| Chasing a spirit I had found myself inside Tushi, the cat. Do our spirits often overlap? Or are we independent of the world around us? And does the fragile, curious mind escape the impressions this world exerts? I didn't find many answers with this but thought I'd share the questions. My heartfelt thanks to *saartha and ^StJoan for the DD. |
=clownscape
Architect of The Surreal CircusA Short, Endless Biography...
Critiques
by `lovetodeviate
This poem deserves a special mention for its inherent rhythm (which is strange at the same time as it is melodious) and the brevity of ...
Newest
A Measure of MagnitudeHer blood rained, like droplets, on an unchanging spot. Beside her bed. Accumulated. Drop by drop. Every drop. Except the first one.A Measure of Magnitude
He closed his palm, felt the warmth of the first droplet with his eyes closed and walked out of the window.
His fall was long and complete.
He landed in a pool of blood. And the blood rained on him, like droplets. Over and over again. It burned his skin. And his palm. He had to open his palm. And found her sleeping in it. Carelessly, she must have cut her left wrist. And therefore, she was bleeding. Her blood rained, like droplets, on an unchanging spot. He had to stop the
by =clownscape
Places-30: NeverendlandBefore I’d start writing this poem An angel gifted me a pen drenched in smile And ink, so that I may complete the last of my poems. I was reminded how I had wondered A long time back if my hands would start aching While I’m writing this, and if I’d never pick up a pen again for a long, long while. Before I’d start writing this poem An angel gifted me a pen drenched in smile And ink, and I wonder if that’s how It was always meant to be. Ain’t it all part of a cosmic conspiracy That’d make the poems powerful enough to spill beyond, OPlaces-30: Neverendland
by =clownscape
Places-29: GraveyardOnce upon a time, I used to have time And I stole some of it to sit beside your grave. I didn’t know why I went there The graveyards were off-limits since the days of the circus. The graveyards were invisible since the year You had contacted ‘the disease of sin’, as they’d say. And love saying. Repeating over and over again. Like octaves. I could walk through invisibility. It was a side-effect of my longest voyage. I was tired. Too tired. And if places are my poems None of my poems are serene enough To soothe their souls. Hearts. And feet.Places-29: Graveyard
by =clownscape
Places-28: VoidThese days, I wonder oftentimes, How we could’ve never noticed the trend. The common thread flowing through it all, As if someone’s holding a sign above his head And we never bothered to look up beyond his feet. Will we ever see this? And Will we ever listen to the things been told And register them too? Or shall my poems linger As a thirty day challenge of writing thirty poems One each day? Shall my poems just be that? A used toothpick lying on the pavements Never to be noticed that it has blood on its tip. Blood is irrelevant without actual acquaintancePlaces-28: Void
by =clownscape
Places-27: Flying SaucerI wake up on a spaceship, one day. I don’t find astronauts on it. Nor an alien. I don’t know who’s driving the car. I’m curious. I’m curious to know if the spaceshipPlaces-27: Flying Saucer
Has a steering wheel too. I’m curious to know if directions Are to be controlled in space. And how. Things keep moving about in space. And if I’d have to reach the moon Wouldn’t I have to know where The moon shall be when I reach it? It’s much easier on Earth where Your destinations wait for you In one place, as long as they are there.
I t
by =clownscape
Places-26: IslandThere used to be a country Where the islands stand today. There used to be one long, tiring country. You’d walk for ages until you’d find its edge. The country refused to end. Let go of you. But that was before the plague. A disastrous epidemic that Spread into the skin of men and women. Spread into the earth. It took away places Like it had taken away people. Selectively. And therefore, there were islands. We had drawn water all around our islands Cause the plague didn’t know – how to swim. We were safe in our islands.Places-26: Island
I live safe in my i
by =clownscape
Short Story
Uncle[A tale for children who grew up too soon]Uncle
Once upon a time there used to be an uncle. He had a house. But much more importantly, he had two nephews. They were born on the same day, in the same minute of a same hour, in split seconds. But they were not twins. They were born to two separate women. Incidentally, both of them were the uncle’s sisters. Therefore, the uncle had two nephews.
