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About Deviant L. E. ByerlyFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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Literature
Photographs of the Dead
Last night I dreamt I was taking portraits of the dead
art photographs of the beautiful deceased,
all lying on my mother's bed
draping gold Klimt lace all around the frame.  
I woke up wishing I could paint.
I think this is probably important, think
it probably means more than this, but
all I wanted was gold paint and a fine tiny brush
to draw the netted lace beneath the bone pale woman and
in her black hair, and against the silvery gray of her dress and the silk of her robe.
I think she should look scattered, with one ankle turned out, and
one wrist back and delicate, chin tilted just a little nearer to it than not
Like she's fallen in leaves, in autumn.
All is gold and silver and printed Chinese silk, and warm and cold together.
There were more of them, there, more portraits,
more bodies to arrange and more fabric and drape and color to add, but
she is the one I remember, the only one, the last one before I had
to close my eyes hard, to keep it dark enough to finish the pic
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Literature
A song for my mother
never get no rest
work all into the night
it's a long day, it's always
such a long day
It'll all turn out okay,
It'll get better someday,
We can just hang out, today.
ain't right you have to choose
between food and you
it's hard but breathe, just keep
breathing, keep breathing
We can eat good food, today.
We can just play cards, today.
he's gone, she's gone, it's hard alone
no one to talk to, anyway
I know it's lonely, but I'm here
I'm here, today
We can just sing songs, today.
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Literature
frayed edge in afternoon light
can't look at your eyes
hold your hand, try to pretend
it's just the glare from the window
stir sugar in my tea
let you pour the cream for me, you
won't let me pour yours
i forget to offer
can i make you dinner?
i'm not hungry, maybe later
i'm hungry, too, and
i don't say, either
threads are coming loose
at the edge of the tablecloth
I decide to leave them be
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Accidental Turlock Sunset by BlindSwandive Accidental Turlock Sunset :iconblindswandive:BlindSwandive 5 13
Literature
listening forthe tambourineman
listening for the tambourine man
dark.  mostly.
upright and immobile--
heat in the air and rain in your clothes,
a creature of weighted water,
a victim of equilibrium.
Not even cold.
begging for dark from the last few lamps
that cut cross-beams through what might've been whole,
might have cradled, if it was only dark.
helpless and clutching and too heavy to move alone.
sings the things you say with your eyes closed
like swallowed by waves
like washing away--
not wet in a hot dry room
but wet in a flood
sings the things you say with your eyes closed
begging for dark and swirls of something,
tendrils of color and smoke, not
hard cross-beams of light
that only put the lie to the dark, anyway.
Dark.  Real dark.
Spin pink and spin orange until the weight gives way,
gives up and just scatters, spun out in
beads of blues and green--
rain in your clothes, but at least your back's to the floor, and
you can't see the ceiling.
A creature of water, but burst,
spent and spreadin
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Literature
...fromtheRooftopsofLosAngeles
"A Change of Perspective from the Rooftops of Los Angeles"
If you say I am hard, then
I am hard;
I was never hard, before.
I was, I have
always been, always
been soft.  Too,
too soft, you'd say.
I suppose I listened.
High, high up in the
cliffs and mountains of the
urban Los Angeles skyline, the
view can be anything.
Anything.  On a
clear day, you can
see the wide ocean.  When it's
hazy, the
world drops off into
endless grey.  The
sun shining on the
rolling, roiling Pacific, or an
impenetrable fortress of
desolate fog.  One
sees what
one can see.
I remember you there, in the sun;
how you hated the sun! You
couldn't see the rainbows in the
sprinkler-head rains, and I
don't think you noticed the ocean beyond.  It
broke my heart that you
couldn't see them, it
breaks my heart, still.  I was
too excited, I think, I
cared too much, for my
urban Los Angeles skyline, that you'd say you
couldn't have cared less for.
