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About Literature / Artist could kill you with her brain.Female/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
Dowry
I will not cook for you.  It is both
lack of interest an lack of talent because
my Southern mother gave me
strong white teeth
Yes sir no ma’am,
and grandma’s pearls, but not
the family lust for spatulas
and Mix well.
So no,
I will not cook (for lack of trying
I assure you.)
But for you, I will singe fingertips
on dishwasher hot plates and
rinse saucepans and
most likely call for takeout.
The dog will live unwalked if he
is left to my devices.
The tulips from that garden shop
by your parents’ house will never have
the cool, wet courage to kiss up towards sun.
And the sheets on our bed will stay unmade
and wild in knots.
So our dog will be a rolling caricature,
our garden a mass of whatever it has
dreamed itself to be, and our bed
will always keep on hand
the memories of our
bodies and how
we lay just
so.
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:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 3 13
Literature
Whom it May Concern
Dear Sir,
I apologize, but today, your
body was les than my own moribund car—smaller
than cylinders and spokes and a rusting hood.
You were smaller than the car before me, sir, particularly the
front right tire.
We met in a compact moment and sir, you
loomed before me and you were all
legs and arms—windmills—and fur the
color my mother would stain her hair.
Your eyes were scorched at the edges with that dark desperate fear-smell and
sir, I left my car stalling on the road to
dive my glass-bone body deep into the
dark dark ports of your eyes
so that my fingers fit into your bark worn fingers and
my legs fit into your spring coil legs—
so that my body grew from your wet
nose down into the warm bush of your tail—but
sir, once I had passed over, your windmills
were limp and eyes open, pressed to asphalt, and
even though I wanted to stop, sir, and
turn, sir, and
hurry hot feet over the sunbathing blacktop to close your eyes with the
cool fingers of a lover, sir, I
p
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:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 11
Literature
In Memoriam
Today, I learned how to cling for life to a drowning person.  To a whole group of drowning people, really, that moved in one great herd.  It makes sense, perhaps, to consider that as you lose that slick balance in the ocean, as your feet slip from that thin platform that was shaky-at-best in the first place, you reach out for someone not to be saved, but to know at least that they feel the same way.  That you may look in their eyes and see yourself reflected.  We are all off the same boat, all huddled in one place with our fingers wrung together in knots as the water fills us up, up, up.
The first thing is to bring food.  Pizza, water, granola bars, rolled out on carts and pushed at us.  Here, they say.  This will help.  I feel nauseas and say no.  Within hours the almighty mothers arrive, bearing trays of cookies and cookies and cookies like frankincense in their arms.  
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Literature
How Your Life Will Change
One day, you will see a picture of
you, and your hair will look the same
as it does now, but the remarkable
thing will be that you will be wearing the
same shirt as the Old-You still and silent in
the frame.  But it will not be YOU as of NOW and
the two of you will be separate,
as if passing on the street, you might
spark recognition at an acquaintance face
without a name to complete, exchange
pleasantries, and then pass on to the respective
destinations and lives that, statistically,
perhaps won’t meet again like holy palmers.
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Literature
How to Write About Love
I was 8 pounds born
and the nurse called me,
in red skin, wrinkles, screams,
the beautiful one.
I rode my bicycle
sans-training wheels
through the wide open cul-de-sac
and into a basketball pole.
I failed my first test in Junior year.
I made a cross-country journey
to a new land and
made my first friend
three long years later.
I read Redwall under the monkey bars
and learned about words.
When I moved my hands, the
music moved.
I conducted a band,
I conducted my family,
I wept from the beauty of it all.
I burned brownies and still
cannot cook.
I ate lunch in the bathrooms in
middle school.
My best friend saved me and is now
saving the world.
The clean, orderly scars on my
forearms
hips
legs
have turned white in the sun
during hard work, sweaty work that
made me ache, a good ache.
I once pushed my toddler brother
into the deep-end.
I have learned humility.
My pet turtle, Shelly, laid five eggs
and ate them.
I was a slave to retail America, stocking yarn and puff paint.  I sweat
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Mature content
Of Love and Lust :iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 6
Literature
The Mohawk Diatribe
Most nights, we were ourselves.  We were the Strangers of the Western World, those playboys that would roost on fence posts and wait and watch for passerby.  We watched for a passing action to follow and trail like vultures hunting something past dead and stumbling.  And The Man would see us there, see the reflections of streetlights tattooed in our eyes, and chase us away out of sight and out of mind.  We ran to run.  Not to get away, but to feel wind, to get out of breath and heave in air with our backs pressed against the ground.
There is nothing expected of you once you have lived to a certain age.  When you’re young, they want you to listen, and when you’re old, they want you to work.  At our age, they know that we don’t do either of these, so they don’t ask much.  They only warn against those hush-hush things that go on behind the doors, things like drugs and sex, but we aren’
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Literature
In Passing
The scariest thing about seeing Myra Banks a few weeks after was that when she looked at me in the face and I looked at her in the eyes, I didn’t recognize her and she didn’t know who I was.  She looked at me with eyes-that-were-not-eyes, more like those globular fishbowls that I would keep betas in on my dresser.  Hers were green, and when they touched up to the skin of my features I knew that she was seeing me and not seeing me and I suddenly remembered the time that my little brother put green food dye in the fishbowls to keep Barry Beta from getting pinched on St. Patrick’s day and the next morning he was floating at the top.  This is what her eyes made me think of: the dark green of the water and the dark, glass-boned stillness of Barry’s body curled into the flat surface.
“Myra,” I said, and had to reach out a hand and grab her sleeve because she didn’t hear and didn’t stop.  “Hold on, Myra.
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Literature
PROSE What Spies Do
My dad is a rock.  He is solid, he is powerful.  He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder.  He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion.  He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience.  He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show.  He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.
