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About Literature / Artist R. Anne McQueenFemale/United States Recent Activity
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The Jetsunman Rhapsody Ch. 1
                                  Chapter One
                Sebastian Modahan sold canteens, because it was the best job he could get that a freewoman would not take. He sold the canteens to colonists inside the steep-walled valley that carved the Chevan isthmus. He was not sure why the manufacturers peddled so far into neutral territory, although the pamphlets the company had given him were meant to enlighten him on that matter. But he could not read.
                The pamphlets were still useful, despite his inability to decipher the letters; they made good kindling, and the burning ink turned the flame pink. At dusk, the campfires competed with the sunset for Sebastian's attention. Since the sun fell behind the mountains long before the sky reddened and pinked, the campfire usually won his gaze, a surrogate groundfire for the copper heaviness Sebastian used to watch falter in the sea.
                Sebastian had left behind six such
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Sophomoric Swansong
Year Two spent like two bucks
on fast food and faster kisses
on ink for writing
sophomoric prose on palms
licked clean of salt
Fast and fair,
like a blonde,
we loved,
we wasted,
we end
like a carnival
without fireworks
Closed too early for explosions
the sky still copper with dying light
deconstruction calling for
flood lights that burned the ground gold
yellowed the litter and prizes
the strewn tickets used for rides
thick food thick thighs
the Wheel rolls up and down
cars rocking in wind
clutch the bar feet swinging
free and dangling and falling
blink blink ferris wheel lights
haltingly, stops at ground, disembark
My eyes were closed at the top
Go home, children
to forget kisses you witnessed
baubles you paid for
the fairground littered, gates closing
vendors and kissing booths unlit
the sick sticky sweetness
the black bare bones framed by
orange sunset
Sing sweetness and belch, because
the Fair is breaking apart its bones
the touch of friends
rusted by too much rain too much a
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Hot is my mouth when I first wake up
and haven't brushed my teeth
Hot is cheap smoke hitting my throat
the cough I try to hide
Hot is masturbation in the bathroom
Hot is Houston
Cold is teeth in the aftermath of Ben&Jerry
Cold is wind and rain, three miles and no car
Cold is February 14 and January 26
Cold is the taste of your skin
Cold, when you're done with me
The same cells are used to feel both
Hot and Cold
The same organ feels both
Hate and Love
and in their absence
I prod about my body
to see which organ feels
and how to turn it off
or turn it up
in winter and Houston heat
in love and out
must be the wrists
Some days gray is better than blue
because blue is a sky you can't catch in your eyes
blue is a place from which God no longer speaks
blue is a strong taste of salt and protein foam
blue gives you hangovers.
Gray is better along the coastline
clouds obscuring omniscient eyes
clouds making a line between water and air
to better know which to breathe.
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This apology is not an apology for action
but for inaction
For letting embarrassment gag my mouth,
pride tie my hands
For allowing loneliness and fear
nearly let a friendship crumble
Hoping it hasn't crumbled
At least hoping, if it is crumbling,
that these words put forth the first effort
to mend the walls of a fortress
impregnable to arrows, slings, and fortune
but nearly toppled by silence.
This places one buttress to keep the roof held up
Now, waiting for you to move your hand
I can't keep up a fortress alone
I won't try without your consent
It's not worth keeping up
if I'm the only one inside.
But if you were to stand in this fortress with me
I'd gladly use my blood as a pillar
To hold up a roof that won't fall in
To keep us as friends from falling out.
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Devious 333 Contest by devious-smile Devious 333 Contest :icondevious-smile:devious-smile 0 13
So fuck off
Don't try to persuade me
to douse my burning orgasm
What other cheap joys
come so dependably?
Oh, despite all my disappointments,
You, cigarette, I can always count on.
Bad sex still means a light
a puff and taste of pleasure
Thick curling smoke-fingers
stroke my brain better than any lover.
Underpaid work still means a light
a drag and breathless tremor
like thighs trembling
stimulation by jittering plastic.
Smoke it past the camel-ink
Down to the filter
Breathe in the escaping smoke
The cherry trembling through
rain, wind, sleet or snow
burning tame and explosive at my fingers
Prometheus' truest greatest gift of heart.
Best thing about a lover?
If she smells of smoke and sex.
But that's redundant.
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I. Seen
Hips and breasts
Long thighs
Blue eyes
yellow near the pupil
small sun beams
dead in day dreams
Technicolor hair
pink black brown
purple tendril down
above the nape
White skin freckled
Buttocks dimpled
near the base of the spine
Calculaic arc
Ellipses, cirlces
ovals, ovaries
II. Sex
                                Double X's
Double lips
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Your hand gave me the
first touch on the inside.
Same hand, first slap.
No, not the first, but the hardest
because it still had my scent
because this time it drew blood
right up out of my throat.
You split an artery, a vein,
spilling and squirting blood.
I could die if it meant that your neck
a wound equal to mine
No -- too quick for that to be equal.
My bleeding is slow.
I could die if it meant that you burned
carried a bleeding testament
to the dirty way my blood spilled
down over my breasts and belly
neck flapping like fish gills.
You hooked me
I want you scarred
I want it so every time you smiled
the scar would crease and hurt
rob you of smiles
I want it public
so you aren't safe from shame
not from strangers
not from mirrors
I want it deep
so no man can reach into you
and stroke you
without touching the pain
I want to do it!
I want it to be my claw marks
my burning shame
my hate
that breaks your skin and breaks your smile
I want to hear the shatte
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The Road to Self
The Road to Self
The soul must move
The soul is a fish
always pushing through pain
to keep water and life on the gills
The self is what moves through the world
So how am I to move
with no topography of soul
to define where I end, and Other begins?
