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Literature
The Smoldering Eyes
Big smoldering eyes, each as sullen as a wound,
Or, as fatuous as the hunter's moon,
Toss an impetuous gaze to the ragged shape—
A lifeless thing held by its neck at the nape.
How the eyes gaze at the body, helplessly stuck,
In the dripping jaws of amorous Love!
:iconChirechase:Chirechase
:iconchirechase:Chirechase 3 1
Literature
Child in April
It is April. The earth beneath its soil is awake and stirring. The globe's childhood sighs with a trillion humming lungs, and the fitful breasts cry at the strum of the heartstrings tautly strung! Even now, the budding things of the pastures and the plains rear their sticky heads and a zephyr shudders across the furs of the peach's pinkest flesh. It is April, and quicks of breath as from an ardent touch shake from the bones the dozing and dizziness of buried seasons gone; and somewhere the green qualm of Spring fills a pattering bosom, and is held . . . held for the sake of such a gush of dark love. Somewhere lightning peals over a shore of flame; in a forgotten gray hall, a lonesome ghost laughs or weeps. Somewhere molder the great piebald machines; and they furl back for now their wounded and ruddy wings. Somewhere yawns the turtle's noble lichen-head; it is April, and amidst a hinterland of water, a gray child in a dinghy drifts aimlessly—aimlessly and as lonesome as the heart
:iconChirechase:Chirechase
:iconchirechase:Chirechase 6 0
Literature
Gabriel's Vignette
Gabriel has fled from his home. Fled, as a thousand others before him have fled; but his is not in obeisance to his predecessors, to his forbears of rebellion, a smoldering jewel in the breast of each. No. He has fled in the quickness of passion; of a flame, burning. For the impatience of his seventeen years, he has had only patience. For the violence of his untoward love, a cold wall. And Gabriel embraces the autonomy of his chromatic heart!
He tore from his home, from the venerable wood, the unfair hand; no more brutal family; no more hard blood; no more yearning, the bane of his flesh. He has flown from The House of the Warbler. For he cannot choose who he loves.
Come, Warbler, come; reveal yourself in many shades. Sensitive Gabriel. Where now does the turncoat wander?
Through wretched regions or baleful burghs—as slick as grease or as soft as dust—through a twisted tract, where daylight is never seen, Gabriel has tread. There have been endless, gray pavements, through w
:iconChirechase:Chirechase
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Literature
Fight Over the Ibis Isles
Now nightfall fell over the Ibis Isles,
Skeleton legs climbed on knuckled rocks;
And for each beak, an opulent smile,
As they knelt upon their jointed hocks.
A big pippin moon slid into view,
The crumpled sky was black as fire.
And leaping to and fro, across the stones
Below, two swarthy men with eyes that gyred.
They thrust their blades through the nightly hues,
The steel smoldered with lambent light.
One man then jostled his gusty flews,
Their flesh glistened with sweat and fright.
And how they fought, with long dreamlike strides,
Each one poised to brandish his knife.
And how the ibis squalled at the dreadful sight
Of falling forever into the tides.
:iconChirechase:Chirechase
:iconchirechase:Chirechase 3 3
Literature
Too Long Have I Wandered
For far too long now have I wandered,
In many hovels have I lain.
Beneath the coldest of god's altars,
Or beneath the dampest of shades.
Come now, my most tangled memory,
To the weeds I lay in by night.
There to you I will sing my threnodies,
And like a flame my flesh will alight.
For you I have wept in ancient grottoes,
I have sighed in the tenebrous air;
My dreams will come and fill me with woe,
For when I wake, you are not there.
In twilight, I've slept in the Lotus-Room,
And amongst its walls of winter rime;
There came the sword by which I was run through
As I had lost all track of Time.
How I've wandered for you through shadow,
To tread through pangs both deep and snell.
Let us come, my hart, my sorrow,
For where you've wandered, I cannot tell.
I have wandered like a ghostly echo,
Dateless deities have come to life.
Through the seasons have I wallowed,
Haunted by your sullen eyes.
The wild flocks of fitful turkeys,
And their gleaming feathers of jade,
Journey through the bitter mo
:iconChirechase:Chirechase
:iconchirechase:Chirechase 4 3

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Big smoldering eyes, each as sullen as a wound,
Or, as fatuous as the hunter's moon,
Toss an impetuous gaze to the ragged shape—
A lifeless thing held by its neck at the nape.
How the eyes gaze at the body, helplessly stuck,
In the dripping jaws of amorous Love!
It is April. The earth beneath its soil is awake and stirring. The globe's childhood sighs with a trillion humming lungs, and the fitful breasts cry at the strum of the heartstrings tautly strung! Even now, the budding things of the pastures and the plains rear their sticky heads and a zephyr shudders across the furs of the peach's pinkest flesh. It is April, and quicks of breath as from an ardent touch shake from the bones the dozing and dizziness of buried seasons gone; and somewhere the green qualm of Spring fills a pattering bosom, and is held . . . held for the sake of such a gush of dark love. Somewhere lightning peals over a shore of flame; in a forgotten gray hall, a lonesome ghost laughs or weeps. Somewhere molder the great piebald machines; and they furl back for now their wounded and ruddy wings. Somewhere yawns the turtle's noble lichen-head; it is April, and amidst a hinterland of water, a gray child in a dinghy drifts aimlessly—aimlessly and as lonesome as the heart can conceive.

