Come back Ravencroft

Like sweet condolences, her eyes fluttered.
Soft downy lashes veiled the windows to her
Infinitely
Sorrowful
Eyes.

Come back Ravencroft.

A new poem plus some major deviantart issues

Some background info:
http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=29420581&size=o
http://www.deviantart.com/view/21139764/
http://splat.deviantart.com/journal/6066915/

I know I said I don't post journal entries here, but I'll make an exception this early. Something rotten is happening in Deviantart. You know something is up when one of the FOUNDING members of an organization gets fired. You know it especially when the current admin has given no word as to why this has happened.

The whole community is in an uproar, as it well should be. Deviantart is a free hosting site for artists EVERYWHERE. The person with the most pageviews is even a filipino: http://bleedman.deviantart.com It could be said that DA is being more business-oriented as time progresses, but it has a right to be. More and more people are joining up and the bandwidth is expanding. Ads and membership are needed to fund this dream.

Yes, DA was a dream. A dream brought to online LIFE by two men Jark and Matteo. It was because of those men that we, the members of DA can post our works and share our comments and views with others.

As per the policy of deviantart, no member or ADMIN can delete threads or posts. If you post, then it is history. Say your apologies if you must, but you cannot edit your posts. It is because they want to preserve everything in DA. Just recently, a thread about Jark being fired was edited, to put it lightly, by one of the new admin members with no explanations given.

I didn't know Jark and Matteo up until somebody posted a little stamp as a deviation, but I'm glad I've heard of this. I know a lot about broken dreams.

Some people at the DA COMMUNITY has suggested boycott. I know this'll be effective if a lot of people join in. Deviantart has traffic precisely because the members post their art. All that traffic will go away. Business and money will go away.

The dreamers have stopped dreaming. How long can we live within their dreams?

Here's my poem. Untitled as is. It kind of matches my current topic. :p

He set down his dreams on parchment paper,
While she lived them out in glitz and glamour.
His pen worked feverishly with quill and ink,
To keep the memory of every sweet thought.
She whiled her time away conquering mountains
And drinking of the sweet nectar of life.

At the end of it all, both found life deficient.
Like a meal only half-tasted, full of promise,
Lacking in delivery.

He never tasted the bittersweet fruit of a life lived.
He was bereft of all the shining lustruous tangibles
That make up life.
She has lost her taste for adventure.
Wistfully reclining on her mountain vista
Recalling lost dreams obscured by time.

untitled hand story [draft for a writing contest]

Details of the contest can be found here: Dean Alfar

On to the rough draft!
--------------------------------------------------

My hands won't open no matter what I do.

Once I tried to massage it, to soothe the muscles with a salve that would make me forget everything and numb my senses, keeping me oblivious to everything around me, including the pain of sensation. The following numbness was too disturbing and I had to scrape off the salve. My hand remained tightly closed, unwilling to relinquish it's grip on...

With the salve gone, the sensation returned.

I tried to hire some strong burly men to open my hand. I thought subjecting it to pain would make it open. They tried to pull away the fingers one by one, to slide in a crowbar and pull, to beat it with a hammer. They tried and tried so many acts of mutilation 'til I couldn't remember anything of what happened. At the end of it all, my hand remained tightly closed, unwilling to relinquish its grip on...

With the pain gone, the sensation returned.

In desperation, I called upon a doctor. Now this was no ordinary doctor. She specialized in making hands relinquish their grips on... And she came one day bringing her tools. One by one she laid the implements on a white cloth, counting them one by one, arranging them according to their purposes. After her ritual, she faced me. Her lips moved but I could no longer hear what they said, for I was completely etherized upon the table. I had the vague notion of nodding my head before fading away.

When I woke up, the doctor was gone. With the doctor gone, the sensation was gone.

I saw my hand lying on the table, still unwilling to relinquish its grip on... I kept it in a glass case, occassionaly taking it out of its case and playing with it during lonely nights. A grisly memento, but it was a memento nonetheless.

One day, a visitor came to the house. She saw the hand and asked if she could touch it. She had never seen a dismembered hand beofre. I took it out of it's case and handed it to her. It fascinated her for a while and she came back again and again to touch it, to play with it, and sometimes, when she thought I wouldn't notice, to whisper to it.

One day, when we were playing with it, it finally relinquished its grip on... And I smiled.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
As is, it looks and even sounds more like prose than fiction. It's my ambition to submit this as a prose piece to that contest. I'll be adding more details. Dialogue is tricky business. I've never done much of it and I feel I underrate it. I'll have to see if I include dialogue in my submission. :)

Wish me luck. The deadline is August 15...

