herself
that the things we do to hurt ourselves
end only when we want them to.
I change my clothes and grow.
The sterile white imbues my voice
With firmness and authority.
Edward barges in.
He demands a pound of meat,
tender chicken, low on fat. Instead
he gets his pills.
I charge him two
imaginary coins.
He grins at me and leaves.
This is it, I think. They are happy.
No one worries, frowns, complains.
No one plans a day ahead.
I see Susan, change her dressing,
See the damage on her fingers;
she giggles:
"There's a funny cat
poking out your hair!"
I give it to her.
She names it Susan, then she vomits.
The nurses with a kidney dish.
"It is shaped like a kidney", Susan says,
Seeing the silver, not the puke.
"I glitter a little inside."
Then a discharge. Patient: stable,
no more scratching, no more screaming,
only rarely: enuresis.
"But he's
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Literature
Pathological, part two
Part Two: Night
Home,
and before I've shed my coat,
the phone complains.
"I miss you," she says,
instead of hello;
it's what we do.
Her voice is red-eyed—midnight-tired,
and I'm hardly six pm.
"Did you forget?" she asks
and wasps tickle my stomach walls.
They heat my skin.
"It's not today yet!"
"Timezones are a weak excuse."
"They're all I've got."
I count the breathing sounds she makes
And then she asks again:
Why, and for how long, and what if.
I don't bind her but find her
questions too familiar.
"We are working," she says,
and I agree. Martyrdom today
is a nine to five.
"We are working," she repeats,
"aren't we? This is working—we are..."
Her friends have told her to end
us. That this is only pain.
And they are right. But the things
we do that hurt ourselves
end only when we want them to.
And, of course, the doorbell rings, and,
of course, she gets my flowers, and, of course,
her voice cries when she reappears.
I glitter a little inside.
"We are crazy," she says, and this
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Literature
Parting
We don't have time for this, love.
These days melt away over ankles and throats
like warm milk; over shoulders and mouths
to pool in the hollows of our bodies.
Soon, the days will be bright again; bursting
with springshine and suntime, filling the expectant cups
of our hands to spill over into our emptinesses;
grass will unfurl, breaking the soil with sharp
photosynthetic spines, lapping at the air with verdant
tongues, like fog scattering against city parks.
Summer will be quick on its heels, heavy-handed with a toothy
grin, leering into the faces of every creature it embraces, leaning closely to
mouth searingly at the back of the neck, the bare collarbone; the sky
will darken late, cloaking itself in tenderly savage violets, gathering the
stars in greedy hands to swallow them and feed the pregnant moon.
Time is too narrow to be such as we are, love.
These hours pull and cling, like so much wet cloth,
hungrily stifling against the inner
thigh and lower spine; every breath
pulses, ever
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Literature
Monologue: People and Walls
(At rise: Jason is in car with four friends, hotboxing.  His speech patterns are erratic as he talks.)
JASON: I'm fine, I'm fine, shut the hell up and I'm fine.  Give me a minute and everything will stop pulsing.  Ah-haaa, hell.  Shit.  (Pause.)  Uh, is the heat natural?  I've never done this before.  The heat is natural?  (Pause.)  I feel like a damn power source.  Is the pulsing natural?  (Pause.)  The pulsing is natural.  The heat and the pulsing are natural.  You know what it's like?  Every three seconds I don't exist again, I forget what I'm made of.  Then it's like, somewhere inside me, this explosion, like Eden…it's too much power for one body.  (Pause.)  Is the pulsing going to stop?  (Pause.)  Here's what else it feels like.
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Literature
paper-thin
The following story is a work of fiction. All events and inhabitants are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or supernatural, is entirely coincidental. Take my word for it: it's all made up. Never mind what the story says.   
  
