Diana. 19. Bittersweet and attending UCLA. This is my age-old collection of juvenile memories and thoughts, bathed in green and stretching into eventual adulthood. Sift through, if it pleases you.
Nafka"Nafka," whispered the old woman. The boy gazed up with round eyes, two moons in the evening dusk. Two forgotten suns.Nafka by *RiparianVeins
There once were two brother Suns. The First Sun, being the eldest, was given, as a gift, a planet of water. The Second, following his brother, was given a planet of wind. A millennium passed, during which the water planet gave birth to forest, and the wind planet to silver. From forest sprang beings of earth, and from silver beings of wind. As time churned, those of the water planet unearthed the flame which their father, the First Sun, had hidden in their planet's core. With this, the earthen beings were able to build great cities, and grow wings. Those of the wind planet met no such luck. After years of searching, they had found fire, but could not tame it. Sick with fury, the Second Sun burned bright. The First Sun looked upon his br
Tuck is a TorchTuck is a torch. He is alive in an allegorical cave, giving life to the skeletons within his walls. An insect on firethe lord of the ants which have besieged the corner of his lawn, bitten by summer.Tuck is a Torch by *RiparianVeins
Yet, Torchno, Tucklives in his cave, an insect under a magnifying glass, his belly made into a waxen petal, his thorax pinched into a stalactite and his complexion privy to the light: visible only at noon, dissipated in the proliferation of morning as the hungry aardvark, sick with sleep, extends its long tongue, devouring a turgid expression as night does the moon.
Mid-afternoon and the roach wears a crown, his body cocooneda stalagmite. But, what is that which is on his head?a grapevine, connoting his kingship, or mourning it; an olive branch, begging the aid of my scorched handsunbeknownst to him, my fingers are wicks, guilty of his punishment.
A mister, a tormentor, something decrepit painted "father", caus
the bed sheetsThe bed sheets saw Cambry grow up like voyeurs and wallflowers: masochistically and sadistically. Upon his arrival, they made room for the supple flesh that was the boy by shedding some of their own, cleaving in the center to form a pair of hands. These hands rippled incessantly with talk, with Cambridge, the small esoteric conversation, huddled in between.the bed sheets by *RiparianVeins
Sheets do not know fear, but they know pain. As Cambry fought apparitions in his third year, his body struggled against the confines of its vapid cocoon, unthreading, disentangling, decapitating. Living, Cambry's body burgeoned with each brush fire, the destruction of an ankle an indicator of budding muscle, a blasted tendon the initiator of the symbiosis of bone and sinew. Dead things do not recreate except in excoriation. So, unlike the boy, his bed sheets laid torn and ravaged beneath his green body after days oranged by battles of Indians, Romans and ba
garbage menThese mornings are the preludes of small town living. Daddy collects the long, homely road's detritus: the small scraps of iron coughed up by each devilish bend, the indefatigable furniture which sit sweetly at every awkward elbow. I stick my hand out the window in its permanently agape state, catching my own shreds of sunlight shrapnel.garbage men by *RiparianVeins
Garbage is our mother. It gives birth to everything novel, and the inventor who discredits it is disillusioned with his configurations because he is a fraud. He does not know the majesty of the earth, for if he did, he would understand that the things we discard are the closest to who we are: the veins which give birth to tendons which deliver nerves and thus the very crux of inspiration are made possible only by the relinquishing of cells that make fingers, function and fruition possible. And, because of this, the man who discredits garbage is detritus himself.
My father beli
I.I want to changeI. by *RiparianVeins
I want to change the way I look
I am tired, I am tired all over me
I want tats, I want tats all over me
I want scars, I want scars all under me
I am bruised,
I am bruised on the ridge of my nose
He is bruised, his nose is bruised by my nose
The bruise is gone and I am lost, static all over me
My heart is gone
But it haunts, it haunts all over him.