“He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lips through the steam of her hot dinner plate.
My brother pushed a floret of broccoli with his fork.  “Can’t we just start without him?”
“Absolutely not.”  She frowned.  “God help us if we become one of those families that never eats together.  It’s an important part of your childhood, and so ma
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:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 288 101
Literature
Immigrant's Guide to Colorado
I was promised horses.  I remember this distinctly.
My dad knew as well as I that moving isn’t easy, especially to a place so very far away, so he would cushion it with promises such as these.  Thoughts of horses and mountain ranches made the process of tearing away from my homeland all that more bearable, so I complied.  My visions were of a log cabin situated on the hips of the foothills, with gentle mares that would lean their heads in my window in the heat of summer mornings.  Of dirt roads and tractors, of cattle and barbed wire.  But mostly horses, of course.
Colorado is not all horses and ranches.  Our house turned out to squat in a quiet patch of suburb that seems a subtle copy of the very neighborhood from which I had come.  It is a pale ivory and not made of logs, and the grass lives in trim, green patches like quilt squares, not in long stalks that whisper to my elbows.  And the mountains?
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Literature
Maps
You told me that you couldn’t find the map, and I looked breathlessly on.  I forced the worry, the doubt, the fear into every pore of my face and looked you in the eyes.  Stop kidding around, I said.  It’s not funny, I said.  But it’s really gone, you said.  I don’t have any idea where we are, you said.
We spent the next week wandering around, over and under rocks, in circles around the trunks of ancient trees that whispered truths into the wind.  We lost ourselves in the creases that mountains make and learned that water from the stream doesn’t kill, but tastes like ice and freshness.  We found that those big red berries hold some close relation to ipecac, and that the blue ones taste like dry lemons but stay down.  We only figured out how to make a fire one night, but we danced around it and shook our dirty faces in defiance of the clean and open sky.
You found that wounded rabbit
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Literature
Leaving Ian
My Dearest Ian,
I left you because I didn’t know how to talk to you.
I would try to have a conversation, and you’d get that look in your eyes that put you off in a world of your own machinations, and I was stuck there with the thin shell of you.  It’s hard to talk to shells.  When I would ask you if you were all right, you always said you were.  No matter what the case.   Even if you were sick and coughing up your lung or something.  I had this terrible nightmare once that you were in a car accident and I ran to you to find the bottom part of you flung across the intersection, and your torso draped like wet towels across your seat and you told me that you were feeling fine.  Some days, I would look in your eyes and everything in your world was breaking and melting and sliding down into a great, terrible heap at the base of you that made your feet heavy.  But you wouldn’t tell me.  I
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Literature
Love Song of the Other Half
You said you had defined yourself
In the crooks of my elbows, in the angle of my nose.
I looked in the mirror and found the curves of me
To be very much my own.
. . .
I would catch your eyes from across a room,
Across an ocean and beyond a beach,
And hold them there for precious, fragile seconds
In a dire reluctance to move
Lest my return be skewed, construed as something
More than coffeepots or the metal feet of desks.
. . .
Burn pictures of me now as the fog rolls in on mouse feet
Pray to God and science that they can lead you
Drag you
To a warmer paradise
Because my curves are not for you, dear.
My self is not for you.
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Literature
Licking Off Light
I was surprised to find that you were afraid of the dark.  You of all people should have nothing to fear in it.  But then again, I too was once aware of the eyes and teeth and hulking spines that could press into shadows.  I have heard their slitherings, I have heard the gnashings of their teeth.  I grew out of these things, and there was a day where I realized that they did not belong with me, like that day I found that I could touch my toes to the ground as I dangled from monkey bars.
You never did.
Every night at eight, when the sun was beginning to slide off the expanse of the sky, you would turn on that one lightbulb, sitting like a final tooth in its socket on your desk.  It was harsh and painful to the skin of my eyes.  You would keep boxes of fresh bulbs under the sink.
One day, in your absence, I took the silken scarf from my head and laid it over the bulb.  When you flicked the switch on, you realized what
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Literature
The Dark People of Sao Tome
The dark people of Sao Tome with knotted muscles were told not to fly
By science, and a God that poked his head through the blue above.
There were dangers untold in the sunken underbellies of clouds
And none to wait with opened arms when they lost their hold on air.
They complied.
But things stirred, ever full and rich with truth
In the depths and canyons of their minds.
A weathered woman, old as rocks and water,
Would sometimes steal a moment or two to dream, to remember.
The passing days and months turned these moments into many hours.
One boy, young as sunrises, would place a foot in their air
And then the other, just to know that he could.
The passing days and months moved on to see him walking home
On the air, all the way.
By the light of moon, a youth who had much to learn of the world
But knew every secret of earth and sky
Would climb to the spindly, flexing tips of trees, and leap into chilled air.
He would slow himself, stop himself before he touched ground to hang there,
Susp
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Literature
Gloves
As I aged, the days leading up to and out of the sickness stayed clear and smooth in my mind, as if dipped in glass and set upon my desk to remind me whenever I passed.  I remember there being some calm, scientific hubbub in a lab somewhere, then warnings spread thin and sparse across radios and walls.  It wasn’t until mom got sick that anything began to feel threatening, and it wasn’t until they ran out of room in the graveyards that it began to sink in.  We drove her body all over town, trying to find somewhere clean and good to take her, but eventually brought her back home.  I dug the grave.  It was deep, with beautiful, straight sides.  I looked up once to see Kyla watching me from the window.
“Hey, get down here!  I need help!”  As I spoke, it was difficult to ignore the pressing urge to cry.  If I stayed silent, I could beat it.
“I can’t,” she said, and it
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Random Favourites

