ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Ecclesiastes 1:8-10 (There are No Rules)
The tiles windowgossip air-filled sunrays through their precious grime, 'cause you ought to, through, see, see how he's watching you, and he bled for you and me and aren't you a naughty boy? (Not yet.)
Suntime, silly wet, waiting with a half-smile, yes we know it's hot out and genesis is (never) red, but she's sitting right across from me and I hate acrostic mysteries, (never) mention rosaries, we're only in this building 'cause I think that it's a Saturday and Sunday wasn't Holy Day, remember back to Living Day? His floating under-capit' 'T' lacks some of the severity I've come to learn since I was three; STOP. BREATHE. Look around.
Her head is not a full eclipse, a sonnet through her tendonwrists, better than the thumping, nails clicking in the wood, how if we only understood they'd come between our lines and say
Slick, but not smooth, I'll wonder where she is, tracing fingerworlds in my unpleasant penal dust. Lines, lines, lines in an endless urgent skirmish with the gentle, mystic curves of breathless sweaty air.
A breeze? Spare me, a page, but better sheets, frantic sheets, far away and lonely- spilling only ink today, or ever. Inadvertent lover's panic? Squelches, splatters and squeals? Blazing guns and flaming corvettes? A moody skyline over a brooding trenchcoat? BANG! Are you not entertained, or shall we tell more stories wherein you sell the Christ I never had? Shall we, Angels, fill our pens with the scraped and venomed filth from Maldoror's tongue, and with our flesh thereon etch ballads of your degradation? Or perhaps sex, like violence, would keep your palms fixed and eyes sweaty and mouths- let's not get ahead of ourselves.
There are no rules but shame. Rhymes contrite, epithets transferred, forced metaphor and juvenile reference... have we a shot deep enough for your boredom? What brilliance flashed, the cynic deep sixed. Do you want art, or pride?
Nothing can: (stop me now), (save you).
The tiles windowgossip air-filled sunrays through their precious grime, 'cause you ought to, through, see, see how he's watching you, and he bled for you and me and aren't you a naughty boy? (Not yet.)
Suntime, silly wet, waiting with a half-smile, yes we know it's hot out and genesis is (never) red, but she's sitting right across from me and I hate acrostic mysteries, (never) mention rosaries, we're only in this building 'cause I think that it's a Saturday and Sunday wasn't Holy Day, remember back to Living Day? His floating under-capit' 'T' lacks some of the severity I've come to learn since I was three; STOP. BREATHE. Look around.
Her head is not a full eclipse, a sonnet through her tendonwrists, better than the thumping, nails clicking in the wood, how if we only understood they'd come between our lines and say
'No riverrun for you.'STOP. ENOUGH.
Slick, but not smooth, I'll wonder where she is, tracing fingerworlds in my unpleasant penal dust. Lines, lines, lines in an endless urgent skirmish with the gentle, mystic curves of breathless sweaty air.
A breeze? Spare me, a page, but better sheets, frantic sheets, far away and lonely- spilling only ink today, or ever. Inadvertent lover's panic? Squelches, splatters and squeals? Blazing guns and flaming corvettes? A moody skyline over a brooding trenchcoat? BANG! Are you not entertained, or shall we tell more stories wherein you sell the Christ I never had? Shall we, Angels, fill our pens with the scraped and venomed filth from Maldoror's tongue, and with our flesh thereon etch ballads of your degradation? Or perhaps sex, like violence, would keep your palms fixed and eyes sweaty and mouths- let's not get ahead of ourselves.
There are no rules but shame. Rhymes contrite, epithets transferred, forced metaphor and juvenile reference... have we a shot deep enough for your boredom? What brilliance flashed, the cynic deep sixed. Do you want art, or pride?
Nothing can: (stop me now), (save you).
Ecclesiastes 1:8-10
All things are full of weariness; man cannot utter [it]: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
That which hath been is that which shall be; and that which hath been done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.
Is there a thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been long ago, in the ages which were before us.
All things are full of weariness; man cannot utter [it]: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
That which hath been is that which shall be; and that which hath been done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.
Is there a thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been long ago, in the ages which were before us.
Comments2
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
This is fucking cool. It would work well like.. rapped.. or sung. It would work well in a song, haha.