I suppose
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Literature
later in the day--
later in the day--
blonde with painted lips has
          already shut down--
reeks of resentment and
          glassy eyes, face
                    oozing through her hands towards
                              book, and
                              desk, and
                              pink pens, i can feel--
    
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Literature
A Letter to my Lover, while...
the train had
slowed to a crawl, a
slither, a
slink, and it was
lilting
tilting
swaying on the tracks like a
ship on some easy wave, or a
sidewinder on some
sweet hot rock, rocking
rocking, and
Luiz Henrique was
shk-shk-shk-ing
shk-ee-tin-tinging, and the
Bossa Nova rolled, was
rolling over its rhythms, like the
train over its
sidewinding tracks and I was
swaying in my seat,
in and out of time, in the
gravitational pull of
two
rolling, rocking beats and their
rock-n-roll gravity (the
physics were astounding) and my
hips swung and swayed, so I
thought of you. . .
my
hips swayed and swung, to the
rhythms of you and the
rhythms of we two, and
two
rock-n-roll gravities
twisting to find the
downbeat between it all, the
downbeat
between the shk-shk-shks, and the
rails, and our
crashing collisions, our
shoreline dynamics
I was
dancing to us, thrusting my
ebb and flow to the upholstery while
Luiz moved the Earth, but
you moved the skies, and
pulled the tides on the
rocking, rolling oceans, and
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Literature
On why I had to leave her.
When I was young, we
kept a snake
three feet high, on my
brother's bookcase, and
When I was young, we kept
fat brown hamsters and
round white mice, sitting
two feet across and
three and a half high on my
brother's chesterdrawers
and every week we dropped
little white mice, and then
big white mice,
and bigger, and
pairs of round white mice,
down,
down,
down
into that old snake's home
three feet from the ground and
two and a half from the
feast of fur and flesh, of
fat brown hamsters and
round white mice, sitting
like ducks, like
vestal virgins, like
hapless prey behind
skinny, rusted little bars
and every week we dropped those
fat white mice in with that
old corn snake, he
latched on for dear life and
twisted his coils and
choked their screams and
swallowed them whole, and
every week he
must've looked up at that
feast of fur and flesh, of
fatter white mice and
succulent little hamsters and
waited, and
waited, and
waited
that
old corn snake spent
most of his days and
most of his nights i
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Literature
Open Window, Unappreciated
it was warm enough today to keep the window open
finally
spring was breaking through winter
through frost and fog
I didn't notice, until night had fallen hard
like some monumental fist
shattering whatever today looked like into
someone else's memories
I looked up at the open window and wondered
if I had missed today's
attempt at optimism, the good cheer that had
left the room warm for a bleak and ignorant audience
last week I watched a rainstorm born
right out of a clear sky
it looked blue through the windshield
the clouds were hiding, right overhead
until I turned north and saw a black horizon
edging, sneaking
along the sweet candy blue, eating up
the pure, rolling, tearless clouds
and I remember being surprised by the blue sky
it had been drizzling
grim, pale, suicidal weather
for weeks on end, without a real storm
nothing to wash it all away, just this
preoccupied gloom
the weather in a funk
like she wanted it all to be over
I should have known, you know, with as surprised
as that b
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Literature
A Drinking Song
          half drunk on
                    two and a half glasses
of wine and song
          tipsy with
                    Christmas spirit and half
of the bottle
          staring and
                    licking sticky lips at
very long legs
                              six  small shots
                    seven short pours
          (more while no one's looking)
          half drunk on
                    three and a half glasses
of bared ankles
          heat coursing
                    through happy veins in four
loose happy limbs
          finishing
                    off the last half-bottle
of cheap white wine
                              running  two
                    hot little hands
          through luke-warm dishwater
          half drunk on
                    that half-a-bottle of
love and laughter
          swaying hips
                    and flirty green dresses
wishing goodnights
          sweet toxins
                    to keep the night lusty
when all goes
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BlindSwandive
L. E. Byerly
United States
Current Residence: Turlock, California
Favourite genre of music: All! Esp: Folk-rock, Southern-rock, NewOrleansJazz, Psychedelia, pretty indie, etc..
Operating System: Mac OS X (10.5.6)
MP3 player of choice: Just the iTunes player.
Favourite cartoon character: Disney's Robin Hood.
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:iconsimone83:
simone83 Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2006  Hobbyist Photographer
thank you very much for :+fav: [link] :D
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:iconblindswandive:
BlindSwandive Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2006
You're welcome! :aww:
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