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Literature
Down The Stairs
The sun was setting on the lake and scattered its last rays through Dennis' large kitchen windows. We were sitting at his table: my mother, his mother, Lena, and his sister, Linda. The kettle whistled and Dennis retrieved it and poured the boiling water into the clear-glass tea pot. We all watched as the jasmine flowers relaxed and unravelled into the water.
Lena was telling us her stories. So much change has passed over her tired eyes, and yet they were still twinkling at me as she told her tales. Her memory was bursting with images, names and details in some places, yet absent and vague in others.
She was born in the 1920s. She talked a lot about the one room schoolhouse where she was educated and the farm she grew up on. She talked about a medicinal ointment called balm of giliad she made from buds collected from a tree. The tincture reminded Lena about Dr. Cevick. She had a lot to say about him. She was one of his many patients in Halifax in the 50s and she took Linda and Dennis to
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 1 0
Literature
the voice of a dream
There is a voice that speaks to us in dreams. The voice speaks in the many senses, overwhelmed by the drug that makes all dreams reality. The reverberations float, echoes inside our perceptions of self, the hollow where we feel each vibration.
Every surface of the sound that touches us here has an undeniable texture; the smooth and the grainy; the fuzzy and the slimy; the silky and the itchy; the slippery and the sticky; the dry and the wet; the sting of heat and the burn of ice.
This sensational music is never forgotten in the theatre of your unconscious mind. The song reveals the sensations, dancing to truth's rhythm, upstaging every costumed impression in the house. Naked, wild truths with dreads, flail long nails and shake their shaggy heads; truths without makeup or mirrors, brushes of shearers, without clothes or shoes; truths without toilet paper or shovels, soap or towels. These truths don't wear glasses, or hats, or even sunscreen.
There are truths that can't be blinded by any
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 1 1
Literature
the gift
secrets are perhaps the most priceless valuable. they can be auctioned for a remarkable sum. though they are completely intangible, they can mean more than anything in each person's world. even the loudest of mouths choose to leave some thoughts unspoken.
but thought itself tells all. an infinitely detailed excerpt flashes through a mind, the burp of an instant in time forces its way up. the gas cannot be pushed back down. it can be covered, concealed, quieted. but a relentlessly dedicated observor will notice everything.
i am the relentless observor. this is my life, this is what i am alive to do. to live and to perceive. the only action i am committed to is my own personal growth. i never leave my place but slowly i am changing. the lives moving around me have little time to notice; they are changing as well. i watch them changing, always knowing, even before they know, who they will grow to be.
i am infinitely aware of my surroundings, immediate and distant. i am omniscient and omni
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 2
Literature
trespassion
Day Three (August 12th, Winnipeg)
The guy at the HI in Winnipeg gave us good directions to the stop for the bus that would take us to the perimeter highway around Winnipeg.  We walked for a while until we passed a set of traffic lights.  We put our thumbs out to catch the streams coming through at regular intervals.
A sports car pulled up and rolled down its window.  We started scrambling for our bags, but then thought better of it.
"Where are you going?" asked one of the young guys inside.
"BC," said Damien.
"Good luck," he said, laughing in our faces.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"The go kart place just up the highway," he replied.
"Oh," I said to the dust he left behind.
About twenty minutes later, a pick up truck pulled up.  In the front seat was a middle-aged farming couple.  We asked where they were going.
"Portage la Prairie," he said.
I wondered where that was.
The driver drove quickly, passing a lot of cars.  Soon
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 1 5
Mature content
the union gospel :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 6
Literature
cut off corners
The dawn sunlight had barely peaked out over the asphalt and grass that November morning in Vancouver.  She hurried along behind the casually yet quickly driven Jay, the junkie.  They headed up Hastings, toward 'the drive' She was staying on, Commercial.  Jay was twenty-nine and no more than five foot three.  He had the petite and malnourished heroine body that is to be expected in any potential junkie.  His large brown eyes and soft, faintly freckled features almost gave him the appearance of a lost little boy.  Even so, there was something in his face that implied exhaustion; the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and the shadows beneath them.  There was something in his eyes that She could know but not recognize; feel but not define.
She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.  When She first met him She was afraid of him, but now She was more at ease; hiding behind some strategy She was only beginning to develop.  Jay had this air of superiority about him; the kind of insi
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 5
Mature content
ode to the hand that reaches.. :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 7
Literature
escape from the repository
escape from the repository
I.
these days, it has been decided
that it is easier to mass produce
'emphatic' emotion
much more  e c o n o m i c
to domesticate devotion.
to cultivate it in factory 'farms'.
these plants are metallic leeches;
clinging as the sucker reaches
every branch a choke chain
growing to restrain.
what is left of nature's seeds
lingers only as weeds
in darkness it blooms
in shadow it looms
the intelligence we trust
steel teeth shining sharp with lust.
we let the machines do the moving:
energetic engines; motivational motors
relying on the conveyor
belts fastened around the waste
constraining our guts.
this is where they modify moods:
where moments are manufactured;
sentiments synthesized;
where reverence is refined
and candor canned.
they fabricate fallacy in this facility:
robotic romance with unassembled affections
delivered detached with distinct directions.
they brew and bottle beliefs; artificial attitudes
full of the flavour of flattery. they prepare
these prete
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 1 1
vanishing by dystopian-dream-girl vanishing :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 3 dubiety by dystopian-dream-girl dubiety :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 1 nadir by dystopian-dream-girl nadir :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 1 abrupt affluence by dystopian-dream-girl abrupt affluence :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 2 4 lost souls by dystopian-dream-girl lost souls :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 0 the ugly duckling by dystopian-dream-girl the ugly duckling :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 0
Literature
eden's idea garden
once there was a man and a woman
who lived in a beautiful world of objectivity
where ripe red ideas still flourish on every branch
the most perfect of apples dangle here
untouched by the subjective interpretation
of a million hands' misunderstanding
in this place, every apple is the same
because all objects in this place are made
from the same perfect image, an independent
form, safe from disease and doubt
to live here, every form exchanges
ambivalence for absolute; choice for certainty
there need be no more than one man, one woman
because without freedom every human is the same
the creator designed these two humans
in his most perfect image, to live
in his utopian dream world
the man and woman were happy
to witness the intricate intimacy
of their beloved creator.  to live the life
that only a perfect being could live
but they began to grow weary
of him standing behind them
using his arms as their own
carrying out his decisions
-even though he did know best-
omniscience meant nothing t
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl
:icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 4
memories of the vortex by dystopian-dream-girl memories of the vortex :icondystopian-dream-girl:dystopian-dream-girl 0 2