The uncle had come to know of the birth of his nephews a few days later when the two letters arrived…. Each from one of his sisters who proclaimed they had become mothers to a little pink angel. The uncle smiled twice in a stra
by =clownscape
Love's Long Awaited TaleThe DistanceLove's Long Awaited Tale
At last, she decided to mosaic her bedroom floor with his letters. They had been enabling her past. A past which she wanted to rob of the form and the structure. She wished she would find his amnesia, left behind in his forgetting, lying in full carelessness, on the creases, in between the folds of the letters. Manifold. But as always he had forgotten…. To leave back his amnesia. She decided to create her own amnesia.
She decided to tear his letters, off. Carefully down the creases. Exactly from their seams. So as not to hurt them.
He had written each of his letters in pencil, in some nights
by =clownscape
| Tales from a circular circus. Please purchase a proper ticket before you enter. Trespassers shall be prosecuted. The circus is also a labyrinth and a void. Enter at your own risk!!! |
Flash Fiction
The Implausible StonesEach of his stones was impossibility. None of them had the property of visibility. They reflected no colors. Absorbing all. But you always knew that they were there. Some, because you could touch them. Some exuded the strange fragrance of a stone. While others created the dense, infinite silence that stones have always created – to make you listen.The Implausible Stones
She brought him a stone, one day, from the land of the free. It was sculptured on nothingness. Had various interpretations. Its only property was mood.
And then, she was gone.
After he had been sitting beside the pebble of moods for a long while, a realiz
by =clownscape
I AmThe eye is an abyss. Many who fell in it drowned forever. Many times when the eye blinked the world was drenched in darkness for a few fragments of a second. A black earth. It was an eye that held the world in it. Bees, people and civilizations all resided in it.I Am
One day, tears interfered in the life of the eye. And the world residing inside started turning hazy. The people started fading. Civilizations disappeared. The world, like gypsies, moved elsewhere. Void took over. And like we all know now, in every void resides a flock of memories and a legend. And the legend told – the eye is an abyss. Many who fell in it drowned
by =clownscape
| Of all quick forms, non-forms and everything that conforms to a horizon called surrealism. Step in, silently, if you're feeling sleepy. |
Poetry
Love Hymns - 1Death, Return MeLove Hymns - 1
Have you heard the frozen seas On the dark, unpainted night? Splashing on the rocks Dying into smaller droplets, unmoving. Have you heard the frozen waves?
People, they used to call me a painter But it was a wrong name I couldn’t paint you in the dark I needed light to paint you I needed sight to recognize you Painting, perhaps, is not of sights As much as it is of sounds – There’s music in the darkness And I was deaf I couldn’t paint your voice. I’m a sinner. A dreadful sinner. I couldn’t paint your screams. &n
by =clownscape
InsignificanceI listened in her silent breath The deepening of her storm.Insignificance
I composed her in one decisive moment, In one master-stroke, and gave her One eternity to live in. One faint eternity. Insignificant. She asked of me what I never had: Time. She detested my one endless moment She wanted an endless volley of moments. Unknown ends. Sudden. Indecipherable.
In my childhood I had woken up In the eternal pass Of innumerable valleys and endless mountains. Unnamed. Eternity is a procession of static winds, Immovable dusts, Unchurned universes And one
by =clownscape
| On one sudden day I stopped writing poetry. Like many other people, I did not know why I wrote poems and could not know why I stopped. Since then, I've stopped innumerable times. I make no claims of being a poet anymore. |
A Surreal Eye
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Surrealitificationites
Boy.He has skin like dusk. The blue that comes right before the black. Skin like water in a dark cave and veins like grapes and blood that pulsed beneath his surface like blackberry juice. As a whole he looked like a gem; an alien carved from the stones beneath the Earth with fingers that reached and stretched like emaciated, black trees. Eyes like balls of white cream. Irises of November orange. Teeth of marshmallow squares. Raspberry tongue. Oil slick hair.Boy.
He lives on an island that represents royalty and reflects politeness. A blue and red flag. Warm drinks in the afternoon for calmness. His blueberry skin stands out against the
by =AGoddessFinch
Eight Eccentricities...I. She always enjoyed standing before the inner walls of the cage she called home.Eight Eccentricities...
She had always said she planned on walking over to the window, watching the cars pass by, and wondering where the little people could be going, and what they were thinking, and whether their lives would be saved, ended, or ruined that day.