For how long in the dinghy has the child drifted, he cannot know. He knows only of the coming and going: of days and nights beyond unfamiliar borders: of the indelible green eye winking: and of the shades of the ocean's depths. He knows of the islands gone by: the spade-island, the heart-island, the island with a dozen jagged heads, and the island with a moss-grown giant's leg. He knows somewhere flickers a moth-swathed lightbulb, and a candle gutters in blackened wax.

Somewhere, an umbrageous tide closes over his home.

He is awake. The face is a death's-head; the matted hair, a flag. He kneels in the dinghy and reflected to every minute detail in his watery grays, an island bounds over the wavering horizon: green, wet, shaggy, crumbling, and clawed. The child grins, each tooth a slumbering tombstone. His imagination is a monstrous, rampant villain as it brandishes its machete at the overlapping foliage swaddling regions of swamp-brain. O little hands a-grasp at a yearning breast! There it is, before him now—he will spill his heart within forests as quick as thought, and upon cliffs as big as romance itself!

It is April. And this child is drifting, aimlessly, across the trackless regions of the world.
Child in April
A vignette. Something revisited and that I have no plans on editing.
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Gabriel has fled from his home. Fled, as a thousand others before him have fled; but his is not in obeisance to his predecessors, to his forbears of rebellion, a smoldering jewel in the breast of each. No. He has fled in the quickness of passion; of a flame, burning. For the impatience of his seventeen years, he has had only patience. For the violence of his untoward love, a cold wall. And Gabriel embraces the autonomy of his chromatic heart!

He tore from his home, from the venerable wood, the unfair hand; no more brutal family; no more hard blood; no more yearning, the bane of his flesh. He has flown from The House of the Warbler. For he cannot choose who he loves.

Come, Warbler, come; reveal yourself in many shades. Sensitive Gabriel. Where now does the turncoat wander?

Through wretched regions or baleful burghs—as slick as grease or as soft as dust—through a twisted tract, where daylight is never seen, Gabriel has tread. There have been endless, gray pavements, through which the nose wrinkles in the scoria-air. There have been skyless plains, directionless in every way. He has waded through sand, fur, and blood-thick water. He has slept in sacred cloisters and in the cold caves of the ancient worms. Now past a hundred basking lizards, flicking their arrogant heads. Now over lands scarred green by fire, or mountains black by a witch's hand. Gabriel has starved, dreamt, and longed. He has stood in earth as wet as youth, or as dry and brittle as the vengeful heart. He has stood upon shimmering stones; between aisles of iron; amid a vast field of shuddering glass; now beneath many electric skies of lead—the sprawling flocks of black birds flew overhead. Fruit has ripened, buds of flowers have grown, nuptial hours have come and gone, the autumns of countless creatures past. He does not know that he has wandered now for three months.

For time, a reverie as flitting as the memory of home, has been nearly forgotten. And Gabriel, in love with abomination, has become lost.
Gabriel's Vignette
A rough vignette--or introductory passage--of a story that will be written over my life.
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Chirechase

Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I am not a cynic, but I do love a good laugh.

Comments


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:iconfleetofgypsies:
fleetofgypsies Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist General Artist
welcome non cynic
Reply
:iconcameronfedora:
CameronFedora Featured By Owner May 11, 2017  Student Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch!
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:icongrind-the-rust:
grind-the-rust Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2017   General Artist
Thank you very much for the favs. I've enjoyed rifling through your gallery - your writing is very lyrical.
Reply
:iconchirechase:
Chirechase Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2017  Student Writer
It's my pleasure! You've been one of my most favorite artists on here for a long while. I always look forward to seeing your posts.
And thank you so much for the compliment! It truly does mean a lot. In fact, I think it has inspired me to start posting some again. I often write and never get around to posting. Thanks again!
Reply
:icongrind-the-rust:
grind-the-rust Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2017   General Artist
*smiles* Thank you for your kind words. I look forward to popping by your gallery soon, and seeing some fresh pieces!
Reply
:iconcruiseconnoisseur:
CruiseConnoisseur Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday, Chris! :cake: Keep up the writing!
Reply
:iconsasha-bespalova:
Sasha-Bespalova Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2016
Thank you very much for the Fave and watch! :)
Reply
:iconartsyz123:
Artsyz123 Featured By Owner Dec 12, 2016   Traditional Artist
Hug 
Reply
:iconmocsokpocok:
mocsokpocok Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2016  Student
thx 4 the fav <3
hug 
Reply
:iconmocsokpocok:
mocsokpocok Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2016  Student
and for the watch!SPN FREE HUGZ SPN FREE HUGZ 
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