Favourites

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Literature
The Charles Anderson Bridge
One day I will go to her
          feet uprooted and covered in loam,
without my body
                              bloated
like it was in the spring
when she shivvered
          under my buckeye tree
and threw seeds at passing cars.
She used to think that she could see
          her shadow from that bridge
                    when I walked with her at 1am,
                    cast onto the
                 
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Literature
Kyle and the Street
I Wrote a Poem for You (22/07/05)
______________________
Kyle ran to the street.
He stuck his foot in the sewer.
When a fish bit it off,
he didn't bother to run away.
He instead caught the fish and crucified it in an oven.
Vokial the Death Knight (27/07/05)
_______________________
If this was the story of my life,
the last sentence
    of the last page
          of the last chapter would read,
Everyone wants to do Todd.
And the first page,
you can damn well guess
would read,
This is not Todd's story.
This Represents the Blood of My People (16/10/05)
_______________________
[and Somalian refugees.
{A seven metre ball.}]
A tyrannosaurus escapism
on the hill behind my house,
where I was catching leaves blowing off the trees
and disappointed that my socks were wet.
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Literature
9 2 5
As a young entrepreneur
my brother and I
we had a lemonade stand.
As an adult entrenpreneur
I worked in a maze of cubicles
for so many years caught up in the paperwork
and the jazz beat out on symbals
to the sound of selling
with shiny black shoes
and drooling silky neckties
and sexy secretaries
and full-service gas stations
salad hold-dressing,
pasta hold-sauce...
At lunch today I bought a canned lemonade
out of the elevator I walked through the bustling
carpeted labrynth
folders under arms
plump people with wholesome smiles
probably good for nothing--
and too much makeup
and too much perfume.
...And close my office door
and drink it at my desk.
Opened the blinds, sun peaked through.
Turned on the air conditioning
and the wind blew.
Drank a drink of lemon sting
and could almost hear
cars still going by,
112 stories below.
Clouds pass this office daily
and store more wisdom than me.
It rained down my throat--
as lemon juice.
I am still a little boy
still at the side of the road
and neg
:iconolpha:olpha
:iconolpha:olpha 1 6

Activity


deviantID

dystopian-dream-girl
dead meat
Canada
Current Residence: nowhere in particular
Operating System: the available truth
Shell of choice: pain (the breaking of that which encloses your understanding)
Wallpaper of choice: there are no walls to paper.
Skin of choice: thick
Interests
i don't want you to read a word of any of this.  i don't really want to myself, but i need to know these words are still written somewhere for me if i change my mind, if i want the painful recollection of who i used to be.

in the mean time, i'm too lazy to even drag my bones out of view to rot in privacy.

Comments


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:iconcustard9:
custard9 Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2014
who is it?
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:iconcustard9:
custard9 Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2014
YOE
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:iconaaly:
Aaly Featured By Owner May 28, 2011
Hey Hey 'Tis been a while :D
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:icondystopian-dream-girl:
ratfink! [link]
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:iconjustb:
justb Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2009   Writer
yeah
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:iconjustb:
justb Featured By Owner Nov 23, 2009   Writer
how's it going?
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:iconolpha:
olpha Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2009
hello Sheeeila ... I'm back in Utterson ... I miss us :)
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:iconolpha:
olpha Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2009
hello Sheeeila ... I'm back in Utterson ... I miss us :)
Reply
:iconautomaticgretel:
AutomaticGretel Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2008
I read your writings months ago and forgot your name, but now I've found you. Your words make me sleepy and make me think and have echoed in my head ever since I read them. Bravo.
Reply
:iconolpha:
olpha Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2008
....why not posting haven't you the story previously wrote by you?? In reading I enjoy certainly...It.
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