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About Deviant Core Member MoonbeamsFemale/United States Group :iconunrealists: unrealists
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Deviant for 13 Years
10 Month Core Membership
Statistics 248 Deviations 1,069 Comments 28,211 Pageviews


shes in plasma
I, the ghost,
hold tangible things
like sun rays slipping
through windows
and dustfires burning up
in thin, wisped fingers
and connecting joints
but you, elusive
you, ambient
dissolve instead.
I know you like futures,
like I know anything
at all.
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 6 2
kingdom come, legion of stans
you bold, bitchy tart
tawdry, asinine angerwave
crashing down in fabricated facts
and pressure-cooked narratives
America, you’ve gone
and broken hearts;
you’re stalking attention-starved
whores of commerce,
cramming fists of popcorn
and hate-watching your enemies
in high-definition
from the lazy comforts of your couch
where there was can-do,
gung-ho optimism
and genuine, thoughtful criticisms
of our failures
now there’s nothing
but bacon-wrapped bullshit,
an unintelligible haze of half-baked,
heavy-handed heckling and sardonicism
you’ve grown septic, dyspeptic
downright apopoplectic
over your emotional need to elevate
your own devalued sense of self
america, you’ve stopped listening
to anything that disagrees with you,
perhaps afraid of the humiliation
if you were to ever change your mind
because that would be admission
that you were wrong
that would be concrete, crystal clear evidence
of your deepest insecurities
and you’d rather have them a
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 12 22
A Father's Days
fathers need more than one day
to combine Legion's voices
into a semblance
of the one they once had
to conduct its apology
to wives and to widows
of the world
for making them mothers
and fathers need more
than the remaining year
to unload the age
from their bodies
into not-wives and lovers
the comfort and recharge
that makes them the men
their children will soon forget
now i stare into a distant
and starless corner
your wrinkle in my reflection
i drop a stone in it
that's yet to hit bottom
and wonder how i'll be remembered
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 8 11
Association with Mr. Grey
Matron of all bedrooms:
Would you look at the eyelids of the windows
and see that no surgery
supposedly commited by the roller
has been able to keep the skin
on the walls.
Foolish of me:
You are too busy
importing the newest quackery
to unpale your face
and paint
the veins of your guise
to look at
the metaphor for your entrails.
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 2 0
Politics of the dripping washer
While the buffoons
-the audience,
not the greasy faces hidden
with powder and paint-
rejoice on their incoming
crashing wheels
all we can do
is grasp the hanger
that the machine
has made
the floor,
and the nation´s future,
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 2 4
Skeleton cross, a pirated dream
Ghost ships, a saucer full of hidden secret
The witching hour, craft skies of superstition
Sunken treasure, castaway to a mystery of intrigue
Drowning in the abyss, a sceptic to mysticism
Port of call, haul of lost souls
Sea of stars, ship wrecked in the night
:iconrjbg:RJBG 16 2
godsplanet (repetitious earth misery)
while asleep,
white scalp phosphorus
predilection for heaven's gate-
ruminating with blood wine
spilled by seizing extremities-
a sweet-tooth for pearls
choked down by swine.
what does clay dream of
when it molds itself?
is it a dream
if we call it faith?
smothering pillow catches,
high threadcount incense
fuses with bone.
give me rome
and delusions of grandiose plans
for we mortals coiled
in drought-ridden plains.
i swear i will make
my father's mistakes
better, swear i will fall
on roses, swear i will bleed
debts and cholera.
is it unseemly
to grope
for meaning?
no home, no countryside,
no water for the droning on.
