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Thalia ItaliaWhy, audience, throw tomatoes at tragic plays for being tragedies?
Life is tragic; eat them during a comedy.
To tragedy she tends to tease.
Talented intrinsic comedy release.
Acts antecedent made lacrimal the coterie
underneath such secretion manifest vineal priests.
Such vineal priests.
At branches’ ends tomatoes worship pendulous
swaying neatly neat.
Cleavers axe their thorny stems.
The atheist coterie, now above their seats
aim savagely tomatoes to the sad stage beneath.
There then seen is Thalia, comic masque in hand,
playing her funny bugle! The ivy, a fragrant snake at her command,
slithers about her feet as they skip,
leaping to actors dead.
She knows them dead;
with laughter-filled persuasion she causes them to stand!
Holding hands in merriment the cast in circles leap
like the muse of idylls delights.
Frowns into smiles form and keep;
Death atop his darkest horse removed.
The audience, although jubilant, continues to weep.
Lovers out of script reuni
Before Partisan StepsHungarian Jew Alexander White
witnessed plights antisemitic, doom’s insult chaperoned handily under Hitler’s
His heartbeat resolute,
below White watched a Budapest cinema
SS officers flittered boots, flooded the movie house as would bewildered
animals, arresting age fifteen Alexander;
as Fuhrer claims, “The problem at its root.”
A Serbian copper mine to White sent work,
awarded no serenity in time.
He told another prisoner, “For food, my coat is yours,”
afterward flying from the fences!
Sooner gunfire heard his task to endure.
There down a daedalian river
parallel to a chapeau cap
besieged by water’s curtsy: a cap diversion onto stalker dogs.
Halt, you canine Nazi!
Into mountains White escaped,
trekking aimlessly dirt distances.
Dead leaves would not bind his movement.
And at last, when tired knees he grew
stifled every step,
Yugoslavian Partisans were to adopt another suffering man’s
nearly deceased st
The Flamingo PoetEveryone uses spoons in the morning.
I’ve a fork stirrin’ my tea
served with worry in a pink cup
Flamingo porcelain aviate
my tea in crooked wing.
Feathers rattle & quiver. Wrist riots,
I shiver, spill tea on fingers
fashionin’ four searing rings.
Invited calm sips incinerate lips,
my tongue tolerates a singe.
Steam pinkish pipes a voiceless misery binge;
poetry, a flamingo by the fringe.
Acta Diurna VIIMorning, stilled in a grey photo.
I am a mineral speck in slate mountains flanked by the salmon halo of Lady Gaia.
I left and pondered all the pictures I could capture.
Camera remained on the dresser.
Why do we share photographs?
Memory mustn't be pleasing seemingly.
Humans share photographs likely to convey messages of emotion,
or to detail without word.
Some share only to express their ability to steal the moment like a firefly in a jar
when the flash is on.
And some want for others to know where they were.
“Glory to the setting of man.”
Indeed, glory to the setting of man.
Acta Diurna IIIHanded out paper today.
“Should thee accept, smile.”
Should incite curiosity and sense of appreciation, no matter how subliminal.
Grey to be closely achieved.
May also flatten soul soda, leading to self-equilibrium of the mind.
...should not eat anymore root beer candies.
Acta Diurna IIConsuming root beer hard candy after lacrosse game,
A&W's effort to make sudsy my flattened demeanor.
Found fly in my locker, dead.
I wondered what killed him.
WonderIf by “wonder” you allude
to the hotel corridor
(on the ninth floor, I’m certain),
I call it
Sure, these auburn light fixtures
shone much more than the
portraits of the nude
giving carpets glorious view.
No cigar scent, perfume incense
intruding on effervescent
sugar packets pouring Kit-Kat
coffee in the morning,
could reunite my “wonder”
at my love’s lost and
Ancestors EnduringGenocide to earth has laid
a memory forgotten, made
a bone in daughter, under mother,
who wonders where of great grandfather.
Narrow, marrow paths and careless water bodies:
It is and is it not the Turkish oddity;
do they love their children? Obviously.
“Oddly”, said Assyrians, the Pontic Greeks and Armenians.
Red run do the veins of Euxine soil,
box-cars to toil, and the marching lane
(A rusty coil).
A cough only in asthma.
Has genocide, an ethicality declined?
Mainly mentioned: the victimized in line.
