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About Deviant Artist Devil's favorite sonFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 14 Years
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Literature
overcast
in wet wool wrapped up to
sunken-eyed city glass,
i dreamt tattletale grey cloudcover
or heavily, a beaten ocean
sent to the sky on swollen fists,
                a white blood thickened ground.
                wind with a warm tongue
                raises fever.
                there is some fear   
                that this sweet, ash rain
                is the Devil come to love us,
                seeing us pallid,
                pitiful sons to be sure.
                notice,
                bad habits of dirty hands
                yellowed as we drowsed and slept.
                even Paving Men lay stone-dead
                beneath collapsed hands.
                persisting folks clothe in fog,
                (developing eyelessness and creamy transparency
                within a few centuries)
                and fumble through
                unknowable crowds, wire hanger trees
                with no flesh or irregular blooms to speak of.
                indeed,
   
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Literature
March, in a procession
               our unraveling body
               Winter, luke-warm,
                is made naked too soon;
                the sun wakes quieted crickets
                to witness sticky, new breath.
but in your bones, above the heart,
you wait to cripple.
no more alive than an earthworm
tiring of the insanity of being his own wife,
perpetuating their bed.
                and not one birth but
                the vernal food of your own remains,
                our heated ghost in the risen soil.
new flesh
bathes beneath the dim, bird-fractured sky
and bones of snow numb our limbs to panic.
                we act as the skeletal earth,
                burgeoning ribs and tulip-fingered,
                for love of the bodiless and damned.
                for love,
                we are equally contrived and grotesque,
                March's liverish children
                crocus-pocked and repentent.
    
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Literature
hour of the rat
an oceanic cold staggered in
grasping his bellypain
supposing he'd likely be
             only a skinny trickle next year
and a languorous drought
to finish us off.
he looked longingly after each cigarette but
you've never seen him so faithful,
tired, industrial,  drowning out the hours
                (eastern salt makes him itch
                and eats his patience.)
i watch him
i warm as i think
we've killed so many old men
what's one more.
and this one the oldest,
glimpsing spring by winter absent
  worrying
orphaning us all
to pray in the heat.
the christ i continue in,
prejudiced, cotton-cleaved
unfolds into paler wine and ignores.
                just above the open-air city
                in guilt, we lost all of it:
                the ocean's chill,
                the stricture of my stomach.
                what is left of our hunger
                hangs        convicted,
                                we will burn in the shadowbox
                                with n
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Literature
the preterist
waist-deep,
man blinks his only eye with a good lid
                rubs the other with his fist
                trying to figure.
                some fish dart frightening quick
                right between him,
                if just for a taste.
similarly,
                clouds of pigeons strain low,
                about to sink gut-first
                into floodwater.
                might be
                nothing to fear
                from the mundane in strange order:
                plumbing grown through seizuring asphalt
                or cars coated gangrene,
                               seem headstones either way,
                                                and
                                                whole people idle
                                                digging for children,
                                                is only irreligious routine.
                these are small, heedless things.
                quiet soup, all abs
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Literature
city on a hill
the irony of Providence
is that i live there
or that anyone does
or that christ is a mapless twicefound spot, hanging
apparently right above your head-
and the Noose God oh
could save just about anyone i guess
                as long as panic paints with a meaner fume
                and cars crank loose our boney exhaust
                and garbage shimmers in the water like slow fish,
everyone might get off.
its not our fault the city has liars
more than home-
how we got here anyway,
there being no highway to take you
or vision produced at the height of our hysteria,
is hard to figure.
                i could be a false witness  but
yeah,
with foresightful care
our cellophane is peeled back,
we are fixed onto a bit of earth
and his narrowing face bares us teeth.
                so are we devils;
                should i fear the godly smiles on every mongrel creep
                tottering towards- or maybe from,
                                                moving
             
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Literature
to a point
this is very american,
savage.
going back to the street,
former decembers,
to the sooty-eyed women
strangled in the trees.
at least life
can be stripped of wives
and the thing we see in scratched, public glass
is our only self,
goggling on eyestalks
arranged in a starched collar.
                there are numbers i might arrange to look like words
                like immense, smacking, biblical tirades
                skinned into old papers
                yellow gamy streaks
                to break your skull and penance.
           