let the speakers' tongues
swell and be swallowed.
quiet us all
with garroting,
there was no cause
for this.
when earth burns
from within
is it dreaming
of forming
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 9 4
earth feels moon's
need slack,
scans dark side's
absent facets,
broods drearily
and gasps.
in fact, moon's
need is maximized,
can't keep asking
but can't rely
on earth's shine
and lapse.
earth waxes poetic,
moon wanes alone.
earth blames the static,
moon makes a home
amidst the void,
a darling expanse
of unknowns and
active fears;
they revolve,
for years.
then moon
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 32 10
{ < input: silence.mp3 />
       post_response = /noise(
  run: prgm[“static”] head:
         { >create_new
         { ‘accept’ = stimulus : hi_vol
          =file ://normal.exe {
                                ‘/ return_it .
                f(search: in.btwn ; parsed_legs
                                             ; container(s): empty
:iconsuccesswithhonor:successwithhonor 6 0
From Where the Sun Sits
there are no people left here
and i realize
how off-center from true
our clock spindles turn
there's no division of time
even remotely, ever-enough
to convey a day
from where the sun sits
and i have to wonder
if beneficent stars
form their own networks
of social celestial tribes
joking that each cultivates
the next great innovator
while the other nurtures
a next wave of mass destruction
and to what they've seen
and all the times they've seen it
i ask, just how far behind the curve
our leanings toward genocide
position us
and their patient silence
hangs only warm light
between our void and our being
where its quiet answer finds us
there are no people left here
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 12 26
Compassion for the Recidivist
Truly, he was my kryptonite.
His strange and wonderful presence
Tapped into a vein, a crack in my citadel
That went all the way down
Into the muddled heart of me.
I can forgive me for being helplessly drawn to him
Again and again.
I know how it happened.
:iconsquibblyquill:squibblyquill 3 2
Defying the omen
Faith is both an honor and a curse  
As your hand rests upon my ethos,
Mouthing of silent devotions first,
Supplicant in your fever's Eros.
To summon the balance of portent  
From scarab oracles' age'd stay,
That has you bargain for a life's rent  
Of always, only just one more day__
For an urn of emblazoned frescoes,
With processions of bulls, and of maids,  
Filled e'er white with ashes bright as bone;
Earnest to the marrow, it ne'er fades.
:iconjade-pandora:Jade-Pandora 40 53
gina haspel
has these odd growths that i wondered but forgot about
lopping off anything extraneous and reinforcing the foundations
i felt something tangible pressed against unreality
afterwards i was the same and the sameness grew in intensity
something arbitrarily chosen and stuck to no matter what
with violent reaction against anything that disturbs it
it is formless and weightless and colorless and i talk about it a lot
in this pod in which i was born and was turned into this shape
the sunlit splinters of a consciousness that blasts signals back in upon itself
to noiselessly aspyxiate in eternal recurrence
on a blue mound where i think i'm a duck
:iconmuteloop:muteloop 3 0
cursive coiled around
her wrist, somehow
descenders and finials
glisten as they bite.
bracelet of fanged type,
she curses each time
she begs it bind her
this dictionary
of self-worth,
greedy lexicon of
meaning sharpened throughout
the years, is necessary.
every symbol speaks
a fear, a tear, or weary
acceptance. she
recites each one in every
broken mirror.
sometimes, the shards
reflect beyond the wrist,
up a scarred armlet,
across an embledded torc.
sometimes, she feels
the script corset
grip like a maiden
of iron.
the idea of freedom
confined by the teeth
of language;
she weeps.
when dawn breaks
she will pretend
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 37 13

