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Daily Lit Deviations for December 9th, 2013
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Featured by: =UnspecifiedUnknown
neo-Freudian idealsin 1886, Sigmund Freud employed free association;
the idea that a sick patient, terminally crippled with a nameless plague,
could list off the reasons why his bed sheets had holes in them.
paraphrased: the art of free speech.
my mouth is a gun and your name is a shooting range.
damp grass, our backs, semantics.
the psychoanalysts say we establish long-term memory
by stringing it all with prior meaning.
a flurry of sweatshirts and ripped jeans, stroking skin
in sign language only lovers speak.
hands, tongue, everything else.
Freud said that sometimes, a cigar is only a cigar.
i tell him how smoke spilled from your mouth into mine.
stale breath and gentle fingers probing, squeezing,
i trace my steps back to the night we crushed leaves into potpourri.
the scent of cold coffee permeated into the forest,
the tree roots soaking up our caffeine.
i remember you most clearly in the heartbeat between page turns.
you are full and real, the lump in my throat.
you are the holes in
neo-Freudian ideals by *learningtobefree
a striking piece succinctly stating the
art of loving in neo-freudian ideology.
Suggested by: ~toxic--sunrise
Featured by: `TwilightPoetess
Fickle Flames and Dreamy Roomscurled up
in the blue,
my little coco girl
is like a puzzle
of limbs on limbs,
tangled birds nest
of arms and legs,
elbows and knees,
from the fireplace
play fickle games
upon her cheekbones,
players in a story
of amber silhouettes
in dreamy rooms,
enjoying the sight
i watch as tiny
try to grasp her
and how her lids
seem to flutter
a grin is spreading
across my willful mouth
as i predict the adventures
in her own little world,
and how eagerly
she will tell me all
with dark eyes burning
my sweet little coco girl,
and tell me later,
for i only desire
to be one with
everything of you.
Fickle Flames and Dreamy Rooms by ~Lady-Yume
When was the last time you wondered
what another dreamed about? When was the
last time you wished someone good dreams?
Read this poem, and think about it.
Featured by: =hypermagical
love poem for a pianistyou make me think about
how heavy negative space can be.
the space between your fingers,
the space between notes,
the space between us
in this small, soundproof room;
every empty millimetre
in my chest
love poem for a pianist by *toxic-nebulae
You can practically
hear every heartbeat.
Suggested by: ~Disaster-N-Beauty
Featured by: `SilverInkblot
Fiction : ProloguePrologue
I know a place where a river flows—a tainted river full of secrets. It's a place that still haunts my memories, a time I recollect as childhood. But we are no longer children. I've heard her cries break the surface as the lamps went dim. There's something dark about that river. It ages us quickly, like the hands of a clock counting down the moments until my last breath.
Wake me, wake me…
I can still see her face if I look deep enough, her ringlets of auburn hair soiled by the filthy river. She's lifeless, but her eyes still plead. There are times I wish I could see what they saw, before the waters clouded them and took her to that place of imagination: the world of eternal sleep and dream. I've been there once, walking along its dusty roads, watching as the buildings tremble in the light of a new day. It's beautiful, but I know there are always shadows lurking, hiding in our souls.
Like lions on the loose hunting for prey, they find us in t
Fiction: Prologue by ^DorianHarper
Suggester: "The imagery in it is so gorgeous
and it draws the reader in with its rhythm and
mysterious story. It's a brilliant opening for a
brilliant story, teetering between fiction and reality
and getting the feel of the full novel in these few
paragraphs. It's very, very well written and beautiful."
Suggested by: =hypermagical
Featured by: `SilverInkblot
Someday, FreedomFirst crack in my glass wall.
Someday, Freedom by ~Moonlitblade22
Suggester: "Hopeful and brave.
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Prepared by: `SilverInkblot