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homeYou once told me that Star Wars felt like home
            And I laughed because
  It sounded like such a strange declaration
       And seemed so out of the blue
        But then I started thinking

What could possibly remind the homeless of home?
             note the difference between house and home

And I thought to myself that night
             Long and hard
    As I held you in my arms

                            In all my thinking I found that each place had a memory
                But I could not bring myself to call any of those places
                                HOME
Because I am among the homeless
    As I alway
plumbumshe has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.

and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.

gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore

and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage

and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.
The Big Leather-Bound BookDolores Umbridge yawned and stretched under the thick green and silver comforter.  She strained her ears for sound, but the girls' dormitory was silent.  She parted the heavy green curtains which surrounded her four-poster bed and surveyed the room.  The other beds were empty.  Her roommates had already gone to breakfast.

Dolores' gaze rested on the large, long-haired orange cat which was snoozing at the foot of her bed.  She swiftly grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and yanked it towards her.   The cat made a wild, desperate struggle to elude her grasp, but it was all in vain.  He had been declawed and his teeth had been filed down.  Res
Tight jeans and Theatrical boysI pull up in his dad's driveway
and the boy sitting on the stoop
looks like Saint Exupery's treasured little prince.
When he climbs inside my used Sentra,
I tell him about this quirky realization.
"You're both so cute and opinionated."
He grins and replies that it's his favorite book
to read when life is particularly rough.

Cappuccino sips and playful shoves
convert the evening into something
brilliantly unstable and devastatingly 'teenager'.
I want to kiss him violently so we can stop this
annoying game of cat and mouse.
But instead, we discuss music
and other topics that make me feel childish.

He asks where I would go if I
Survival of the IllestAre those hints of lemon I detect?
Look, I'm just here to get wasted, don't try
to make it more than that.

I'd drink motor oil if I thought
it could get me high; chase it with a shot
of antifreeze
so
you can keep your survival instincts,
locked up
in that pretty velvet box (along with all
those other things
you thought you could convince yourself
you lived for). Instincts are the bare
bones of the impossibilities we wanted
to believe in,
remember,
those times you tried to tell me that
adrenaline was God's way
of saying
that
we were His chosen ones, we were
special, we were free.
I tried to tell you that instincts an
They Also Serve Who Only Stand and WaitI don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws.

They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a millio
This Is Why We Can't Be In LoveThe day we first met, she was naked. The empty gallery had turned the A/C off and she said, "it's hot, too hot for clothes," and she stripped down to skin. She was pink and raw from sunburn, shiny plasma peeking out of translucent cracks in her epidermis.

"How many times have you done this today?" I asked her. "Also, hello."

I know I flushed pinker than her, fully clothed in my capris and navy fingerless gloves even though it was already July-- burning for her, because she didn't seem to notice her own skin.

She smiled, asked, "Am I beautiful?"

"I don't even know you."

"Okay," she said.

"I have to go," I said.

"Okay."

 *       *  
Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw
001. beginnings.Beginnings are vague things. Quite often you can't pin them down to one event – you have to trawl back further and further through foggy past, peeling apart what ifs and untangling strands of memories.

Eventually one has to go all the way back to the start of the universe, and that's a question even the experts have to shrug their shoulders at. It's not like you can plug it into a calculator and come out with a balanced algorithm. At least, not yet.

But it is true that sometimes you can fasten down an occurrence or a moment or even just a single breath, like sticking a thumbtack through a dead butterfly, and label it as a 'beginning' i
cliffcliff
e.bojnowski

on velvet roads,
I impale a  belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-

I have no qualms
with the dark hills
that slope
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:

where
the thrum of the ground
melds
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.
The Homeless Shelter     The morgue was colder than Douglas expected. He jammed his good hand into his pocket, but the fingers trapped in his cast were exposed. The cold bit into them, and he prayed they would go numb soon.
   
     “Detective,” the coroner said as he came out of his office. “How nice to see you again. But to be honest, you weren’t the detective I was expecting. Where is McKenzie?”
   
     “Probably hiding under his desk. I got roped into coming down here to talk to you.”
   
     “Hmm. I wonder what I could have done to make him avoid me. Well, no matter. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish signing these release forms. It’s always bittersweet, letting the corpses go to their loved ones. I feel like a bond has formed during our time together.”
   
     &
Impact Theory"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

It's a question Welknan schoolteachers ask their students every year, from the day the children enter school to the day the young adults leave. Answers are carefully catalogued and presented to the students at their graduation ceremony in a beautifully decorated scrapbook made by the teacher of each student, added to each year, growing with the child.