Literature
rain love
So rain is falling outside.
And with every little dot of water.
You miss that one person a little more.
[drop, splash, puddle.]
It's one of those times when,
if you could actually gather all the thoughts you were having,
you'd feel profound.
Just because you're finally happy enough to care about what you're thinking.
[drop.]
You look out the window and you could have sworn
those puddles weren't heart-shaped.
Five seconds ago they weren't, I know it, you say.
Then all those puddles overflow at once, and fill up again.
[splash.]
So does your heart.
Every five seconds.
And it's been, what, seven hours since you saw that person.
The one you're willing to love forever, even if it's not logical.
Even if you're not going to be loved back.
The puddles overflow again, and fill back up.
You can't really control how you feel, can you?
Can you?
Do you really want to?
Because your shirt doesn't smell like love, but you pretend it does.
Because you have enough love inside you to fill up sixt
:iconsimplicated:simplicated
:iconsimplicated:simplicated 13 11
Literature
Come Kiss Me Rapid
Come kiss me rapid in the rain
and we can dance like spring does
in the last face of winter,
when the first shades of green
break gradual through white.
Your sugar-almond eyes were always
meant for kissing, those pursed lips
for loving and every laughter-line
creasing like age for caressing.
And I wonder - do my fingertips
fit their blueprints or do I
leave room for tears to filter through?
There were times when we were watched
from distances and laughed still;
jiving through summer, swaying into
autumn, sitting out winter. But now
there are cliff-faces in your eyes
catching the ocean breeze, crumbling
under the weight and forming jagged
pebble-tears that fall to rubble at your feet.
This is what life has made of a little you and I;
a smudge of collateral damage all frayed at the ends
so that, when I reach for you through silences, I
only touch the seams of something bigger
than these cloud-sized hands can cover.
:iconLoveShotEyes:LoveShotEyes
:iconloveshoteyes:LoveShotEyes 11 17
Literature
emotions with longer names
"Why are you holding a camera?" Her eyes flickered to look at his. She possessed no poker face—her discomfort made him smile, even now.
"I don't know," replied a disembodied voice. The sound of his words made his heart beat faster, made the memories come rushing back in some horrific nightmarish image of a carnival ride.
She displayed her white teeth to him in an awkward smile, the flashing red light reflected in her eyes. They weren't looking at the camera—they were looking at him.
"Talk to me," he said, loving to film the shape of her face in all that silence but knowing her awkward quirks.
"I don't know what to say." Her voice was quieter than normal, and scarlet stop signs were ebbing at her cheeks.
"Say anything," he commanded in a voice heavy with anticipation. His vowels were richer than a gourmet bagel caked in strawberry cheesecake cream cheese.
She bit her lip, and he could see the cartoon bubble appearing above her furrowed brow—I'm thinking.
"John Cusack," she whispe
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Chef Melanie by Aleire Chef Melanie :iconaleire:Aleire 1 4