Tarry to be trudging the Armenians, they do,
and vivid in detail do they agree:
the human model, thin, emaciated skeletal
scene is obscene
And in our own day, real memory.
Slivers of light(French version below)
The most dreadful winter of my life came.
I abandoned the idea of a blossoming future,
Fled the misery of my own motherland,
For a woman I have far too often dreamt of.
Among the singing buds of the Shinto shrine
A white plum caresses my back,
Its petals lull me, my eyes are sealed, sweet reverie,
A convent of grass
The junk of my thoughts
Send me to Amaterasu.
Blushing Lotus, enticing Lilacs, panting Azaleas,
So many mistresses!
Enough perfumes to be drunk from them.
Why, my promise, have I been waiting so long to join you?
Your hair like Sakura flowers
Your laughters sound like Shamisen.
Over the pond, a dragonfly sits down and begins to dream
Monarch MorningsMistress Monarch spreads
over white-capped mountains,
a new dawn seen through
thin antennae masks
and yellow-trimmed lace.
with spotted tomato wings,
I wonder what you think
when others threaten to devour
Nature's thriving crop.
Do you yearn to stand up,
break each sector of your shell,
and reveal the monster within?
Or would you rather find solace
among verdant green foliage
until there's nothing left?
Not even a single carrot
or dandelion to savor.
they'll mock your existence,
Two Second ShutterSun-rimmed glasses magnified hidden eyes,
the leopard's sleek fur a mosaic of leaves.
Tempting irises with an earthly fury
shift as forest shadows dance and writhe,
breathing so close, you can't believe
the trees haven't fallen silent yet.
Sunlight spirals twinkle down to fireflies,
tiny flares lighting on quivering whiskers.
The stage is set for unrequited desire;
you pack up your camera as she stirs, languid.
Some things aren't meant to be captured
and out here, your camera is a cage.
The Blue CurseIn the fit of rage,
At the stupidity of mankind,
The rain was fiercely angry,
And in her anger,
Long ago, in the storm,
The rain cursed mankind.
The curse burned deeper
Than the brightest red,
Not bringing about senseless anger,
But instead a heartbreaking sadness
That broke them,
But left them alive.
It was blue tears,
And those blue feelings,
That ruined them.
From blue gave birth to the other colors.
For what comes from sadness but change?
So blue became sadness.
Each generation of mankind,
Turned bluer, and with each lifetime
The sky turned grayer.
Until it was but a pitch black.
And the rain was satisfied
With her work.
And the Blue Curse
In a momentary fall
Prodding the air
Crushed with the rest
Melt like your brethren
I never liked you anyway
A New Babylonia?I see machines gutted
and with their intestines exiled
from their choked motors,
Silk Road cables stretching over
and halls mangled with plaform
like a robotic Pompeii,
the setting sun being in
the shade of fallen pillars.
The computers are Atlantis', damp.
The rooms are
The walls are the papyrus
for weed-comatose prophets,
spray-painting the word of Cock
in the name of Lexxy's Library,
and the hanging gardens
are of squished moss,
the rainwater lakes
copper as Hephaestus' automatons.
We are tourists to Gizan pyramids of rubble,
watching in awe at these mummified metal corpses
of the 9-till-5 work line.
Both Sides of Her HeartI didn't ask for this to be thrown at me
I didn't ask for this role.
I was chosen to lead a pack,
But I can't lead myself.
I didn't ask to fall in love with two
And be torn apart by both.
I could never kill either,
Yet I know I must.
I didn't ask for pups
Or the life that I live.
I don't know if I would've chosen it
If I had the choice to.
I didn't ask for this,
But I have it none the less;
So I should spend what little time I have
Joyously with those I love.
For I love two males,
And I know both are great;
For I am told
From both sides of my heart.
DreiadesTo lash fuchsia
Is, to Future, stain a floral bed,
Whereby a billion butterflies
Embellished in a belle of white
Lay weary heads!
She's awoken with a morning
Tucked under a bang
All rise the hanging grapevines
And fruit veins
So compelling her to sing.
"A nymph of forest
Forfeiting her needles
Such am I,
Pining for a fire to keep me
Oh so warm.
If the cool is wavered
And I heed what fire warned,
I shall sleep on with the seasons
Until butterflies are adorned
With their own beds."
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More