ACT I; Scene 1
This is a true story. I have recorded everything as it happened and have neither added nor removed anything.   
Curtains up!
We open upon an opened home: imagine an apartment building minus the façade, like a doll-house, its rooms exposed for the divine female from beyond to reach inside and pose its plastic inhabitants in humorous situations. We do not see the little girl playing with her little world, but we can picture her: blond, of course, and pony-tailed, immersed in her own miniature play. She breathes life into those static toys and settles their fates between luncheon and dinner.   
She is not malevolent.
Let us inspect the house again. Barbie and Ken have ne
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Mature content
Baking Through Suicide :icondeviantkupo:deviantkupo 3,449 994
Literature
Strangest Fog
Strangest fog, this illness.
Sylvia talked of tulips and white hospitals
when I was seventeen, and I thought,
"This is morose. This is what maudlin
is meant to mean. What strange
self-indulgence." And now,
I see the inside, or I saw it, once.
It's when the eyes recede into the caverns
of the mind, like cupping your hands
at your temples, except it's bone and skin,
in walls around you and the bright at the end
of the tunnel is really very white.
Strangest fog.
Walk like your body
is not your all.
Talk like a tin can kicked
down the road to sandstone,
soapstone lives you've lived, built
from the matter of your mind,
abrasive, dissolving, waterfalls of memory -
I used to hallucinate when I was younger am I still
                         hallucinating am I still younger -

Sylvia wrote hospital ice boxes
and no one ever see the day
of dead children or yellow fl
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Literature
The Woman Across
A breath sits down in me.
The woman across has breathed it,
she is sighing. A struggle is over.
"You have always been love,
through waking dreams and walking
sleeps" - but I cannot speak.
I cannot ever speak
or too many words will go down
our throats and we will choke. Words walking
the heath in my head. But I no longer breathe
wishes. There has always been love,
but it has sat down and my work is over.
What is left is nothing large, nothing overtly
valuable. Just a wish that God would speak;
and the repetitive memory of my head, down
on the floor in prayer - "Let it be a kind of love."
I'll be saying it forever. As for the little men walking
up and down my brain, men will do that; men will breathe
through your mind as if their breath
keeps you living and, when you die, turns you over
in your grave. As if their vigorous walk
was what it took for the woman across to speak
the blessing at my hanging - "Yes: a kind of love."
Men having nothing to do with what goes down
between me a
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Activity


deviantID

Fancydelic
Lenore
United States
Current Residence: Albuquerque, New Mexico
Personal Quote: Beauty and sorrow are intrisically connected.
Interests
You forget truth that lacks lyricism.

-Joanna Newsome

Comments


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:icondrwick:
DRWick Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2010  Student General Artist
Missing your work.
Reply
:iconfancydelic:
Fancydelic Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2010
: \ Still writing, but not poetry. Mostly long things that aren't post-to-the-internet appropriate.
Reply
:iconcataplasia:
cataplasia Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2007
Your 'hi' has been recieved. And will be responded to when the person in question finds the time to type the word 'hi' back. Thank you for your time. And happy holidays.
Reply
:iconthoughtdisorder:
thoughtdisorder Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2007  Student General Artist
Thanks :llama:

I like your username thing.

Albuquerque... isn't there a Weird Al song about Albuquerque? Maybe.
Reply
:icongeneratinghype:
GeneratingHype Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2007
Thank you kindly for the :+devwatch:. I really appreciate the support!
Reply
:iconrawimage:
rawimage Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2007  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks a lot for watching :aww:
Reply
:iconlulithebunny:
LuliTheBunny Featured By Owner Apr 6, 2007   Digital Artist
thanks for the fav!!! :hug:
Reply
:iconmilpalabras:
milpalabras Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2007
I like your stuff, and thanks for the watch, here's one in return. : )
Reply
:iconwolf-kin:
Wolf-kin Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2007  Professional Traditional Artist
*bounce bounce*
Thanks so much for the watch! *is very honored*
And I appreciate the comments. Something about the precision and conciseness of them. :heart:
Reply
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