|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Power IsPower is the skyward sweep of silent marble
up the domineering walls of the electric company.
In my smallness my father took me
to the company office, there not for business
but to see the fish in the company pond.
They awed me even in my youth.
There, leaning into the opaque water,
And there, out of the shallow deep,
a streak of red, a formless black.
Like lightning in malevolent skies
or lurking beneath the city streets.
Power is the pirarucu:
a vast monstrosity, a foreign leviathan,
gliding noiseless and soulless
through swamps of a million centuries.
Smaller fish spin helpless in its wake.
A pirarucu is primeval as they come,
more god than fish in its timelessness.
Oh, and there were two.
I followed it, drawn for an eternity
until it vanished under a bridge.
A tiny ripple, a spark of red, and that was all.
Or was it? No one could tell
where it might surface next.
We had to go and pay the electric bill.
I followed my dad from the pond, from the office,
cold shadow o
Portrait of a Student LeaderShe leads a student protest,
protesting a tuition increase,
which one they've lost count, she says;
Raising their angry slogans,
streaked in cadmium red,
JUNK THIS LAW and SCRAP THAT POLICY and NO TO THIS and NO TO THAT,
Cadmium red, in her voice, in her fist.
Here I sit, and paint.
She squints over the exam paper,
Reading through reading glasses,
Challenged and yet confident, knowing she's revised well for this.
Methodically she puts graphite to answer sheet,
Perfect circles all: A, A, A, A, B, A, B, A,
which could describe her grades. (We use another system though.)
Graphite on titanium white,
in orange circles. I can't know her answers,
of course; that would be cheating.
I need to get back to my exam,
and after that, back to my painting.
When I'm done, I'll paint.
She runs with the ball, runs with it,
Over a field, ochre with government neglect,
but forest green with the living rain.
Her feet on the ball, unbroken like a young Maradona,
Midfielders, defenders all a blur,
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More