Activity


deviantID

MsCellanea
could kill you with her brain.
Artist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: In a room, drinking tea.
Favourite genre of music: Rock, Punk, Classical, Reggaeton, Alt., Indie, Ska...
Personal Quote: To be great is to be misunderstood.
Interests
  • Listening to: The Hazards of Love (Decemberists)
  • Reading: Ann Pattchet
  • Drinking: Chai
Free at last!  Life is beautiful and full of spare time to be filled, of course, with writing.  I'm sad to report that I shall never get to really looking at all the beautiful deviations of friends and such that have piled up over the last few months, but I plan fully to be better about that in the coming months.  But I have some recent poetry I'll toss up her as well.  Lovely.

Most importantly, and on a complete random lark, are there any college deviants out there that will be/ are attending Colby College in Maine this fall?  I'll be a freshman, and would love to meet some friends.  Hope to meet you!

Friends

Comments


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:iconamberlouie:
Amberlouie Featured By Owner May 10, 2010  Professional Writer
[link]

Love and enter poetry! :D pleasee :heart:
Reply
:iconaleire:
Aleire Featured By Owner Jun 24, 2009
So, while viewing your page I noticed that I had posted a link which had inspired a nasty comment. I couldn't remember why so I clicked it.
oops.
Reply
:iconaleire:
Aleire Featured By Owner Apr 1, 2009
Um, herro.
I think you're quite swerr.
Goodbye
Reply
:iconvindicatedstallion:
VindicatedStallion Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2009  Hobbyist General Artist
I have a problem with seeing people online and wanting to shower them with love. xD SO HI! Your writing is awesome and you have now been love showered. =3 Hope things are going well and thanks again for help in the past, it has made me a stronger person for the future.
Reply
:iconmscellanea:
MsCellanea Featured By Owner Mar 11, 2009   Writer
Oh, well thank you ever so much! And I'm glad to hear you're doing well-- I knew that you'd end up stronger for it all. :)
Reply
:iconvindicatedstallion:
VindicatedStallion Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2009  Hobbyist General Artist
Haha. All thanks to you of course. ^^
Reply
:iconaleire:
Aleire Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2009
Reply
:iconmscellanea:
MsCellanea Featured By Owner Mar 11, 2009   Writer
WHORE.
Reply
:iconaleire:
Aleire Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2009
Even though you ended our relationship in government today I thought I would use this wall, thing, in order to profess my (now unrequited) love to you, my history buddy.

No pictures this time?! For real?! I am so proud :P

DO WE HAVE A TEST TODAY?!
Reply
:iconmokokacho:
mokokacho Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2009
I've already called you, but I still think you should know that I love you too much, and I'm so, so proud of you. You are truly inspiring. Gotcher neck.
Reply
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