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Literature
apocalypsis
the ground is a clean ice black from the dissolution of asphalt.
on a few limbs
skulls ripe reddish gold-
               fruit for desperate days.
on the last nerve
feel low throbbing
as if this skyline has finally found his knees,
your brain-blood its proper course,
heart sinking immaculately into  
heretic drums.
                you've won
                you've won.
                apocalypsis proves us right.
so
our race survives a few seconds more:
eyes warm and white as rubber eggs,
arms loose, soft,
recently pickled
spilled alarmingly over the bedside,
mucus-gloss drizzling off
each pinky
            
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Literature
of stale fire
tonight Providence stinks of stale fire-
                he is all my heartache,
                my shaking fists,
                the only fear howling loud enough
                to be heard.
                of all the old, stinking Men in the world
                people were sure to remember him as my father.
                he said he couldn't take the pressure of caring
                whether we lived or died. and that was all he said.

gold ripples through his brick-skinned boroughs,
streams of minnows sidle along salty vendors
as they grease the sky.
                even my heart shivers
                               with the smell of gasoline.

our rib bones clatter between the june-suckled skin
we've been afraid to break,
tongues whip the sugared air
and arouse our glassy, devouring eyes
a bit more than usual.
we are a little sick on burnt oil,
hungrier but aggressively aware that these mouthfuls
will be the last that don't taste like tin.
warily we ogle each ot
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Literature
since the Devil died
if you've come to say some last lingering thing
you're out of luck, the Devil has already died;
you can kiss his tombstone
and read the skinny etching about his life as the good Sad, the bad Happy.
he left us that clammy June, quiet and painless and wearing the face of someone's old grammy. everyone got real heavy, counting up their own sins, figuring their own temptations, expeditely damning ourselves knowing the material even better than he did. there was no one else to do it now. we prayed but
all the manuals against the antichrist didn't work on ourselves. things began unravelling quickly.
the world grew volcanic, blubbered tearily behind the sun. fire isolated our intestines and our bacterial flare could be seen from the northern sky. God, Exxon, the whole bullshit anarchist system was soon brainsick and clotheless, picking its skin apart in a panic over spiders. there was no way of avoiding yourself, not any misery you hadn't villianously dangled in front of your salivating face.
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Literature
unsurvived
i have not survived a dream for weeks.
i've gotten sluggish.
stalkers and assailants get pricklingly closer now, get all my hairs erect
and i feel their sore lust sharply through these antenna.
formerly i outran lightning eels and slaughtered humunculi like butter
but my carnal brain has gotten soft.
i could touch them,
if i strained i could feel their breath and the reverberations of their half-hearts
and if i was still and small enough they would surely mutilate my chicken-like carcass with unimaginable teeth.
they've even said i've got to murder them some
that i designed them for death to hold my own peace
and that things can't go on this way.
a more resourceful nightmare thought to steal an infant from me
to spur me on
and all i could manage was to break a few windows and chain her loosely to nothing.
i've got enough fear to boil,
too much fear of the comfort i take in unhinging their flesh
false as it may be.
i was being hunted the other night
and i brought myself to stab my seeke
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Literature
now a beetle
i, conscious oily rubber body bubbling under heat, hardening under dark, bloating and deflating under foods and glycerins
applied with vigorous motherly force, regenerating under God my immunity,
my woe-be-gone gelatin being (a sore and smelly bruise);
i am close to becoming an ape in concrete shoes.
my business ethics are growing tense and hot to the touch
while remains of my necrotic self collect cold layers of fats/skins/furs to
overhang my eyes, stuff my breath, strangle my nerves into masses of draggled worms;
phantom limbs now sprout from the hub, the head-hole i've retreated to,
