Daily Lit Deviations for April 11^th, 2011

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Poetry

_{Featured by: spoems}
dionysian debaclingthrough baptizing, thick-scented wine,
these stained lips crack a smile,
shifting boiling muscles writhe 'neath clubbed blue flesh,
knuckles wrapped, waiting, 'round a pen.
the blistered tongue flicks morse suchly:
        o wicked muse!
        word-revoker!
        spare a second of your golden afternoon --
        grace my fingers with your honeyed kisses --
        make clay from dust,
        soil from muck,
        grass from garbage.
                        my cheeks sink, smokily,
                 
"dionysian-debacling" by: shes-a-vamp

<sub>Exquisite melody on the
pseudo-consciousness of debauchery.

Featured by: apple-dark</sub>
lemongrass girlSlipping through rain
lemongrass girl
spicy like saffron
I'm the lazy lacy tumbleweed
hooked to the undercarriage of your car
because iloveyourstory
i'm a lemongrass girl
I turn cartwheels and smile at trees
and keep memories in a suitcase
next to a sandalwood fan
i like the sun
i like yellow
i like to smile
until my eyes crinkle
can I be your friend?
because sometimes i feel lonely
outside and removed
will you take this tumbleweed inside your car?
i would like to ride shotgun
Man the stereo so you can drive
open the windows -- see my hair is curly
and i like ice cream
i like to smile
until my eyes crinkle
but I want to make you laugh
i can be funny.
but can i be your friend?
This is a desperate plea
because iloveyourstories
(did you know that i write?)
I feel like the smiling child
three feet below you
but my eyes are grey,
not baby-blue
and I am your equal
so can we be friends?
I am sweet and we should be friends.
I like writing inductively.
that's how i wrote this
to get to this end
"lemongrass girl" by: celery-soda

<sub>This poem is warm and summer-perfect
and leaves me feeling as though I've just
eaten something delicious.  A poem for the
senses, all breeze and color and imagery and
delight.  Makes me want to be a
lemongrass girl myself.

Featured by: norui</sub>
Math and PoetryShe used to tell me
of math and poetry
by the length of her arm
and rhythm of her heart
condensing verse and fraction
with form following the function
of communist theories
and greek philosophies.
she beat out aesthetics
with a perfect symmetry.
because no one understands
the relationship between
seafoam and shoreline
the way she does
[swimming in saltwater sorrows]
reimagining time in an hourglass,
she shot up infinities with a glance
and left me moondrunk in the night.
she emits sparks throughout my system
breaking and entering--
my kingdom under siege.
her name was an amalgam of numbers
1.61803399 . . . .
and I loved her by design.
"Math and Poetry" by: MariaTala

_{The title draws you in by presenting
two things that seem so very different. The
poem surprises you by bringing them together,
along with other varied subjects,
all written beautifully.}

Prose

_{Featured by: SadisticIceCream}
Tasks of the GrievingShe moved about the room systematically, placing things in her satchel. It wouldn't take long, the bag wasn't large and her need to leave was urgent. She couldn't bear the memories anymore. It was all too hard now, besides she had work to do. It's what he would have wanted.
She finished packing her bag and left the room with only a momentary pause and glance behind her. She did a circuit of the small house, checking she had everything she would require and that it was tidy. While she was away she was putting the house in the care of her aunt to board out, she would need the money as she travelled. Her circuit inevitably lead her to that closed door she didn't want to open, but knew she must, even if only because she required some of its contents.
She took a deep breath and turned the door knob slowly, determined to do this quickly and efficiently. She didn't close the door behind her, she didn't want to feel trapped in with the memories or they might overwhelm her. She quickly gazed ab
"Tasks of the Grieving" by rebecca-rideout

<sub>rebecca-rideout shares a beautifully
descriptive piece that relies heavily on
finely detailed action to convey the
protagonist's grief at her father's death.

Suggested by: LadyofGaerdon
Featured by: Kitri-du-Lac</sub>
No Longer AnonymousNo longer can I remain anonymous, just another girl checking in for her doctor's appointment.  The moment I tell them the visit is to be billed to the state, and present this voucher, which might as well be painted in bright red blood, dripping and leaving a breadcrumb trail for all, with a neon sign that reads "sexual assault," I become that girl.
I see the way their eyes change.  I see how they look at me.  The hardness of the day, painted in the lines on their face, softens, just a bit.  Their eyes, normally cold and focused, now try to melt my heart with their temporary concern.
I sit in the waiting room amongst the anonymous people.  There's the elderly couple across from me; the Hispanic family: three kids occupied by the mom while the dad talks loudly on the phone, his bulbous body exceeding the chair he sits on; the blonde woman with her adorable blonde-headed daughter in the white linen dress; and all the other an
"No Longer Anonymous" by BeyondJen

_{Despite the legal changes of the last
century, crimes of sexual assault continue to
be treated in a cautious manner in literature.
The devastating realism of this story avoids
this, using simplicity to have a profound
effect on the reader. Brave and moving writing.}

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_{Prepared by: damina}