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About Deviant Holly GolightlyFemale/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
Snow Days
I was standing next to the chair talking to you on the phone
and you were so loud I could barely hear you and there was a chair and I
was standing next to it.
talking to you in woolen socks
it is the only way I talk to anyone.
You have given me a box of chocolates and the box it weighs three pounds.
things make sense like this heavy box snow outside your green voice
and of course socks.
six snowed inches on the yard: effectives and causes
you are small things you are
wrinkles and pauses.
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Literature
Seven Songs of Narcissus
I.
He spent the day alone all week because
sometimes if you look at your black pupils in glass
you can see the lemondrop pollen rattling.
II.
When the alarm went off on the vending machine
they said Narcissus why would you kick it? and the
diet cokes were stuck but nothing came out.
III.
Water-veined and reverberating,
Narcissus is his echo echo echo.
IV.
He said Narcissus can be loved.
She said Narcissus can be loved.
He said Narcissus—what did you say?
V.
Flowers do not blink too much and they
do not sweat at dinner parties.
VI.
Echo asks Why do you love me, you never
say and he says nothing thinking Oh sweetheart
Oh, sweetheart and muddy words between pale toes.
VII.
When you are alone you are alone
When you are alone you are petals afloat
and it is quiet.
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Literature
Hands.
a history
My first four-letter word had painter hands:
prominent red knuckles and long white fingers.
I was seventeen eyes of cerulean the morning
he showed me his crooked twilight heart.
          Some things you don’t forget easily.
          the sound of flesh on flesh
          the sharp cry of dying skin.
Swift-fisted my blackening dusk boy
left purple thumbprints on his pale stomach.
I could not wrench his artist’s fingers
from the red crescent cradles in his palms.
          And I stayed awake, thinking of it
          and how I hid my face in his shirt
          and held on tightly, waiting.
It’s like: Atalanta falls for the same trick three times.
  &
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Literature
Domesticating
I love to watch you sleep:
the slim whistle of breathing through stuffed nose;
the sweat at your hairline and ice of your toes;
jelly bones, slack-jawed Brigitte Bardot.
oh and
the hums and gasps of slow-wave sleep;
the trace of your warm spittle left on the sheets
the fling of your elbows and starshaped bed greed;
I love to watch you sleep.
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Literature
EVE
           It's that time of the lunar month
          when my moods are napoleonic,
          rampaging and expanding,  gone,
        returning and exploding, gone again
     and yet clinging to life still in Louisiana,
     justifying themselves. Here is the inferno,
    so go glut yourself on the grime in me, but
  underneath is the soul O underneath is the sea.
  In the night cocoon          I could cry at things
  the buglight  from             like this:  bacteria,
  the moon renders         
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Literature
ProfilefortheCriminallyInsane
Likes:
barefoot kitchen mornings, uncaused causes, teeth-clicking kisses, unexplained bruises,
word documents.
Dislikes:
popsicle sticks, gravel, raw paper, sugar cane plantations, the distance between two
suburban houses.
Turn-ons:
the organic smells of a man's sweatshirt; the exoticism of his deodorant;
the unrepentant belly of an older man and the way it fits right against me,
convex to concave.
Turn-offs:
face-licking; floral incense romantic dinners; the whir of the treadmill;
the green light under the escalator; form-fitting maternity clothes; those
rotating hotel doors.
Hobbies:
running instead of walking, skipping instead of running,
burrowing in a soft yielding not-chest not-shoulder, and
telling stories that mostly aren't true but should be.
Who I'd Like to Meet:
Charles Manson, Colonel Mustard, Van Veen,
the man who hung the stars and
the girl who keeps them clean.
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Literature
Hope v. Hope
I.
Seven fish lined head to fin would fill the dark space under your tongue.
Sixteen nights now trapped there time starts to unroll in pale undeveloped negatives.
I like fuzzy things. I hope one day to be
a fuzzy thing
my-
self.
II.
Under the wide roof of your starsack
glowing saints held parousia back.
(If nothing won't come from nothing,
maybe some
thing
will.)
Two times slashed these sharp triangle breasts,
exit wounds of my love on his chest.
III.
Infinity went door to door and the commuters asked
who is that eight lying there drunk on his side.
If you push me I won't push back,
I'll just pick
and
roll.
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Literature
To the lover who slept...
There have been these things,
violin-concerto, anti-lubricant,
could-you-please-not-sing;
I am a dog to the moon's man,
a moon to the man's dog.
