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About Varied / Student Member RowenaFemale/Australia Group :iconlegitlit: LegitLit
 
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Poetry, short stories, photography, drawings, art projects/assignments... lots of quite random stuff! Take a look, you never know what you'll find :)

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I have read written spoken analysed
Interpreted dissected regurgitated
Discussed too many English words
They are becoming foreign
Muddled, confusing conflicting
One another so that
Interrelated disgust directed
Hypertextually between
Syntaxes of hyperbolic
Cross-generic transmutations
Blur gently with hyperactive
Crosshatches of transpondent
Derigent authoritative
Contextualised butterlilies
Pancake their permeated
Skin with teeth of automethnic
Corrugations that hold relations
To municipality and cross-nar-
Rative  transgeneric hatchises
Transcribing death from a stringer
Of reflexive adjuncts on discursive
Rhetorical explosives expositionally
Analogising  pin-prick needles
No longer know
Themselves from a tigerfly.
Wake up. Song playing in my head.
Play it out. Heard it before?
No, made it up this time.
On repeat all morning, the same
Snatch of music, no origin,
No end. Repeat, repeat,
Repeat. Da-dum, da-dum,
Da-dum.   Da-dum. Has to be four.

Do it again.
Dadum dadum dadum dadum.

Boil the kettle, choose a mug.
If you don't choose the right one,
You'll feel like shit all day.
Agonising tension.
Breaks, I choose a mug.
Hope it's the right one,
it is it is it is it is.
(it isn't.) It is.

Pick a teaspoon.
Better get the right one,
Or you don't love your mum.
I do love her, I do love her.
Prove it.
The right one. There.

Now stir.
Four times that way,
Four times that way.
Shit, one extra. Have
to even it out now.
Four that way, then five,
Then four and four for good measure.
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.

All these calculations twisting around,
Constant give-and-take
Transactions with the other voice,
Bartering against a make-believe enemy
Who wants to control me.
But it's my stupid voice.

What is it about the real world
that inspires my brain to fight itself?
Is the world not challenging enough?
Is the world not complicated enough?
Is the world not a strong enough opposition
Without another voice to up the ante?

Why do I invent meaning
For every infinitesimal
decision  action  choice  thought  
pattern  of my life?

I do not need this gravity
Pressing over my fingertips
As they adjust my mug's placement
On the coaster by minute degrees
To determine whether or not
My mother will live a long life.

Am I practising for something?
This some kind of stress reaction,
Learning to make decisions
While teetering on imaginary cliffs?
Testing myself in preparation
For a forthcoming drama known only
To that second voice?

I want my first voice to be my only one,
But even now it's listening
To the second voice counting
the lines, making sure the number
is divisible by four
And the writing keeps a steady rhythm
Listening to the second voice
Telling me to write these words
On just the right angle,
With just the right flick at the end,
If I don't want anyone to die.
Four
A poem I wrote to read aloud in my poetry class this year. Loosely based around the workings of my head in my early teens. Now, I've learned to tell the voice to piss off.
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Ticket machine - ding
Sit down, look down; things look up
Two coins wink at me
Train
Another haiku written for my poetry topic. Inspired by my complicated relationship with public transport.
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Spinning words around
Sorting out pairs on a line
Need to wash my clothes
Writer
Another haiku written for my poetry topic. I don't know if my descriptions for haiku should explain what they're about, or if that defeats the purpose of reading them. What are your thoughts?
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Running on empty
Deflated tired germ box
Indicates coldly
Bus
I considered calling this 'Missing the Bus', as that was the idea behind it, but I feel like titles are cheating with haiku, so I didn't want to make it any longer than necessary.
I guess descriptions are cheating, too, in a way...
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Daily Deviation!!

Journal Entry: Tue Dec 10, 2013, 10:18 PM


I've just returned from the most awesome week in which I saw Muse TWICE, and stood in the FRONT ROW for the first concert, and PHYSICALLY HELD MATT BELLAMY'S RIGHT HAND, and MADE EYE CONTACT with Chris thereby becoming Wolstenpregnant, and SANG DOM HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and what do I find when I check my messages?
HOLY FLIPPIN' SHIT, A DD!!! AND FOR A SHORT STORY, NO LESS!!
This truly is the cherry on top of the Cake of Wonder that has been the last seven days.
A Daily Deviation is something I never expected to get, despite wishing I could. I am blown away by not only my selection but also the fantastic comments people have left on the deviation page. I was surprised that this particular story was chosen, as I don't think it's the absolute best thing I have ever written, but also thrilled that this story brightened so many people's days, with some even exploring the rest of my gallery.
A ginormous thank you to :iconneurotype: for giving me this honour!
I've been thinking of creating a journal compiling all the artwork I've done in 2013, but instead I think I'll make a little 2013 literature compilation. All of my stories and various other writings tend to differ greatly from one another, so hopefully there's something here to suit everyone's tastes. Enjoy!