Newest Deviations

Apoptosis 2
As if taking my queue from stars,
coming back down to earth
I only halfway clear away the clouds
to the blur of lit thoroughfares,
like a slide beneath a microscopic lens  --  
a stop motion
between shadows of foliage,
an inverse sky
with its case for skies,
the dark procession
contrasting the sun,
sky lanterns released
only to stand apart
from the stillness of high-rises  --  
lights going out one by one,
every neon sign and antiquated bulb
giving way to dawn.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 0
We spent enough time in the shade of sidewalks,
feet and hands stained in blackberry juice
to have absorbed the sunlit fences, and how they would thread
without knowing, without ever looking up
until houses vanished,
and telephone wires disappeared into clouds.
We could feel the nondescript flow
between the air and grooves of our skin.
But we were still young enough; it being Spring,
and early yet in the evening, to be left as we were
for a moment  --  
the distance blurring, the sky and field
shedding shades to emerge as one,
closing together like a palm had laid down to rest over us.
The flutter about the trees
unconcerned with being petals,
leaves, or butterflies.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 7 8
In The Heart Of Silhouettes
Do you lose a part of yourself
in the well of time?
With the memory of hemispheres,
skimming across the green?
The rainbow inside of you
never able to retain itself  
as colors bleed together
crashing the frond into the scow
with miles between them.
When we come together
it is out of passion.
Or maybe there is something about shadows,
the overlap, and dreams to be had
in the dearth of radiance
reminiscent of arms  --  
the ground growing over bones,
paper absorbing words.
Maybe it was all for the dream of arms.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 1 0
If I stare long enough
the dots of red rise from the lane,
realign themselves into a whittling waltz
upon movement.
As I step into the road
the line inches forward like a gathering wave  --
a conscious chrome-tipped tide
toying with my shadow along the curb
knocking me aside like the hem of a flag
against the wind.
In the evening
the same road drones on like a sea,
its sighs finding me through curtains
and chamomile breezes
swept between the blades of my fan;
a nightly ritual of windows
across the way  --  
stops between destinations,
the serenade of a lit cigarette
in frames
between rows of light and boxes.
It's as if there's never been a need
to look any farther,
to peel the hours away
to the surge of soft organs of us
swarming upon each other
like sperm rushing to somewhere
and flushed away again.
The world has always been pregnant
with something larger than us  
with its horizons, layers of sky,
sun glares sinking into glass.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 2
Ebb And Flow
What if we could see how we fold together
the way leaves
that have gone through their green
and graceful glide
fill the ground with autumn
to mid-evening sky
like a gradient waiting for its details  --  
children poking at piles,
lovers chasing sunsets
like points of light and shadow
meeting and coming apart again,
but never really apart at all.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 5
Drawing Wind
The gray streaked with sun and sea green
runs between the children
inching into color
like the strings they hold  --  
pulled from them
a bird's flight tilts,
and maybe the sky and ocean too;
threads through every pore, and follicle
enough to remember as the momentum slows  --  
our hands and wrists continuing to move
when the mind has long let go,
and I wonder
why we too can't just skid across the shoals
torn and tangled in our own threads and broken frames,
a skewed and scattered mess of what we always were;
to be stored away so neatly a memory,
and seen again, embraced.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 5
Bridge Between Homes
Expansion grates have always been
something like the spores of silence opening
as if the muffling of voices should follow
stinging syllables together  --  
the transition from one language to another
as if we hadn't yet forgotten the sequence of the sea,
the serpentine glide of a current that takes us
like krill between teeth,
the daylight just another yard spilled over,
another unbreakable surface
wavering between slabs of shadow
releasing salt from her heat hewn hands as she goes
softening windows to the night.
It has to be foreign where I'm going.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 0
In A Garden
our palms press together
like leaves left that way from past storms  --
flattened and left to dry against the cement
as incremental winds work at them until one lifts to join the current
as if only the cast left in the faded color of stone
is what they are, or were ever meant to be  --   etchings in door frames,
gold-leaf invitations, molds recycled.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 6 0
Before Sunrise
My sight sometimes
comes like a servant with her secrets
following the palpitations of some much larger heart  --  
the dawn like a glitch in her programming,
a slot she's let slip through the cracks
she can't contain;
a sky and streetlamp not competing,
no sallow midnight drained of stars,
no clashing cataclysm of light and shadows
of us,
no streak of motion or light that strays too far, or huddles too close
to know where it is;
just an empty street of indigo walls and amber light
like a bedroom left unoccupied,
secrets strewn in corners somewhere,
dreams still hanging on the hems of thought
like children we're willing to briefly entertain,
like optimism before it fades.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 3 3
Light Speed
A rainfall in the north leaves all things translucent,
the world on the other side
a plane I'm unaware I've breached,
footsteps as divine as a ghost's,
as temporary as my wonder,
as a rainbow that knows
the light is not the presence, but its rationing,
that I will follow the road
until it is just another road,
or lose myself in the light-pools of streetlamps for so long
I pass milestones.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 8 8
The Carillon Plays Us
I walk into the subliminal swing,