But love me like this if you can:
brightly,
humanly,
brightly.
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Literature
Florence
Okay. Okay, just to rush into it then, 'cause you know I'm no good at this—
I have to tell you about those poems you wrote me, not that they weren't
you know great and everything, but
No. No, no, I never said I was going to I don't know cure you or fix you or
anything like that, I just wanted you to be—well you know, sort of—happy.
I just want to make people—happy.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I apologize so much. Sorry I listened to you talk about
well everything, sorry I said things so awkward they became kind of intimate,
sorry I was prickly and transparent.
Because, because you could see my soft bumpy heart lying warm and raw there,
it even seemed like it was needing you maybe—I can see that, I really can, but
everything is layers and layers and—
I know. I know. But is it okay if I lie here pretending to be unconscious, choiceless,
groggy, insulin-filled—not enough to move, not enough this friendship and friction—
I know I've been leaky and I'm sorry
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Literature
Moonstruck Manor
Mrs. Katie Miller's granddaughter founded Moonstruck Manor six years ago. The granddaughter didn't work there, of course, but she thought it a nice gesture nonetheless. She asked her ailing grandmother what the name of the establishment should be, and Mrs. Katie Miller of Scarborough Street said, "Moonstruck Manor." The granddaughter thought that was a very romantic-sounding name. They put up a sign with green lettering and the granddaughter kissed Katie's papery cheek and moved quite across the country to some town in Arizona with her second husband once removed.
Mrs. Miller was of what her fretful therapist called a poetical disposition. She enjoyed writing, but the able therapist had this to say: Her work is insufferably shoddy. The able therapist also had this to say: She is probably suffering from an advanced 'Lectra complex exacerbated by age, or in layman's terms, the old woman's in love with her father. As Mr. Miller (though that wasn't, of course, his real name, as his last na
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Literature
Ladybugs
Nana told us about telling how old a ladybug is.
It's like the rings on a tree, only dots.
Nana told us that someday we will have hair under our arms,
curly black hairs,
but she is sometimes wrong about things like that.
Nana has dots on her hands.
I guess she is twenty-seven years old.
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Literature
Killing what you love is okay
Saint Veronica has sought my face, rotting in her reserved pew;
but I watch these six piranhas pace and think of flesh as food.
A dozen times I've squatted here, bleating with the blackface ewes.
Gravity cracks me like a chiropractor and I think of hurting you.
Twenty-four seconds of holding my breath, Amens fell down my face,
and there and there at the carnal apex—O Lud o Lud o lud.
I am a bar of soap in the pillowcase.
I smell nicer than your sticky blood.
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Literature
This Morning in the Thundersto
the rain
the pouring rain:
all boneless except for my hair
melt along the asphalt
jolt of each raindrop clapping against the ground
sending tremors up my thighs and out of my mouth.
laughing
laughing in the rain alone:
supine in the mud
windless arrows of grey rain move in straight lines
the geometry of the earth is curling and uncurling,
warm golden feline,
small against my pores.
all the fiery loops of life are loose gravel under yellow rubber boots,
clouds built upon
concrete built
upon swamp.
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Literature
One Sleeping Leg
My leg has fallen asleep.
My left leg, if you want to know.
(People always love to hear little details like that.)
I have been trying to write for an hour now, sitting here,
and my stockings have more runs than a tourist in Tijuana.
(I'm always saying such awful, such clever things like that.)
But these heavy brown Classics have nothing on
a birthday card with two lines that make you
roll your eyes and smile a little and I think that
a birthday card with googly eyes is a better poem than
most things you can read with their fat meaningful binding.
Maybe I will write a book with no binding,
or just punch holes in it and tie it up with ribbon like
some first-grade teacher with a kid holding onto her leg.
I want to write like I have a kid holding onto my leg,
my left leg that is asleep.
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Literature
Disappearing
It is snowing again and I hurt in
the seam of skin against my fingernail,
the air between my unzipped entrails.
I want to put all my disappearing bits into a bottle.
I will shake them up well and
they will float there, clear but viscous.
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Literature
Dream
I like dreaming.
But more than dreaming
I like the fact that it conjugates to dreamt.
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Random Favourites