a thickly-littered pit i have worn soft with sleep.
i continue to amputate myself-
an ambulatory beetlebody is quite efficient.
an exoskeleton to cradle my meats and simple, gnawing instincts.
but the horizon has pulled away with its posion colors blind to my filtering,
and my own vermillion acid will soon be sweet and sticky
between the teeth of whatever finds me first.
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Literature
hibakusha
the Hibakusha are bad grafitti, sour scrawls. i do not see them, i do
not employ them. they're a mutant american strain shot hotly oversea.
i think they wanted to be Smith and not Matsumoto, so they were twisted
into such a shape and scraped their skin loose. these germ criminals
sprawled over the banks, pork flesh finishing in concrete shoes.
they warn that a big dog will be an ugly woman when it wakes up. and
for now they sleep inside, with the looters.
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Literature
smell of traffic
the truth was that i smelled like traffic.
that guy like grease, that one like chili, that one like rubbing alcohol. good smells shouldn't smell like anything, or simply don't make a dent in the sweat.
the worst man smelled of boiled chicken and nectarine-colored rubber bibles.
many women are spectres or phantoms of scent. i'm not sure any of them exist in this capacity. i'm not sure any of them are animals.
overall, we're a great slaughter of dander and skin and scent rushing at breakneck pace to sufficiently stain ourselves over the terrain.
everywhere is our territory where technology can be stretched and paved.
the oblivion mark between forest and pasture, the incrimental sliver most creatures cross
in order to escape, feed recklesssly, or die, that was for us.
also for rats and pigeons, who soon invited cats.
we needed more limbo like this, and got it.
pavement was an important evolutionary discovery that was soon employed everywhere.
perfect flat glistening segmented hierarchical
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Literature
morning among cattle
this morning; a rural, ruddy stillness so moth-eaten and mouth-breathed
it's not so much to be grateful for.
the Old Colony we've tread to ruts, to unflexing tracts of petrified muscle.
crowsfeet have begun to show
where concrete collides into onion grass and hardened dirt.
animal bodies stick in these crosshairs
shuffled among salt,
faceted plastic scrap, glinting aluminum gems littered generously
by smoker's hands.
pallid crabgrass blinds in the image of the sun.
stonewall racks of granite molars are pocked with gaps, cavities. dissenting baby teeth lie elsewhere.
squat, anemic barns seared with rust from their iron joints and sinews
lapse into the dour black blush of smoke damage.
neon-orange reflectors shrill against the quiet.
houses consumed with the starved, arid burn of the hills,
scalped fields, holely highway, warping divides, ash-scented air,
grates gagging with turf,
trees, nude and accusatory spines grinning death to the sky,
gutted roadsides where water ate its fill and v
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Literature
medical exam
a woman's nerves have exhausted to a trembling lump of wet dog,
her unbridled pigeon hearts blipping quickly across wires.
a maddening woman
who told me we were the rancid, boiling contents of our stomachs
and nothing more. she thinks she's a bad case. she said
                i get tired of eating. a coerced want pulls my jaw down
                like elastic overstretched; the sinews sing and thin, threaten to snap
                and make me half-headed, a skulltop bobbling with no home for my tongue.
                my nostrils have also been forced open, their internal skins steamed off
             
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Literature
mermaid
a morning rope hangs and loops
into a porthole
to the lush fathoms of the sinning Sea;
her blackberry jellies occasionally bursting
with sudden fatherless birth,
or as a dead duck plummets
softly into silt.
she thrives in herself,
a nasty drunkard pilot,
shaking her bellyful of fermented inborns-
their tiny skulls clacking,
their thin mewling sounds straining thinner
poor things chew each other
without knowing.
from her drooling head
flies the scent mummification
stringy olive sinews hang limply
from the lower lip
thickly lidded eyes always at dusk,
a numbskull cannibal alone in her waste
of afterbirth, enzyme smeared to her elbows
but her jade-skin ripples glistening
fine-cut facets with every
sweet seraphic face of the sun.
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Favourites

