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About Literature / Hobbyist Dolan GreyMale/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
We are a ghost
The thing we used to speak of so late into the evening,
the thing we used to say until we had ourselves believing,
the thing we kept repeating and repeating and repeating
until we forgot:
Well, I remembered.
I remembered what we are –
and what we are not.
We are not
the secrets that we keep, or
the chiming of the third hour before dawn, or
the claiming of familiar ground as new –
not brilliant, not Brazilian, not branching, not blue.
We are definitely not
the idea of what we are, and
we are definitely not
what we think we aren’t.
We are – well,
a vampire on a misty moonless night,
a creature in the closet of a small child;
living proof that death is worse than life,
beast and barbarian with blood made wild.
We are a ghost, a haunting, a curse of the moon,
a rotting spirit drifting from an empty tomb.
We are a ghoul, stinking flesh rising in an empty room,
an affront to bedtime stories, blackest boon.
We are dead,
but we haven't always been.
I used
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Literature
equira: Alkospei

Name: Alkospei (ahl-CO-spy)
Blood Type: Xeno
Zoh: Earth / Mirage
Specifics: Very weak to Destroy. Immune to Fire and Lightning. Works well with Necro.
Fusion compatibility: Arbora, Machine, Necro, Sectid
Size - Adolescent: height 5'11", wgt 9,965 lbs, circ 4'4"
         Adult: height 29'8", wgt 49,825 lbs, circ 21'9"
Age to maturity: 20 years
Location: Grassland (red), Desert (red), Chasm (red) [only along the shores of Border Sea]
Info: These massive, stone-shaped monsters, known as Alkospei (Pelendhen for "alien spirit"), have only recently been discovered by Equiran explorers along the coast of the Border Sea separating the Chasm, Desert, and Grassland regions. Although the reclusive Pelendhe people of the southern grasslands have been aware of these enigmatic creatures for thousands of years, they are so rare, and so resourceful with their Mirage abilities, that it is nearly impossible to get near enough to an Alkospei t
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equira: In the grass by tirasunil equira: In the grass :icontirasunil:tirasunil 2 2 equira: Anmbdheu by tirasunil equira: Anmbdheu :icontirasunil:tirasunil 3 5
Literature
equira: Wendhe-het + Gheuskel
Name: Wendhe-het [Waljan]
Pronunciation: (wind-zheh-[het]) (wall-yahn)
Age: 21
Birthday: June 5
Height: 6'1" - 1.85 m
Weight: 185 lbs. - 83.4 kg
Blood Type: A+
Gender: Male
Orientation: Mostly hetero
Region: Grassland
Hometown: Anmbdheu (annmb[like bomb]-zhu[like put])
Status: Wanderer
Rank: None
Zoh Element(s): Sound
Hobbies: Playing his instruments: dheubhsek (drum), ostam (bones), and bhlemeng (flute)
Strange fact: Wendhe-het is a pescatarian.
Info:
The Pelendhe people of the Grassland region are thought to be the oldest civilization in Equira. Bordering the Chasm region to the west and the Desert region to the south, their only settlement, Anmbdheu, has remained virtually unchanged, as they have, for thousands of years. With a population of only a few hundred, and only a few hundred more outside the village, they have easily avoided contact with any industrialized peoples in the sparsely populated south. 
The Gharga (tribal council) met when Wendhe-het was born to bless him, a
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Literature
Neutrino dowsing
Love is a brilliant idea, but
around the most placid dreams come
flowers and silence,
serendipity and snowfall,
matutinal silhouettes in
the realm of awakening moss.
When cats revolt,
our darker purpose may
finally become clear --
with child-like wonder
and the charm of grit
neutrino dowsing will not be
our last resort.
Love is, after all, a brilliant idea.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 17 7
Literature
Of candles and consequences.
Write, poet: write
of misshapen mishaps,
of the long awaited rain,
of a walk with butterflies,
of little things that fill homes,
of fathers who lose their children,
of the clear resonance of the empty north,
of snow in rain when coming back from fencing,
of a curious warm feeling -- that warmth for you
(burning me down,
millions of years in the making),
of the end of you and I.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 15 11
Literature
the root, the stem, the rain
bringing me back again to you, behind
the hydrangeas. we meet in silence, unspoken
answers to unasked questions, whispers
of dilemma and tentative congress. lie
here with me a while, beautiful and broken, our
only purpose to mirror the gentle falling of the sky, hearts
released in vapor and hair awash in a pool of petals.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 17 4
Literature
easel
a blank white canvas:
rumpled a bit in the corner
tangled a bit at the edge
piled up languidly
spread even by contact with
the brush of your hair the smooth of your back the curls of your toes the shape of your breast
all aching at once all aching for touch all aching for touch all aching for aching all aching for
the painter's broad strokes and
the watercolors and oils and
the interruption of solid lines and
the mixing of flat with gloss and
the palette changing beneath and
the resistance of the medium and
i spread you until you reach all corners of the canvas
not waiting to let you dry not pausing to change brushes
and
i will breathe your fumes forever
i will draw your shape forever
i will spread you forever –
someday i will hang you up
but for now i will paint you
and i will paint you
and i will paint
and i will
and i 
and
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 15 0
Literature
auspice
i am an etherous ghostnote
in your nighttime prayers
i am slang for something
like tangerine seeds and pulp
i am on the tip of your tongue
my claws dig into your lips