Literature
Because She's Been Silent
Never enough ribs to count
standing in front of the
mirror, hands slippng down
her chest, under her breasts,
around the bumps, indents
of the roads to her heart,
down her navel, past lungs
squeezing themselves for air
and expelling it in
coughing fits, watering
her eyes. She cried daily,
fingering her collar
bones to check if they were
tight against her skin. her
resolution was a
neck of vertibrae to
keep her fleshy cheeks from
falling too far when she
sighed. She wished for the strength
to be anorexic
or bulimic, to send
the last curve hugging her
hips away, force it to
meet the sparkle in her
eyes that fled when pastel
virginity proved to
be sticky. There was no
hope for anything but
the circular motion of
the toilet bowl or the
harsh lines of her knuckles,
protruding hip bones, sharp
shoulders and smiles with too
many teeth. She still cared
too much, weighed too much, was
not enough for anything
but artistic freedom and
its shot in the click
click bang game of roulette
she was desti
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Literature
Mark - Part 1
Somewhere in the world, there is a boy who poured petrol on a cat, and lit it on fire, and laughed while the feline danced around the room like a dancer who happened to be on fire, and also a cat. That boy doesn't have anything to do with this story, but they say that a butterfly flapping its wings in Cambodia can cause a sand storm in Iceland, so maybe that boy has a lot to do with the events that unfolded. But I really doubt a cat on fire has anything to do with an alien that shoots little aliens out of its mouth (that also shoot smaller aliens out of their mouths, which goes for infinity), but these aliens also don't exist in my story.
Maybe I should start by introducing myself. It was a Sunday, and I had just come home from doing stuff at some place that I went to, when suddenly! The phone rang. On the other hand, I picked up the phone. What could I say except "Hello?" Well, I could say "Hi," but I said "Hello," since my social brainwashing had brainwashed me to say "Hello" instead
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Literature
Mark - Part 2
12:00 AM. I cannot sleep. The numbers on my alarm clock blink like a child that has got sand in his eyes. Who could it have been on the phone? Was it a psychotic killer who wanted to cut my body into neat pieces so he could make a jigsaw puzzle out of me, and then reassemble them into me again in his free time, because of a traumatizing incident involving jigsaws and his parents' death?
12:00 AM. I still cannot sleep. My mind rushes back to the phone again, and its enigmatic caller. Maybe it was a long lost brother? Or a long lost sister? No, that could not have been, since the caller had a male voice. Unless it was a sister I once had, and then lost (long ago), who then had a sex change to escape her brother who would rape her. It made sense, but that would mean I also had a long lost brother who would rape her. Could I deal with a rapist for a brother, a transsexual for a sister, and an ex-prostitute with a heart of gold for a mother? No, I couldn't. None of it could be true anyway.
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Literature
Mark - Part 3
Chapter Three The Visit!
I sat in a chair which was located in my office, which is a room in a building, and the building resides in a small city that has other cities surrounding it, and these cities are part of a country, of which, by bizarre coincidence, is also where I am from.