It's arguably a silly tradition, and perhaps even morbid to remind the adults of failed childhood dreams, but it's meant to inspire and the children love it, and it's something to do anyway.

Some kids stick to plain, safe answers- tailor, constructio
A Name You Can Trust   Indignant? Disgruntled? Need an attorney who won't back down (no matter how many mafia hit men are on your trail)? Need to sue the smirk off that jerk who dared to diagnose you with anger issues? Tired of “justice” getting in the way of the benefits that you deserve? If you want passionate, aggressive, and ruthlessly persistent legal representation, it’s time you called Winier Trust, an attorney who will stop at nothing (nothing!) to insure you win your case.

           Winier Trust is more than just an attorney; he's your personal advocate. Trust works beside you not only as a legal representative, but as a close and c
moondust.we live in a world where our lungs are black and outlined with angry streaks of red. we plant diseases and destruction in the holes of our stomachs and watch them grow – they shoot up fast and clog up our throats with ashy leaves.

our fingernails are ripped, jagged edges digging into pale skin and leaving white hot lines in their wake. our wings are crumpled, feathers bent and pressing into the expanse of our backs – they're the weights on our shoulders, and there's no space left for anything else.

your tongue is cracked and so is mine. words no longer form, sounds no longer rise. dreams and wishes fall into the cracks as nig
red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.

We throw away half of our refrigerator each week – meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.

Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.

At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.

I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.

Hearing "I love you" for the first time
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:iconplayinthedead:
:skull: Always blame the Russians. :skull:

Pre-heat Vicky's brain with all sorts of lace wars history, mix inside it the battle of Zorndorf, revenants, several depressing war songs and an undying fascination for dead creatures (ha-ha, got the pun? Yes? Great; now excuse me as I proceed to shoot myself), let it simmer - et voilà, you get more stupid prose from the likes of me.

Big round of applause to =doughboycafe for helping my English to stand firmer on its feet.

Post-DD message: Thank you for reading, commenting, faving, generally having a good time with this story, and downloading without even saying hi.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-02-02
~PlayinTheDead blends surrealism with history in It's not enough to kill them. ( Featured by ^neurotype )
:iconcapturedjoe:
~CapturedJoe Mar 24, 2013
:omg: ...wow.
I just stumbled upon this one; It's brilliant! It really deserves the DD!

And it refers to one of my favorite quotes from the Fritz too. :)
Reply
:iconplayinthedead:
~PlayinTheDead Mar 24, 2013
Thank you very much, it's always nicer to receive such compliments from other people interested in history. :)
Reply
:iconquiteproustian:
~quiteproustian Mar 5, 2013
Beautifuly written! I love that it's sort of a cyclic story, especially when the begining is so good. :heart:
and you totally deserved that DD.

Reply
:iconplayinthedead:
~PlayinTheDead Mar 5, 2013
Thank youuuu and I'm happy you approve of the circular structure: I think that whatever moral this story has, it's packed up in there.
:iconblueheartplz: back atcha!
Reply
:iconlakaesis:
~Lakaesis Feb 13, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Non so se la cosa più bella sia la descrizione del male di vivere morire oppure il fatto che questi soldati, ligi al loro dovere (e un po' pirla, forse, ma son questo che i morti fanno: ripetono all'infinito il teatrino della vita) continuano a combattere.
Il verme Hans è il migliore di tutti :iconhurrplz:
Reply
:iconplayinthedead:
~PlayinTheDead Feb 15, 2013
A ripensarci con tutto il senno di poi possibile e immaginabile, la colpa di tutto ciò dovrei attribuirla 50% a Jacques Derrida (lunga storia, lunga storia) e 50% a un capitolo di Vinland Saga letto su un sito di scanlations, in cui il Valhalla era un orripilante campo di battaglia popolato da guerrieri in perpetuo stato di zombificazione. Evviva l'allegria! :icongrintwitchplz:
E chi non vorrebbe cavalli non morti, vermi e sorci come animali domestici, dico io?
Reply
:icondoughboycafe:
=doughboycafe Feb 4, 2013  Professional Writer
Yesssss a DD!! :heart:
Reply
:iconplayinthedead:
~PlayinTheDead Feb 4, 2013
Fuuuuuuuck yeah. 8D
Reply
:iconmetarsusdemented:
~MetarsusDemented Feb 2, 2013  Student Writer
The DD is well deserved.
Reply
:iconvanshira:
~Vanshira Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Aw shiz. This is why zombies are generally mindless. It would be just too cruel if they could think.
Reply
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