The Change by DES-FAN The Change :icondes-fan:DES-FAN 871 96
Literature
Paint
This text is a sort of profile on the artist Grier Blumenschine. In compiling the content I searched for a form that would somehow relate (not reflect) the paintings and personality of the painter. The italics are written statements by the artist and the rest derived from various multimedia(s) and conversation.
Paint (ing)
-Sometimes Grier paints it then sees it. Other times he sees it then paints it, he prefers neither.
-Upon beginning a work, Grier seeks to inhabit or re-contextualize utter emptiness.
communication outside of contextual constraints- paranoid of reference, in this way a language decipherable by only universal means of collective generation, there being a casual relationship to impulse and interpretation. perception undermines experience.  
-His painting is proof that additive subtraction is more additive then subtractive,
-Insofar as Duchamp renounced art for chess, Grier plays infrequently.
the layered canvas accumulates, in one literal frame, infinite (the
:iconPopMcfly:PopMcfly
:iconpopmcfly:PopMcfly 0 0
Literature
State and Grand
We know somewhere subsists:
this chap by the platform tracks
toddling old woman, squirming
in waiting, as their eyes
dodder amiably down tunnel.
The blind strength of a train
a majusculus and blunted refrain
humming up the three length.
Mrs. Evens, extending herself
apeice two wilted plum ankles
charily stiffens her knee.
Our gentleman, in haste, makes one quiet stride then
bumps, sniggering, her rear side.
Giving her first a rifleous laugh
over the rusty clattering grime.
What last thought of hers now lost
past those who read The Times.
Only a name in Sec. D., Obituaries,
resigns to record Evelyn's memory.
With but a skip and hop our man
skirts the rail for an escalator:
the surface brings to him a billion
faces snug a front their minds.
None knowing this silly urbane
prankster exists among their frail
mother's indifferent subtrain lines.
:iconTheWritt:TheWritt
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Sin sed by aasrai Sin sed :iconaasrai:aasrai 134 49 cardboard and powdered wigs by plutonia cardboard and powdered wigs :iconplutonia:plutonia 251 76
Mature content
Her Red Wagon :iconaaaaaaaahhhh:aaaaaaaahhhh 2 4
Mature content
Western Haiku 06 :iconaaaaaaaahhhh:aaaaaaaahhhh 1 7
Literature
The Emperor's New Poem
I am just one of the many subjects
you will never write about.
Mine is just another life
your sentences will judge too innocent to serve
Your rhymes will not waste time
reasoning with me
Your verse will walk free
without my testimony
and I will join the mob
bearing inexpert witness
to the emperor's new poem
A poem that is as ugly as siamese twins
and as incestuous and fecund
as my Irish cousins -
botched and ill-conceived
as a foetus cooked
from cow
and Christian
and I stand with the crowds in my muttering mask
as merry as mutton
straining to catch the airy recitation
of the emperor's new poem
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Blah by superkimcandy Blah :iconsuperkimcandy:superkimcandy 2 0
Literature
Memeplex I
-
I.
[Any human who is dutiful toward the dogmas of contemporary prosperity knows nothing absolute about survival, and thus shall be driven toward his or her solitary breed of madness so long as survival is allowed under this convention.]
The irony is tragic:
six billion "citizens"
pasted to a warm sphere
and whirling;
swirling straight
for the sun.
II.
[a. Language has suffered from our inability to understand that reality is a chemically formulated and delusional sequence of events. Reality for us is merely a concentration of perception and only exists so long as we are a part of that reality, which we, singularly, create of our own desires.
b. Certain words that we use do not have any rational value except to talk to other humans in perspective, and surely they have no absolute value in the natural world and the environment it has manifested, nor does it consider the perspective of nature. This will pay a large part to our extinction.
c. (straight,
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Literature
certainly I shouldn't be god
-
for months
i have kept
women alive.
they are razadyne, detrol,
singulair, baby wipes and gowns:
    be so older
    that her covering
    go cowhide,
    so dead-eyed
    she sleeps as
    near me now
    as we allow:
    them skeletons
    that stand
    sometimes shed and
    not only skin.

  
they are mupirocin, cartia,
namenda, pitted skin and hospice:
  so be my patience
  a sinner's sanctity,
  and have my heart  
  a loser's gun.