I looked at my right wrist to see what time it was, but then I realized that I didn't wear a wrist watch, so I was forced to look at the wall clock, only to notice that I didn't actually have an wall clock, and in a frenzied panic, I cast my eyes down, and noticed that I DID actually have a watch on my left wrist, and I calmed down. It was 7:30 pm. But what if I wasn't wearing a watch? What then? I wouldn't have known that it was 7:30pm, would I? It could have been any hour of the day, and this thought send a really cold shiver down some bone in my back, because it dawned on me that I had escaped a time-less eternity.
"Come in", I said with a jump because the knock that came on my door two seconds before I
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Literature
Forgotten Teddy Bear
discarded teddy
i am tearing at the seams
push the fluff back in
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leaving hope... by orangebutt leaving hope... :iconorangebutt:orangebutt 245 198
Literature
our garden.
"if you ever need to tell me something, carve it into the birch tree."  you smiled the same way you smiled when we played with grandma's porcelain dolls, whispering behind closet doors, giggling to ourselves.  i guess i laughed to myself the same way when you made that reassuring statement; like i could carve all of my secrets and feelings of emptiness onto a tree in our grandparents' lawn.  so many days we spent sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling notes to each other and coloring in our coloring books.  you'd paint the picture and i'd tell the story.  that's how it always was.
i saw you at the grocery store the other day, i don't know if you know that.  you were with that boy, brian, i think.  you leaned up on him like his limbs were your own; grabbing and tugging at his arm, looking at him with those big blue eyes that give you everything you want, but nothing you need.  you poured yourself all over
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Literature
Stolen Kiss
You walk through the door
I look up
Catch your eye across the hall
My heart stops
Your eyes stay connected with mine
We get closer with every step
Like a moth to a flame
I barely note my motion
I am entranced by the color of your eyes
Such a perfect azure hue
Its like looking at the sky
I could gaze at it for days
Suddenly we are upon one another
The ground meets the sky at last
Reality slows, time halts
We are inches apart
I can feel your breath upon my cheek
Leaning in a fraction closer
Your lips so close to mine
Your arms come around to encompass me
First, a whisper of lips upon its mate
Then a deepening pressure
My hand reaches up to touch your face
We stand locked together
In this moment out of time
Abruptly, time starts again
It rushes forward to make up for time lost
The kiss has ended and you've brushed past me
My chance to savor snatched away
You are walking away now
I stare at your retreating back
Slowly, I brush a finger across my throbbing lips
You look back as you disappea
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Solace and Explanation by slayryder Solace and Explanation :iconslayryder:slayryder 207 114
Literature
Trapped
a blur of left hand
turn signals and I cannot
get out of this town
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comrade to the old room by ornela comrade to the old room :iconornela:ornela 8 17