It's a tremulous space
between self and world
ill-defined, smoky, wavering
a graveyard of cigarettes
The road to self begins
with the first rough negative
the black rock which is not self
an omen to a soul
that must be brushed
and banged and battered
till every bruise is pulsing
till pain makes a demarcation.
Who knew it would be so hard
to step off your father's porch
knowing you could only return
to full boxes, empty rooms?
Unsurewhich black protusion
of the Other, the world,
will cut and bruise the self
potentially sever a connection to an Other
who once made at the center of self,
beyond the scraped off smoke,
the architecture of the soul
and who could bandage the wounds
once the journey is made
and the soul is clear
with arms bleedin
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Tide: The Orpheans of Arion
"Thus the Orpheans of Arion took upon them the vestiges of war, and made no war, but where war was made upon them."
-- the Blood of Kraken, an ancient sea story
Turtle Rock jutted out of the ocean at the edge of the Pacific. It marked the end of the human world for the least curious of the mainlanders, and held a special spiritual significance because of it. As such, only one person lived on Turtle Rock, and even then, she didn't really live on the island. She spent most of her time in the western lagoon. It opened towards the mainland, so the water was especially clear and quiet. Crabs gathered there to feast on the little fishes. They grew fat and big and very juicy, and made a good soup. Catching them was difficult – at least it was so for a thin-armed girl alone on the ship, a a crickety houseboat that had seen too many rainy seasons. It rocked easily, trembling even under her steps. Inside, the belly was stuffed with family heirlooms – wooden crates, fish hooks, woolen socks, du
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Mature content
Succubus :icondevious-smile:devious-smile 1 10
I have had a single love affair
that began in the recesses of my heart
before I knew the woman
before I knew her taste
She is an Oceanid
She is Undine
a fluid form fascinated by
soft and supple things
-- the color of light in rain
oceans and slow rivers
the movement of water
over white bodies
like gentle song
She comes only to me then
only in whispers
trembling fingers down my spine
small inspirations swelling
like storm waves through me
till Art crests full and brilliant
and breaches my soul
crashes upon my mind
shattered, sparkling mosaic
I am left to gather
and when I speak my Art
it leaves upon my tongue
her taste
like water
like the dawn
slow and essential
a languid wine
that spins my mind
intunes me to the pulse of the world
wraps my fragile body
with filaments of divinity
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And one day love will be exhausted
Stumbling, the heterosexual women
will search for thrills with metrosexual men,
who still will beat 3 out of 4, but do it
without wrinkles and stains
And love will not be found
Sprinting, the women will run to each other
harmonize cycles, harmonize desires
publish books and charts and calendars
sell special toys, exponentially bizarre
And love will not be caught
Reaching, all will love all
orgies rioting through the streets
drugs and toys and passing partners
the passionate pursuit of release
And love will not be reached
Grasping, hands will be clenched
communions ordered for disorder
church doors welded open
till the buildings buckle and break
And love will not be clasped
Until at last the race is exhausted
and collapses back into itself
and each woman will look in
find no love where love was not
shut the doors and open windows
shut their eyes and open mouths
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Mature content
Teacher :icondevious-smile:devious-smile 1 3
Mature content
Cock :icondevious-smile:devious-smile 7 42
Art, Interrupted
My hands
ink stains, nicotine stains
black and yellow tattoos
in motion, writing, smoking
my hands, my soul
steeped in ink and
pressed to paper
the rest of me
bent over pages
a silent detachment
from birds and morning
a small white gold moth
lands on my words
I stop my breath.
I stop my hands.
The moth stops too.
Nothing moves,
the birdsong fades
the wind trembles, dies
the sun arrests on the horizon
no breathing, no heartbeat
just the slow circulation of thoughts
mine, or the moth's?
with tremendous beating
silent and deliberate
through cigarette smoke
I am amazed to find
that the coal burns at my fingertips
and has not faded
in the freezing of time.
I am amazed
that the moth had landed
despite the burning,
the coils of smoke.
Didn't it think I was a fire --
or did it think I was a light?
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R. Anne McQueen
Artist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Houston, TX
Favourite genre of music: Rock
Favourite photographer: Aidelon
Favourite style of art: I like poses of the human body, however drawn. Usually fantasy though.
Operating System: XP
MP3 player of choice: Winamp
Shell of choice: Ghost. As in, Ghost in the Shell. heheh
Wallpaper of choice: Cheese.
Skin of choice: Mine. Tastes like water.
Favourite cartoon character: Fujiko, from Lupin III
Personal Quote: Down, down, a little to the left. Ah yes!
I haven't been around much. Mucho drama at the hizzouse. Leave me a message letting me know what I need, NEED, to read/catch up on, so I can keep up with all my fellow cursed ones -- I mean, artists.


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speculative-one Featured By Owner May 22, 2004
/random visit to a deviant's page containing either a novel or serialized story... :teleport:
gnato Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2004  Professional Photographer
haLOL :D
devious-smile Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2004   Writer
wait, what are we laughing at? its' not me, is it?
gnato Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2004  Professional Photographer
do ya like eeyores? then look at this [link]
theunwarymariner Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2004
hey thank you so much for the fav on beat of the congo. i really appreciate that. i should have a cigarette in celebration...okay am i starting to take this smoking thing too far?
devious-smile Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2004   Writer
You can never take smoking too far!! Happiness comes in short little burts, so take as many as you can get. ^_^
theunwarymariner Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2004
that's nice. i agree. what a nice way to look at things.
jphnx22 Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2004
hey congrats on winning the first contest and all. that poem was awesome :clap:
devious-smile Featured By Owner Apr 27, 2004   Writer
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