(whisper into me, whisper,
make me a sighing windtear.)

i am a flight of birds
across your winter sky
i am darkening haruspicy
interpreting your insides
i am the place on your palm
where ley lines becomes rivers
(cheironomous augur, i am,
let me make you an omen from god.)

i am october-time rust patterns
below your quickening caravan
i am wetness and mirepoix
like sweet stewed secrets
i am the sunlight on your bare neck
druid magic makes us omniternal
(tentatively, hesitantly, plaintively,
we can be everything you say we are.)
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 17 4
Literature
neat
Deciphering a language only you know,
I stammer as I respond to your invitation.
"Uhh, a house party sounds neat, I guess."
Damn it -
neat?
No, a house party certainly isn't
neat -
damn it.
*
Beer is as good a date as any, I think;
you're with him, anyway.
"Ms. Artois, tell me about tonight.
How fucked up will I be before it's over?"
She says nothing. She never does -
I should know the answer.
*
I stare across the dripping room;
you stand, eyes averted, one hand on him.
I think you're drunk; 
I always am.
I know you've seen me. 
*
"Hey."
The curtains are closed, or my eyes are.
"Hey, you."
Shiver. 
...
"Hey."
...
"So, did...?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we did."
Stella was right. 
And for once, I feel sober. 
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Literature
casting (a song)
Casting a shadow against
the tide-swelter moonrise or bringing
me a new one full of qualms and realms
shaken sundry.
Realized in red that
it wasn't but you, but me.
Casting lots against
the spinning room waiting
for the flat circle in the square
(parallelism (metaphoria)).
Realized in red that
it wasn't for me, for you.
Casting lines against
the current for a storm in a swamp
of pedestrian foot-traffic beside the other
same-self waltzing.
Realized in red that
it wasn't in us, in them.
Casting, casting above
all around in eaglets and eyries
tempestual and sensual
behind-the-back welfare --
casting. Casting below
inside the mind of Adam
forbidden but not forgotten
in-depth raspberry picnic-basket
casting, casting.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 7 0
Literature
I, the wizard of randomisms.
The castle of the dead is
a beautiful and burning thing
of scars left unsigned:
regret is a blank page and
innocence is bliss, but
take no one's word for it -
bullets of abstraction are
interrupting the fall of
symphonies of dreams
(telephones and cortisone,
antiseptic and postage stamps,
a spell caster's practice)
- a cat fest bone deep,
stenciled smiles on paper hearts,
death in the rain. So,
I demand that you live for me,
my manic pixie dream,
on an autumn night with thoughts of dying:
think of me when you're out there,
my sehnsucht,
my scintillae,
until you stop growing old.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 21 9
Literature
Ode to a Girl from Swansea
Pretty Welsh girl, with the Titian hair and
long legs, the secret voice and virescent
eyes: you strike a resemblance to the
goddess of the oak-flowers baptised in
a vernal meadow, beckoning those who
would chant and proclaim your mysteries to
your side as you slide from the slippery
stones to drift back into the bosky wood.
Last Tuesday, when the rain faded away, I
caught you unawares as you brushed your flaming
locks by the sea-wall. Worshippers absent, the
clouds retreated slowly and your Sun shone in
full victory: it was in that light that
I could glimpse you as you are, not as you wish
to be, not as your devotees cast you,
and in that golden light you returned my look.
Today, it is raining again. Small droplets bounce
off the cobblestone walkway and splatter your bare
feet; there is reverence enough in them not to graze
your ankles. My eyes wander from your shoulders to
your chest, travelling your body, and reach your gale-green
eyes. You blink, and turn your head in my direction.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 9 18
Literature
Always, the waiting.
In the nearness of a moment with you
I sink into the grey,
unsure of what we can be,
gazing, hazed, and phrasing ways
to tell you things --
there is no
proper etiquette for arrival
at such a preposterous proposition,
onlysuddenaction
then the backing away,
the retreat,
and the waiting.
Always, the waiting.
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:icontirasunil:tirasunil 10 5
Literature
an.infinity
it's an infinite possibility
    all of us together glancing around
         waiting for a quiet musical cue or some shit 
is.it.over>has.it.begun>when.will.it.end
is it you
   you
      you
it's 
    an infinity
         not as you say
               us waiting
                    together
                         or us together
is.it>really>are.you.sure
i can see you
     i really can
          no really
               that's not creepy is it
not physically see i mean
   i see your life is what i mean
i also see you in my mind though
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tirasunil
Dolan Grey
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I'm confused -- come join me.