I Belong To You  I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
  Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
  Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of



Death of a Flight AttendantTo the check-in lady
Whom I met just now in Albury,
If not for you I just might
Not have missed the bloody flight.
I think you should know that with suitcase in tow
I was one of five people in sight
This morning, as you sipped your latte
And strode past me in the tiny cafe.
The young customs guy caught your beady eye,
Pointed me out, then hurried away.
I don’t blame him, really,
In your pose I saw clearly
That questioning you would be something quite new
To one so lifeless and dreary.
Nevertheless, I gave it a shot,
But of course you said you simply could not
Re-open the desk, you smelly old pest,
So I hope in an Indian sewer you rot.
And as I sit here irate,
While for the next flight I wait,
I admit to some pity, for your life must be shitty
To make you so smug when I’m five minutes late.
By now I’d be waiting in Melbourne airport
And the plane to Adelaide I’d easily have caught.
So please – as you pass, kiss my grounded arse,
Then prepare an occ. health


Healing the EarthA shiver runs along my skin as the Sun stretches its rays over the tips of the eastern ranges. I feel the coarseness of the soil sliding around my roots as they retreat back into my flesh, having taken their fill from the Earth. I know one day I will return her treasures and the thought, my first of the day, is as warming as the Sun.
It takes a while to wake living at this altitude; for a moment I lie still as my thoughts gradually gain speed and eloquence. Deep breaths refresh my cells and a sense of clarity runs along my body. In a rush of energy I leap from the damp ground, shaking dew from my limbs and startling a sparrow, who departs in a brown flurry. I take in my surroundings.
The forest I stand with is perched on a mountainside; sometimes I hear the rocks grinding and crunching inside beneath the surface, but today all is still. Summer has banished the icy north wind and greened all my fellows with melted snow and rain. My own violet body has shed its thick down in favour of a


Atoms       Everything is made of atoms. Air, metal, plastic, concrete, wire, milk, glass, tables, linoleum, microwaves, frozen lasagne. People. Groups of atoms making matter making cells making tissues making organs making systems making bodies.
       This is what Peter thinks as the microwave mmmmmmmmmms. The spinning pre-cooked meal is a hypnotist’s pendant to his vacant eyes, creating a trance in which he is free to explore the possibilities locked in his head.  
       In childhood, Peter was easily amused. Toasting, squeezing, stretching, painting and eating. These were his favourite things. He despised watching television. His mother said he was a born artist. Peter didn’t like being called an artist; artists only moved things around and put them back in different places. Something bigger called to Peter: the urge to change things. The bread became toast; the lemon juice separated from the lemon; the


And my favourite:
Collisions       We kiss. It's slow and tender and written all over our skin is 'I love you', but we don't say it; there's no need. And suddenly I want him, I want to know every facet fact fear feeling that makes him, I want to have known him for years and years. I push hard against the warm wet of his lips. I want to consume him. I bite him, and he groans -
       and he groans -
       and I'm a young mass of frozen nerves, terrified of the possibilities of the moment as he grips his skull like he wants to rip it open, tendons clenching against the hard bone the hard table the cold floor the cold air the PAIN. How can I help? 'Call an ambulance!' he grits out.
       I run for the phone but what's the number? What's the number what's the number what's the - phone book. Front page. Triple zero. How could I forget that? I've wasted so much time. And it hits me that this is an emergency, this calls for an ambulance, and I call for an ambulance. I stand next to him, too afraid to reach out


deviantID

RadishStick
Rowena
Artist | Student | Varied
Australia
Current Residence: the cupboard under the stairs
Favourite music genre: alt rock, rock, acoustic, roots, folk, anything with a guitar.
Favourite art style: Impressionism, Realism, Surrealism, Abstract
Operating System: Windows
MP3 player of choice: iPhone
Shell of choice: the ones that look like unicorn horns.
Wallpaper of choice: covered in posters, art, and pieces of my life.
Personal Quote: Not the snake!
Interests

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:iconpassionandthecamera:
PassionAndTheCamera Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks a lot for the favs and the watch! :)
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:iconradishstick:
RadishStick Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Student General Artist
No worries! :)
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:iconcanonadventures:
CanonAdventures Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2014   Photographer
Thanks for the fave! :)
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:iconradishstick:
RadishStick Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Student General Artist
No worries! :)
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:iconwhitebook:
WhiteBook Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2014
:iconbfly1plz::icondbthx1::icondbthx2::icondbthx3::iconbfly2plz:
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:iconradishstick:
RadishStick Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2014  Student General Artist
My pleasure! :)
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:iconuriahgallery:
UriahGallery Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Professional Photographer
Thank you for the :+fav:!

-Jonathan Uriah Denney
www.JonUriah.com

www.facebook.com/UriahGallery Point Left
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:iconradishstick:
RadishStick Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Student General Artist
No worries! :)
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:iconxxbellcatxx:
xXBellcatXx Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Hi :)
Thank you so much for fav my work "Glamorous tulip"!
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:iconradishstick:
RadishStick Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Student General Artist
No worries! :)
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