Activity


deviantID

yellowroses
Holly Golightly
United States
Favourite cartoon character: Lilo, Belle, Vegeta
Personal Quote: "The bastard! He doesn't exist!"
Interests
  • Listening to: Lorelei-- Cocteau Twins
  • Reading: Disquisition on Government: John C. Calhoun
The deadline for submissions to our school literary magazine was midnight tonight. I sent in my five poems with minutes to spare. Five was more than I wanted to send in. I'm not sure why I sent that many, ultimately. Five different emails, five different times I clicked send and felt that little jolt of mortified anxiety I used to feel before showing anyone my work. That wondering how good is it really. As if there were some accepted yardstick of poetic excellence by which I—or the editorial board for that matter—could measure it. In short, I regressed.

I'm no longer on the editorial board for the magazine, and haven't been since freshman year. I didn't submit any poems last year in some vague and wholly ineffective attempt at protest because I didn't like the way the organization was run. As it happened, the magazine from last spring was filled with the writings of only a handful of people whom I personally would not term particularly talented. I don't know if that pleased or offended me in the end.

So, if the quality of writing was so thoroughly mediocre last semester, why would I worry about how my own poetry would be received? Well, I'm not sure what the answer to that question is, to be honest. It seems to boil down to this unending engagement I have with my ego; I'm never certain that I'm winning that particular war, or even what it would mean to win. But let me tell you what I think it is. I think that every poet has artistic vanity in droves and that, underneath all their protestations of modesty, poets truly think that their contributions to the field are original and somehow significant. No matter how trite, how maudlin or how startlingly uncreative the poem might be, the writer feels an emotional weight within the piece and a maternal attachment to it. It's difficult not to.

But then, when the warm glow of creation has faded and the emotions which inspired the poem grow cool and distant, the poet rereads her work and wonders where the merit she so recently found there has gone. There's this conflict I experience as—not a writer, I wouldn't say, but someone who writes—between repulsion at my own inadequacies of expression and the unshakable conviction that somehow the poems deserve praise. And, in the end, why do I write poetry if not to parade my intellectual and emotional status before the eyes of someone—anyone? How low it seems. But at the same time, don't I read some poets and think, Thank God, oh thank god they wrote this poem? Is there true and inarguable artistry, and where is it? How can I attain it? Will I know if I have? How is The Red Wheelbarrow a masterwork and my short poetry abstractist shit?

I submitted an updated version of Profile for the Criminally Insane to the magazine. Doing so raised questions for me about what poetry actually is. My first thought was that they would never accept it because it wasn't in the format of all the poems they published last year—it didn't look like a poem. It wasn't long and it didn't talk about feelings. It didn't even rhyme except in a little burst at the end. But is it a poem? I thought so when I posted it here, and some part of me still thinks so now. And what about the other fits of typographical ecstasy that I have here? Are they poems? Are they art at all, or are they self-indulgent semantic games played with myself?

Self-indulgence is the hallmark of most poetry, I find. You have to believe your perspective is a meaningful one to undertake the endeavor of writing; yet poetry seems, more than many other media, to demand humility and skepticism of its creator. Is it possible to reconcile the two, or are we stuck on the one hand with sometimes-brilliant, sometimes-insipid ramblings and on the other with complete creative paralysis?

No answers tonight, just questions and more questions.

Comments


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:iconpompuspb:
pompuspb Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
where did u go. i miss u you see badly now
deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
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:icontouchvanderboom:
TouchVanDerBoom Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2009
Where did you find that avatar? Ugly Betty has that necklace and I'm wondering if it's a reference to something.
Reply
:iconyellowroses:
yellowroses Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2009
I'm not sure about Ugly Betty, but it's Anne Boleyn's famous necklace that she used to wear all the time. She was the second wife of King Henry VIII.
Reply
:iconsparrowsong:
SparrowSong Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Ugly Betty does wear a copy of it. [link]

I got extra credit in Renaissance Lit by bringing in pictures of the two, which shows how the Renaissance still affects our artistic sensibilities. Worth a shot if you're in school.
Reply
:iconinklover:
inklover Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2009
hey how have you been? miss ur writing:heart: i'm tripping down the yellow brick road and got stuck in the field of poppies...waiting for the Lion to come and carry me out....I might be like rip van winkle......:giggle:
Reply
:iconinklover:
inklover Featured By Owner Apr 3, 2009
no matter how infinitesimal things are, they are great:heart:
Reply
:iconle-robot:
le-robot Featured By Owner Aug 30, 2008
thanks dear!
Reply
:iconself-intoxication:
Self-Intoxication Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2008
I think I read some of your stuff once and decided that I love you. But now I don't remember if it was you. I guess I could have read over some of your stuff again before I told you that.

*shrugs*
Reply
:iconstewdog:
Stewdog Featured By Owner Mar 7, 2008
Hi! Thank you so much for the :+fav:'s you gave me awhile back. Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you. :)
Reply
:icontwilights-maiden:
Twilights-Maiden Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2008  Hobbyist General Artist
good stuff!! :)
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