-
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Literature
parts i and ii
-
i.
weather was ever
so sedate
just yesterday
while sharing
morning star
and songbird:
  so destroying
  the sky seemed
  later as lots
  of itself gone
  hidden behind
  the grayness,
    that traffic of clouds
    to havoc a hotness
    as lightning,
    to go on
    rattling and arriving
    from where a falcon
    is still a falcon.
ii.
so what has this
small sky given
as its bit of
glooming?
  touch a fanning
  drive of flood
  and drink
  before winter
  makes all of it.
  create another
  shadowing cloud
  and singe
  
  the heavens
  until the sun
  is too close
  to keep the living
  warm
  but close enough,
  so fire is
&
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Literature
Originals
Originals
   The conch's twist holds
an old world. Just beyond the glossy rim
where the shell curves out of sight
a half-full bottle plunges
into the sea. The green glass
has no end, its sides spreading
light like a coloured lens. But this ocean
is a dark edge, as if eyes had never lifted
its hard dermis. A wave curls
and becomes icecream in a turqouise bowl. You
are here, looking through spirals at someone else
who is you. The bowl empties
and a cold signifier stings the skull.
   This time it is no echo
of the sea's thousandfoot rush, or the tang
of stale salt inhaled from a pinkwhite lip. This time
you are there. The icecream is just as cold, the glass
of beer bottles still shedding jade. But this could be
any beach. And now it matters
that you cannot swim.
:iconStormyPetrol:StormyPetrol
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Activity


deviantID

carissima82
Devil's favorite son
Artist
United States
Operating System: disbelief
Interests
www.flickr.com/photos/caroline…

almost everything. still compiling.
no home for the writing yet.

Comments


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:iconsperpy:
Sperpy Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2011  Hobbyist
where have you gone??
Reply
:iconndifference:
ndifference Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2011  Professional Writer
I have tightness in my butt.
Reply
:iconsperpy:
Sperpy Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2011  Hobbyist
oi ~catching is back under a new name - ~cogongrass
Reply
:iconcarissima82:
carissima82 Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2011
noice!
Reply
:iconanarchypress:
anarchypress Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2011
What happened with your other account, C? You still around?

~Michael
Reply
:iconcarissima82:
carissima82 Featured By Owner Feb 20, 2011
i killed it.

i'll check in here now and again. :)
Reply
:iconanarchypress:
anarchypress Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2011
Did something happen? Or did you just kill your other account on a whim?

Hey, this will probably seem a little random, but the conversation we had a while back (about hotness vs. perception with regards to intelligence and creativity) got me thinking about a character in the novel-thing that I started a couple of years ago (and have been taking a break from since early last year). I have started kicking the book around again, and I would like to have an e-conversation about it with you at some point – if you are game. If not, no worries.

~M
Reply
:iconcarissima82:
carissima82 Featured By Owner Feb 24, 2011
it's hard to explain. i'd probably be more inclined to do so privately.

sure, that's totally doable. just let me know when/how/etc. good to know i didnt come off like a complete asshole. heh.

i'm reachable via the email address above or msn messenger. or via notes here, i reckon.
Reply
:iconlittlemissblacklight:
What the person below me said - I was sad to see that you deactivated stupidvagina, but I hope you're well.

xx
Reply
:iconcarissima82:
carissima82 Featured By Owner Feb 20, 2011
perfectly alright, thank you.

i will knock around here occaisionally.
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