Instead, she stood by the inner wall and took interest in the little insect people's lives as the crawled up and down her spine.
II. She never wrote poetry; she could only write eulogies.
She loved the odor, chill of the necropolis in her backyard. To her, the only in
by ~KiwiBri
SpoonsI was looking for spoons in the fridge.Spoons
Then it occurred to me. You don’t find spoons in the fridge. They’re in the microwave!
There weren’t any spoons there either though. I gave up and decided to eat my cornflakes with a fork when all of a sudden, I find those bastard spoons, curled up next to the forks! Those little suckers had been hiding out there all along!
I grabbed one and dug it into the corn flakes, telling it I hoped it liked milk. It sort of sounded like the beetle husks I would sweep up from beneath the couch.
I walked into the living room. The cat had puked on th
by =cel3131
| A compilation of surreal fictions in deviantArt. A Hymn to The Hidden Category. |
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Places Worth Taking A Look
~~~                   ~~~               ~~~~~  ~~~ Poetry & Prose Literature Workshop Fantasy Literature |
Shoutbox
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*megsmad
- CAKE IS THE BEST!
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=clownscape
- ... but if I'm not a shoe, why am I a silly dog?
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=kokonut10
- Silly dog, you're not a shoe.
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~bugbug88
- epic epic epic!
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=clownscape
- great!! now we have someone who imagines about shoutboxes too.
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~Jiggibidy
- Hmm... I always imagined shoutboxes would be more active than this
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~Ratchet27
- TEN TOUSAND FIST IN THE AIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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*megsmad
- you're amazing.
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=clownscape
- I've gotta ask Dubleu 'bout that.
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~enslavedsphinx
- Are you Mr. Dubleu?
The Clown & Portia 
BewilderedAbsurdist Poll # 4: I am you. What do you ( I ) do?
| 28%
26%
18%
13%
7%
4%
3%
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deviantID
| Defining Myself in 8 Points - 1. I Am Me I know it is an all time favorite dumb-guy-trying-to-act-like-he's-really-really-smart statement. But I'm using it otherwise (as I'm too dumb to try even that). Odd. I'm using the statement in my own defense. Some of my friends who've known me too closely claim that I'm not myself. And I really don't know what they mean. But if I'm none of the 'You's who might be able to read this given a chance and an occasion and a reading glass too, then I'm left with with no one else to be but myself. Therefore, I am me. 2. I've Never Lighted A Matchstick in My Life Possible Interpretations -  [if you are a chain smoker] I'd remind you of a lighter.[if you're Mahatma Gandhi] I'm a 'torchbearer' of non-violence[if you're Florence Nightingale] I'm really not bringing in the 'light' of knowledge.[if you're a reader of folk tales] I'd remind you of a girl who sold matchsticks on a cold, snowy night to make a living and met her grandma in a dream that went on forever.[if you're nobody] I'm a coward.3. I Don't Remember What This Point Would Have Been Originally Yes, I do suffer from Amnesia. Did you say you don't know what that is - welcome mate, you're suffering from the same disease. Dig Wikipedia, I'm not your pocket encyclopedia. What I am, is a poor amnesiac fellow waiting for a day when he'd eventually forget his amnesia too, like everything else. And thus, be cured of it. 4. I Am A Compulsive Liar Trust me. 5. I Am Repetitive ... To the point of being unbearable. I might just reproduce a story I told you yesterday, word by word, when I meet you today. And they'd be so very same that you'd actually believe that they are different. 6. I Am Repetitive ... To the point of being unbearable. I might just reproduce a story I told you yesterday, word by word, when I meet you today. And they'd be so very different that you'd actually believe that they are same. 7. I Am Not Me No, really. I needed to own up. 8. I Only Know Seven-and-a-quarter-of-a-two-third Things About Myself. Yeah, I know. It's so clever of you to notice that. |
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Further Away from The Centre
- Interests: The Centre
- Favourite movie: Underground (Emir Kusturica)
- Favourite band or musician: Eleni Karaindrou
- Favourite genre of music: Classical
- Favourite artist: Salvador Dali
- Favourite poet or writer: Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- Favourite style of art: Magic Realism
- Email: clownscape@gmail.com
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