the sky in the light on the copper inside
swapping shadow for sun,
for dawn, for sunrise  --  
the silhouette of the black
of buildings buried in the tarnish
as they're remembered  --  
deeper inside are roads
as seen through screen and balcony,
patina sunsets  --  
an alloy moving through its mold
of tableau patterns and gates
pouring a polyphony of notes  --  
we are a reverberation,
an afterthought,
a flock of crows eclipsing noon.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 5
As The Yard Becomes Familiar
Somewhere around the time I lose count
of mornings,
as they become habit,
the tree merges with me  --  
dying inside;
roots coiled in my stomach,
vines pulled through my arms
and nettled about my heart.
Anthers shake pollen to the mind
laying seeds inside and out;
the growth slowing rivers,
blighting the sun
for the sake of these eyes.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 7 2
Going Through Boxes
There was a time when keepsakes
kept pace with our hearts  --  
the face in a photo succumbing to time,
recognizable only by strands of hair
pulled a certain way, in a familiar lean
behind the cloud on the white albumen
leaving the flesh of a face
as it is when it haunts rooms.
There's something about shelves
and shoeboxes, and stumbling upon;
about haze, and lack of clarity
pulling from the reservoir inside of us
to fill our sight
as we say without saying,
stop here.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 0
The Beginnings That Lie In Closeness
Remember when the flashlight
turned the palm into a canvas?
Brought it into the light
baring bones of fingers
smoothed of their joints,
like an x ray
of the earliest sketch of us,
like the osteal lines
of a neighborhood
beneath the moon
relegated to the idea of itself
as we turn to dreams?  
It was around that time I recalled
how I was wrong about the waves
inside the shell,
not knowing
they were behind my ear,
pouring through my veins
with the same eagerness  
to rush, to hear
what they longed to hear.
The ocean was always lighter in my mind
in its blue
than the deep shades of green and gray
it holds in the day.
A sketch
can be anything you want it to be,
a dissipating fog remembering
as it hugs you,
a light in the distance courting the eye.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 42 9
Do Not Disturb
The room becomes a barometer
for how deep you've fallen
within yourself,
your absence measured
by changing tints of screen
and how they dance
unmitigated by your movement
as if stumbling serendipitously
upon an empty stage  --  
the circus of your mind released,
the world of you in our periphery.
The sun rises over it like a time lapse
of centuries
revealing the spaces left of floor,
cobwebs like slabs
you'd broken through along the way,
a language encrypted.
I think I could find your heart sometimes
in the low-light
like a scroll coasting in the darkness,
an epilogue.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 1 3
In Dreaming Of Snow
winter here is a brief fog that fades in the glass,
a memory of frost and white window frames  --  
a nostalgia for light and decorations spilling onto snow,
the tree on the other side twinkling like stars in an unpolluted desert sky  --  
that always guides me back to the child;
how seeing them for the first time was the first gift to unwrap.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 3 0
They can be negative or positive, but either way they have a pretty revealing nature about them, don't they?  They can provoke a maelstrom of fear and anxiety, or intrigue and pleasure, on the tails of specific events in our lives, however major or insignificant.  When they have a negative impact you can either embrace more magical thinking in countering them, or attack them with logic;  there's never a dispute in the latter.  When they're of a positive nature there's no dispute in embracing them for all that they're worth, fallacies included  --  but there shouldn't be for reasoning their magical nature away either.  For some the act itself is treated like writing life away, but is it really?  Isn't it the unnecessary, and excessive worshipping of the positive that drags us into the undertow of the negative?  Why can't we learn to take things for what they are, assure ourselves of our reality in times of uncertainty, and simply appreciate surprises for their serendipitous nature when times are more plentiful?  
  • Listening to: Sad Songs
  • Reading: Text Books
  • Watching: My flickering screen
  • Playing: Nada
  • Eating: The thick humidity
  • Drinking: Burnt Coffee


United States

What Should I Put Here?


Everything you do in life is because. . . 

13 deviants said you desire to leave behind an even slightly better world
4 deviants said You are sure you will have lived a life with very few regrets when your time comes
3 deviants said You desire to express yourself, and you choose the venue that suits it best
2 deviants said Of a deterministic universe
1 deviant said You're a slave to your biological gene and at the mercy of precarious whim
No deviants said Society has conditioned you to do so


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oviedomedina Featured By Owner 2 days ago
Thank you very much for the favorites!
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank Fav1 by Alimera

I always appreciate your support, dearest. :heart:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner May 28, 2018
Thank you for the comment and the favorite!
oviedomedina Featured By Owner May 17, 2018
Again, thank you very much for the favorite!
oviedomedina Featured By Owner May 7, 2018
Thank you very much for the favorite and the comment!
Jade-Pandora Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2018
Gosh, many thanks for the faves you've honored some of my NaPo entries with:
Moonbeams Featured By Owner Edited Apr 28, 2018
You're most welcome.  It was a pleasure.
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2018
And once again, thank you for your latest favorite!
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2018
Thank you very much for the favorites!
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Greetings and much n many thanks to you. :)
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