THE GROOVIEST LIT IN TOWN: VOLUME TWENTY-SEVEN

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 Welcome to The Grooviest Lit in Town, where some of deviantART's very own writers are featured for their all radical, all gas, and all hangin' works and projects. From prose and poetry, to the depths of novels, soliloquies and articles - it's all here! So hang loose, get jazzed, and keep on being right outta sight. Love

THE GROOVIEST LIT IN TOWN: VOLUME TWENTY-SEVEN

groov·y

 ['ɡro͞ovē]
adjective,informal
1.enjoyable and excellent.

GROOVIN' LIT...


we, poetsconundrums are our connotation.
weaving wild and wondrous words,
we clothe memories in conscious-membrane.
our "children" [words] will never freeze [fade];
this world is finite, but
its people prize a naked soul.
as we cannibalize our innermost
feelings and sensations,
we grind ourselves down
to bite-sized paraphrases,
and feed them to the world.
we write ourselves away.
Lycanthropy  Lycanthropy
Tommorow is full moon
I don't know myself anymore
something has changed in me
making me the most wicked
Lycanthropy,I'm a killing machine
nothing can be seen
come and make me dust
nothing is as what it was,lycanthropy
It is so weird,I am fear
I am a monster,I feel exhausted
something has changed in me
making me the most wicked
Lycanthropy,I'm a killing machine
nothing can be seen
come and make me dust
nothing is as what it was,lycanthropy
This terrible thing,it raises within
I need to escape,this is my fate
it fades away...
Lycanthropy,I'm a killing machine
nothing can be seen
come and make me dust
nothing is as what it was,lycanthropy
Le parfum de la Lune(English version below)
Des étoiles filantes naissent, vivent,
À travers ce ciel chargé de plomb,
Sombre abîme des cieux, bas et lourd.
À la manière d'un paysage champêtre
Les bombardiers volent, gazouillent
Et les bombes tombent du funeste prunier.
Dans la toile de ces mygales casquées,
Des lucioles retenues par leurs pattes vindicatives.
La nuit leur est plus douloureuse que l'immolation,
Plus longue que le solstice d'hiver.
Les fleurs se fanent à jamais ; sur le corps se gravent
Des balafres à vous en faire frémir le pire des tortionnaires ;
La rosée sera tâchée de perles de sang. 
Ces astres éphémères sont nés, ont vécu, 
Puis se taisent à jamais.
Devenues poussière
Ces fillettes déjà oubliées,
Elles n'ont plus que le parfum de la Lune
Pour s'imaginer à quoi aurait pu ressembler la vie.
Fragrance of the Moon

Shooting stars are

THE GROOVIEST LIT CONTINUES...


copper9lives

FearlessYou have masqueraded as a mouse long enough
The Lion rises, burning
Across your Rubicon
Claim it all
Carve your name into your dreams, triumphant
Sign me with your teethmarks, I yield
You have won me with your courage
Let me be your victory feast
Ring of FireWhere Fire and Earth meet
We are molten, tectonic
Dancing the interface, frisson subsonic
My solid foundation, floor of the ocean
Your underlying perpetual motion
Fluid dynamic, abyssal plummet
Twine, combine to fulminant summit
Convergent, we build
Transforming, we change
My coastal tsunami
Your mountain range
Together we are megalithic, volcanic
Irresistible force, magnetic, galvanic.

MetamorphosisI have been blinded to the future
Yoked, as I am, to the past.
The boxes of mementos mori
Weigh me down with the taste of dust
The stale scent of incompletion.
The smiles I wore in those years
Were left breathless and blue
Stillborn epitaphs inked upon
The backs of photographs
And keepsakes no longer meaningful
To the guttering ghost I have become,
Haunting my own shuttered life
Hunting for refuge in dark corners
From anamnesis.
Today, November’s candles
Smoke in the waning sun
But I shall feed tomorrow’s Midwinter bonfire
With yesterday’s pain and paper
Today's fallen leaves
Glowing butterflies against the cold and darkness
To light my way onward.
The TravelerShe blew in on the last day of summer, arriving just as the wind began, clutching an artist’s portfolio and a hatbox. There was wonder and wisdom in her bright blue eyes, softened by time and crow’s-feet, and a perfect maple leaf the color of flame was caught in her unruly red hair… her perfume hinted of woodsmoke and oak tannins and the spice of faraway, foreign ports. I helped her carry her hatbox from the train station, and when she smiled at me, I knew everything was about to change.
We shared a cab to the little seaside town where we were both staying, there on the cusp of the world; it had long been one of my favorite places, my secret getaway. When life became too stagnant, the city sweltering in summer’s re-radiated heat, I spent a few days on the shore, staring out across the limitless horizon and dreaming of shanghaied sailors and full-bellied canvas tugging the great ships to the Orient, groaning hulls full of timber from forests that once seemed inex


FROM THE BRILLIANT IDIOTS AT Where-God-Went-Wrong


How far do you have to go in the afterlife to simply sit for a nice, quiet cup of tea? 
Our hero's not having any luck with that, no thanks to a growing entourage of "helpful" 
characters, who lead him to Grand Central Station, it's doors to different worlds, and, 
eventually, to the Shrine of the Book of cheats.


It's a family-friendly comedy in the flavour of Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". 

Tune in and support the show!

GOT ART?


If you would like to be featured, or know a rad piece of art that you love, send it my way! I'm always
open to suggestions for anything that I do on deviantART and I would love to hear back from all of you.

Happy writing,

NAKTARRA




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seriousmess's avatar
Seriously, thank you, I know I'm late to the party, but the feature is definitely appreciated.