Daily Literature Recognition:
April 22nd, 2014, I Belong Here
Daily Literature Deviations:
July 5th, 2013, Black and white
September 23rd, 2013, Taches de vin
January 26th, 2014, 2820 miles
March 13th, 2014, diamonds, bones, and oak spirits
Daily Deviations:
October 7th, 2013, a tribute to robert frost
May 10th, 2014, Sumus de stellis

tirasunil's Personality Type Results
Interests
Hello all. It's been about 4.5 months since my last entry, and I felt like there were some things I needed to talk about.

I know I'm not the most popular person on dA, but I have formed personal connections with a lot of you that read my work and with those of you whose work I read as well. Since 2013, when I first started writing, my output has decreased significantly, and I wanted to first apologize to those of you who feel like I am aloof or standoffish and maybe explain myself.

This past fall I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and some kind of unspecified anxiety issues to go along with that. I had also been struggling with joint pain in my knees and back for about eight years. The combination of these led to my dropping out of school (I'm in my third year of university) and going back to live at home where I could receive treatment for my knees and my depression. 

To start with, writing was a great outlet for my depressive tendencies. As time went on, though, I couldn't even bring myself to do that. I had no energy or desire to do anything productive; I had no confidence in myself or hope for my future. In 2013, I was writing about 3 poems every month; in 2014, two poems a month; in 2015, one, and last year, I only wrote maybe six poems. 

As of right now, I am still being treated for depression, and most likely will be for some time, but I am in much better shape than I was in October. My knees are almost completely better thanks to physical therapy, and my back only hurts when I am stressed. 

I can't fairly call any of you my friends without telling you about my life and how I'm doing. I also think there are a fair number of artists that suffer from similar problems to mine: physical and emotional pain on a level that they don't know how to overcome. Hope is out there, friends, whether it seems like it right now or not -- I can say that looking back, of course, on the darker times. It's much harder to think you'll be saved when you're drowning than when you're on the surface. 

If anyone has any questions for me, or wants to talk, or wants me to read their work for proofing or editing (I have now studied literature in school for several years) etc., I would be happy to do all of that. I wish I had reached out more in the past few years to my dA family for support. 

Peace,

Dolan
  • Listening to: Music In Me - Roksonix
  • Reading: The Book of Lost Things - John Connolly
  • Watching: American Dad
  • Playing: Sky Dancer
  • Eating: Oatmeal
  • Drinking: Iced coffee

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