Little Rockstar Hurricane

This is a soliloquy
in the form of discourse.
Feedback jolts, shocks
but changes not
what has been set down in the annals of forever.

This lasts forever if unread.
This lasts a lifetime so long as the fires
remain unfed by the spark of your humanity.
This lasts until the rumblings of your mind
ripples the surface of its meaning.

Bend my will little rockstar hurricane.

All thought is but fleeting if not for the reader.
All thought is but fleeting if not for the reader.
All thought is but meaningless if not for the reader.

All soliloquies are meant to be heard.

How Soon Is Now (from the shirt of the same name)

How soon is now?

How, the endless question of innards. The endless amalgam of everything has to be propelled by something in some worldly, measurable or qualitative way which gives us the desired results.By what means? In what way? To what extent or amount? In what condition? The manner of which things are done. how about? what do you feel about a certain thing? How do you do, endless seeker of answers now lost sunk, uncovered and forgotten as well as displayed in hidden sight? A full explanation of all things incorporated with living dying, ticking and all the hodgepodge minisculities of eternity which is our moment of existence convulse in an earth-rending epilepsy and throw us off its back like so many beady-eyed bloated gargantuan flies.

Soon, the answer will come o the seeker of all things unbidden and unhidden. In a short time of the not long after all the somatic somnambulists shall lie and wake, shattering the pillars of the society that has solidified from their incorporeal dreams of agony. We are everything they had hoped and feared we would be, a utopia in all its myopic glory. Willingly we give up our sophisms for the exruciating agony of the present, of the shuddering orgasm of the moment in which the climax is forever within a second's touch yet eternally remains unfulfilled. Soon is the edge, the brink before the sleep that follows dreams.

Is. To be. An island that remains unfulfilled for its fulmination remains to be, forever to be. It foregoes the moment to live for the future, the promise of what may come. Everything is postponed for the glory of tomorrow albiet today is in stagnancy. Is. To be the perfection found in tomorrow.

Now, the shuddering cataclysm that throws of everything in its path with the reckless abandon of a tiny fluttering butterfly hurricane. Forever it remains yet constantly changing, never has any human being known any time besides the immediateness of now. At the time which one is reading, living, speaking, dreaming, the span of everything you knew and will ever know. The same moment for Alexander the Great and someobscure poet living in the urban seascape of now. Immediately it senses a rift, this sentinent being of the moment grows uneasy with its role and flutters, spasms as the Requiem plays in its multi-faceted quarters, rebounding by it's own walls, it shudders in its throes and shatters its cage from the bindings of If. Now the beast is rampant, erratic and fluid-like.

HOWSOONISNOW? The echoing ruin of all the fast-paced netboys linking their servers up to the speedy interconned network of supercomputers forming a slipshod highway of dreams gilded by the promises of tomorrow. HOWSOONISNOW? As the heart beats sporadically by and by whenever lovers share their carresses with the living soul of the mass of mortality plaguing this earth. HOWSOONISNOW? Comes from the raspy throat of one in anguish, forever barred from society because of the deformed blobs of flaking dried lesions on his flesh. HOWSOONISNOW? The eternal wait of the worshippers of Chance, waiting eagerly for the chance to be one of the ostentatious people promised by the gilded superhighway built in a slipshod manner overloading mysensesthishasgottostop...How soon is now?

The moment has passed me by yet another steps up to take its place. This is my question, the question of one tired of waiting for life's promises to come true...

Dew Drops's Unravelling

Dew drops from clos[e]d eyes
Whilst everyone danced -whorled through the black murky night.
The hole which was all-encompassing
Did wince and shudder in convoluted spasms.
Dewdrop did not wince nor scream
As her earthy consistency burst at the seams.

Twisted, karmic energy did rise and recoil.
Touched by purity, echoes of insanity
Shirked.

Infinite screams from that mirthless void
Covered the Earth in a blanket of cold.
Not man, nor beast, nor celestial essence
dared move in the power of her presence.

As dewdrop's unravelling brought forth the dawn
Men soon forgot her drops and her clos[e]d eyes.

Around Me

you are the taste of strawberry, pink and sweet, with the freshness and vitality of newly-
plucked fruit.
you are the soft sway of the waves, undulating black satin in front mine eyes.
you are the amalgam of every beautiful thing in this world,
that I knew
sought
and have forsaken

everywhere I turn I see your essence,
magnified by the fact of your existence

Out of reach
In too deep

And when I crashed with my drunken feast
(-oh beast that rode my fragile bod-)
And looked up
(-oh god oh god-)
I was safe in the knowledge
(-that you...-)
Were the reason for it all.