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MattVoscinar on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/mattvoscinar/art/Seagull-Dream-259879054MattVoscinar

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SoundlessWhispers

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consecrate

authenticity an arsenic in morning coffee, in the smiles pressed like ironed laundry, because I feel like one wrong breath, one wrong kiss between glossed lips and soft jaws and I will be nailed to a cross deception a shame rising like steam, where teeth grind against each other like clockwork gears, tick tick ticking while the tongue kisses the roof of its cathedral like a prayer to gods yet to be named because her face is a mosaic window shining the sin out of love

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Krasis

we are but remnants of warmth, imprints of colors; time piranhas to our footpaths, our blooming forgotten in the face of a blue moon, autumnal harvest wreckage, long-necked and searching

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rememorari

I keep memory in absence though your story has a long forgotten ending I will bury my ghosts in the afterlife of moments and let effort be a windowsill to the crematorium of burdens, the echo of living the ashes of longing, a cemetery of remembrance and in your memory I find someone to stay

BlackBowfin

Literature

October's Clock

there are twelve equally doubting apostles here, each an even and radially spaced arrangement of bone, each born/unborn twice between every passing stretch of dark to light to dark and as October days shorten, a lonely gospel writes itself between the verbal tick and imagined tock of our shift toward darker hours where plagues, though netted behind membranes of dream, thrum with soft desperation awakening the dust of dead star memories settled into our soil and air and our blight writhes, aware in ribbon limbs its empty cornhusk sways on October’s breath an air of hope begun warmly enough to remind you, you're alive; now coughs cold

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This Side of the Clouds

there is soil that will never produce flowers, rain that chokes more than it quenches, and some stones, unsatisfied with being near-impenetrable, still opt to wage slow crystallized war beating back the plague of man for we are willful, but empty, a collected misdirection that lost so much more than just its way, our mineral eyes may be diamonds but the setting is loose and their cut has no character merely fluid, taking the shape of situation and its spoils we're dead as an uncelebrated christ dead like old grain in the silo vermin crawled, rot riddled awaiting a further processing we must so richly deserve, and a lick of salt and bite of

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Autumn Downward

october is a place unlike every other, in that the parts of us that die there have never left it and likely never will because the cool and damp of autumn’s dawn drives our wary roots deeper; a strange gravity pulling us heavier by simply redirecting our growth downward there is a place i carry with me everywhere i go, where the dead and living have more in common than not this is where we take where our sense of loss continues to take by simply redirecting our need to be needed downward here is where we take where a severed limb of everyone i’ve ever been still beckons, reaching outward from each end here is where we’

Suggested Collections

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interior design for broken homes

i. here in isolation, we begin the fallout. everything around us makes us pull the knives out. once i turned to you when all the world was making chaos sounds; now we run away and run our ships aground, entire days lost. what cost can be discerned of loss and lives set fire? churn my stomach into wreckage, lover. what will we have learned? ii. as the night evades, we are tyrants in our ruling places. color me so purple that the worries fall up into space. ardor isn't earned, it is the currency of loneliness. i'm spent. iii. i've spent the last three days in solitude, a quiet i can't place now that it's over; what a melody is overbearing noise! no choice stings quite like you, and no regret is louder than the truth. up on the roof, the rain gives all of us illusions: we are not what we believe to be revealed. iv. if i had to explain it— and someday i worry i will— i would first look for paper, pen, mercy. v. the blueprint of a heart is volatile; everyone knows but no one

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Prayer

the last time I was in a chapel I got a nosebleed at the start of when peace like a river I don’t get nosebleeds I took it as a sign I retreat inside my skin not because it’s safer but because I know this temple was built to withstand the burning spirit that inhabits it these windows shatterproof these walls flame resistant at home I make my own stained-glass busted mirror —pools of silver crimson-dipped fractals of my busted fist repeated my mother always said I had too much fire in me I am a fire sign after all what did she expect I contain it within myself no, I try when I open my mouth embers erupt I catch the

Literature

Rats

I’m sat here in this heat, little one, trying to find the poison. It is the thread between me and you? The thick blood in our veins, slowly killing us even as it keeps us alive? When the time comes, if I can will I? You will not thank me, little one, you do not have to. To give one’s life is one thing, reputation and honour another. Can I do the right thing in the dark, when no one will see? Or am I no better than the rest? I keep asking why this is us, little one, or if this is us at all. In the 70s the rats escaped the cage only to lock us in it.

Literature and Poetry

Literature

14. Metal Mettle

I was born with a silver tongue, Copper eyes and a gold heart. A grain of salt in my head and skin of obsidian. The silver has tarnished, But it stays slick with lies told , And untold. And retold. My lips seem bruised and discolored, poisoned by the silver within. The copper has oxidized, Turning blues and greens under the force of the salt water of my tears. And all the strife they have seen. The golden heart starts soft and pure Shining in the sunlight. But it is soft. Malleable All too soon it is dented. And pieces taken. It is better known as Fool's Gold, When it glints in the light to attract another. The grain of salt becomes a pearl that is my brain. Over time it shall mold Rolled within my cavity, an irritant until it is beholden as some fantastic beauty of nature. My skin is obsidian. Beautiful and Smooth Shattering off with any amount of force, Sharply cutting to those that try to touch me wrong. I am a treasure trove, Of precious metals and beautiful things. I may

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Making Jam

Poetry is word jam. Boil down the natural sweetness of words And add the sugar of imagery, alliteration, assonance, allusion, figure of speech, meter, and rhyme to taste.

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All's quiet in the deep

Fanged tendrils of forbidden thoughts Twisting with a purpose Squirming to be said, to be made flesh Calling from beyond the veil Moving slowly in the black still water They whisper Fears and doubts, Clouding the edges my eyes in red haze Tempting me with truths And lies. I cannot speak them The words that fester beneath the blade of my tongue Itch for a voice through which to manifest They pester to be named A venom coursing through my veined and slouching heart Daring my lips to part Stop now, cease. You are in violation. There is nothing to see here, Nothing to say. My jaw must stay still And silent Smiling and clenched Do not say the words Do not hint It is betrayal The thoughts have been waiting there forever Wearing me down, Berating patiently Do not speak of them. Their existence is anathema. I have desires I dare not say, Effervescent dreams I could throw it all away I could jump I could fly That was a metaphor That was a lie Never mind, I take it back, Watch my

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Seagull Dream

MattVoscinar

Published: Sep 24, 2011

342 Views

Description

Vivitar CV35 w/ 27mm Wide Angle Lens
35mm Film

Image size

1545x1024px 515.45 KB

Make

NORITSU KOKI

Model

EZ Controller

Comments1

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ofmonsters

Sep 24, 2011

So pretty

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