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About Deviant Premium Member Nathan PulliamMale/United States Groups :iconprojectedit: ProjectEdit
 
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nawkaman
Nathan Pulliam
United States
We were dried, salted
slit sideways and spilled
no insides out.

And then I knew
we were such empty shells.

**

I am genuinely grateful for any fave that I get, so if I don't thank you individually it is because I hate the feeling that I'm mass replying cookie cutter thanks. But know that I do appreciate the support very much.
Interests

DD musings

Journal Entry: Sat Sep 6, 2014, 8:36 AM
Thank you to both ghostinafog (everyone who isn't familiar with ghost's work should take the time to become so) and IrrevocableFate as well as to everyone who reads and/or favs.

I am caught purely by surprise with this DD which is the best way to get one, in my opinion. I find it interesting the piece that received the feature, as this is now 2/3 of my DDs that are more experimental or outside my normal comfort zone. Be careful, dA; you appear to be encouraging me to travel down the twisty and dark tendrils of my brain. Not sure you know of what you seek. :D

In case anyone would like to view them, here are all three of my DD awarded pieces:

IfWe can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered
Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.
I would
Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.
  I could.
Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.
for frost: we need not live in vigilwe don't have to split a fork
in two (or ten or six); may then diverge
our Paths along the path
not finite, un-impossible? you
may have rule and road, miles and
morass,
sir. the Hoarfrost gathers great
on you, like winter on the words
you forged from wood and wakeful spurs
(unsleeping, temporal
remainders); like ornaments
that decorate dull
in any other season.
you are boxed and labeled, kept
in the murky & foreclosed adjunct space
that borders the heart but never enters
a tease of a tease to touch
the lives of those who happen by
your 'verse.
i've left minds more open and
know travels- even in the way
everyone travels- that will carry me
for miles until i sleep.
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall       heat,
sugar licking palm fronds        fat cats
sweltering sundays.
wash the salt; wash the afterburn    it
isn't
            like we planned       you never
say the words        plain, only      
                                                   mm        
mm if we ever      could we maybe stay
we always tried but couldn't        shake
the open space  we make   the world a-
nother shape     as we stand among the
timbertall       sugar licking palm fronds
fall.
                                   til heat escapes.




also because I'll have extra traffic today, it's a perfect time to plug some other people's art that I think everyone should read:

drinking cold coffee across from two ex-loversnew book: running my fingers over embossed letters
in better light i realise the texture is dried spit.  i'm okay about it
until the BBC panics deadpan about one brit with ebola.  when everyone
caught swine flu we dispensed sanitizer in shop doorways, schools
hung them in the foyer and purell
made a lot of money.  
clinging to the kitchen sink, i pull nails out of my mouth
and scrub my hands antiseptic.  google tells me not to worry
but crusty phlegm attaches me umbilical to west africa;
sierra leone; dislocated countrymen
connected by snot.  like a kid, i keep getting my fingers
between my teeth.  
exaggeration tastes like boiled paint.
Heart Floodwe meddled with diamond time rings
when i asked you 
over milk stained wood
how your tectonics could pump the earth through my blood pipes;
how you could blow
the drifting sand as straight as a slicer
across my meat 
mounting rain rocks in the devil's red.
the pulsing beats would not untangle me.
what is a mood? 
an angry southern man like a flood.
a year ago my waterfall witness fell 
like a butterfly, like an elephant. 
i stole the meddler's cane from him
as the cliffs tipped him into the sprawling sea.
'til i die, i will spring rain rocks open. 
'til i live, i will never know you.
Grief, u.s.w.Within waterlogged chest:
kids throw coins into
fountain water, it papers over
cracks immeasurable by state-best
astrophysicists, scientists.
Therapists have the worst
private lives.
So how is Jesus, yanking
our high-strung kites.
Lost the thread.
Lost it.
OrchestraFour a.m is uneasy -
time purloined and left
hanging on the bed posts.
You said I crowd your sleep,
feet and hands slipping cotton,
pulling dreams in paper streams
like the nest of wasps
growing restless in the tree.
Your legs make room for me,
for the sound of weather
happening on the roof,
and warm the space above us,
setting fire to the drapes again.
Just let me feel your clavicle
press under my hips
where daylight squeezes in
and hinges us.
So we both can waken slowly,
you know, like kids in summer
who long for everything to never end
and the sky to be an orchestra
i'm not being honestdon't lie to me when
a line of truth can
lift weight like
dissection
sometimes i want to be fucked
sometimes i want to be ripped apart
and asked questions, 
(i want you to know i blame you
i want you to know i'm moving 
inwards, and onwards, and 
there are hands that are much
more gentle than the pair
you had stuffed in me)
but i am feeling empty.
i think i gave you more weight
than words (and 
if we're being truthful
you and i were only
words)
.
you are my signal fire.you are
anchor
to my constellated skies,
ever-fixed mark,
fickle Polaris
to my wandering bark ;
silhouette adrift
on the skyline,
I am still waiting
for you to light my way
home.
day fivei. "coping mechanism"
  pretend it's 3:41, 2:37, or 4:56 AM;
           there's a girl alone in a room and
         she is painting in watercolour waste
  she is writing passive- aggressive freudian
          love notes onto blotchy backgrounds
                     pretending that it's art
  pretend it's too early, or too late;
           there's a girl alone in a room and
  she is carving in viscous vicious rose-hues
       she is sculpting her skin with no heed
            to the blossoming artwork that is
                        not composed of paint
ii. a terrible love, part i
  you were a study in thin-lipped tequila night-time,
  p


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Comments


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:iconedges-to-everything:
Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Hello, Nathan. :handshake: I've been meaning to Watch for a while now, but offline endeavors took me from dA for some time. I'm looking forward to becoming more familiar with your work. Cheers!
- Michael
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(1 Reply)
:iconlissomer:
Lissomer Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2014   Writer
Thanks so very much for the favourites, Nathan! :heart:
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(1 Reply)
:iconprivessie:
Privessie Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I really love your style. Thank you greatly for the Watch.
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(1 Reply)
:iconscarlettletters:
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2014  Professional Writer
Thanks very much for the fave!
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconiyraemm:
IyraEMM Featured By Owner Aug 21, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
happy (belated) birthday you beautiful banana
:hug:
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(1 Reply)
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