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About Varied / Student Crispen Smith42/Male/Canada Recent Activity
Deviant for 14 Years
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I sit here with the Mogwai going loud and
Discussions of poetry ringing around my head
Like Saturn and her rings, golden, wedding her to
So many moons, words about words.
Poetry is for tasting, honey,
Rather than autopsies and
Scientific histories.
How we have loved,
Loving moments and
How we have Celebrated
Fictional moments never
accepting we are as we are
We would rather be.
We put ourselves together
one word at a time
Not with memories
But as an opposite
Poetry is not an autopsy
A biopsy
Poetry is the opposite of everything that cuts
Poetry tears us together, bloody and new.
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We'd been on high alert ever since the mushroom bomb on Monday.  The MICE had gotten the roads reopened by the end of the day, but construction crews would take weeks to rebuild the roads.  We'd been working hard to get the story out there that this was an unexploded ordinance from during the war, but it was  thin cover.
I think most people knew better.
The thing is, most of the Cohm seemed to be very happy here on Earth.  The Angus-Reid polls were showing an uptick in the top 2 boxes for Cohm repondants.  
Honestly, I have no idea what that means; but the big blue apes seemed to be settling in okay and I didn't have to deal with them in my face, so that was okay.
As a Hellion at least half of what I do is about PR; the stage appearances, the mall rallies, even the bike and the uniform, were all designed to help the public know that we; R.I.T.A.L.I.N. were there for them, listening to them as well as watching over them.  We knew it wasn't easy living with
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The Change
The dirt from the gutters had stained the last couple of inches of her fur coat, leaving the fur matted and heavy.  The distinct smell of Washington's Market District gutters had latched into those mats, and was coming along with her designer perfume, almost accenting  it's delicate floral notes with rotted fish, flesh and garbage.
She approached my booth slowly, her stilettos leaving wet prints on the cement floor. Her blue hair seemed to glow slightly under the fluorescent lighting.   I was with a client, and I wanted to get a bead on her before I said anything, so I nodded to the thing that I politely called a stool, where most of my clients were comfortable to wait.   While she was polite enough to  wait quietly, I doubt she was comfortable.
Finally, I wrapped up with my previous client, cleaned my work area and met her at the front desk.
I felt weird starting with my usual line, but I had a routine, so I began.
“What brings you here today?”
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Bad News at HQ
Not even the sunlight streaming into their office that morning could offset the waves of cool anger coming off of USM.
Carter, at his desk, had to do a double take when Usm came in, he looked pissed.
He normally looked at least a little angry; it was almost impossible to avoid. His alien features were broad and strong, even more than most of the Cohm that Carter knew. On the few occasions that Usm
really smiled he was really quite scarey; the lizard nostrils, fish eyes and fangs never really quite communicated his wicked sense of humour. He didn't mean to be frightening, but it's hard not to when
you're a Cohm warrier at the top of your form and all 14 feet of you is in incredible shape.
But this morning, in their office, Usm looked pissed, and it was terrifying.
Carter wasn't sure what to make of it. The two had been friends for four years now, partners for five. He'd never known Usm to be this angry about anything; not even that time that they two of them were
forced to give up the w
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Mature content
The Wall :iconexquisiteoath:exquisiteoath 1 4
Just One Fix
I have never been good at being stuck in traffic, but ever since the accident it's been so much worse.  This morning was bad, traffic slowed to a crawl because of some ridiculous prank; a giant fungal shelf in the downtown core.  
Funny how closing 2 blocks of road in just the right location can paralyse everything.  Sitting parked on a highway in the morning heat would have been bad enough.  But I could see the scar in the roadside field where my car had burned while rescue crews worked on me, just a month ago.  The scar wasn't really there anymore, of course, but in my mind I could still see it.
I saw the ghost of it whenever I looked out a window.
I couldn't quite shake the feeling of that night, the terror, the intense desire to stay alive.  My daughter needed me, mom needed me.  No matter what happened I couldn't let them down.  I held onto that thought as the rescue teams worked all night.
I couldn't shake that feeling the next day at work.
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Slow The Pulse (Screen Grab) by exquisiteoath Slow The Pulse (Screen Grab) :iconexquisiteoath:exquisiteoath 2 5
Morning Shift
Alice normally loved working Saturday mornings.  She did her homework Friday after school so that she didn't have to worry about anything, and could just enjoy the crowd at the shop. A parade of people would pass her counter, equals for a moment, in pursuit of their morning coffee.
It didn't really matter in that moment if you were pure human or wearing designer genes, or built for construction.  In that place, in that moment, you were just someone looking for your morning venti double skim non-gmo vanilla chai toffee coffee frap.  Or, maybe just a cup of joe.  And Alice was a part of that.  She belonged to the world here, she connected.  Her regulars knew her by name, and she knew a bit about each of them.  
Henry, the retired crane, walked with a limp because he'd shattered his hip working on the reconstruction of the Monument.  Susan, on her way to her shop would have probably changed her eye-colour again.  Theresa's latest litter of puppies were growing fast and she always shared t
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What if
What if we could say I love you,
Without the world noticing
Without someone passing a law
That defined love in their terms
What if we could say I love me
Without the world noticing
Without someone selling skin creme
Reminding us that we were inferior
What if we could say I'm sad
Without the world judging it
Without some doctor deciding
Which pill would make us feel better
What if rather than dictating
How to feel, to love, to live
The world stopped, listened
Discovered the miracles
In the heart of each of us.
Live your truth,
Share your story
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They would need to call the MICE in for this one.  There really was no two ways about it.  When a fungal infection had gotten this large you called the MICE.  
Problem was that the MICE would want a full growing cycle of observation to make sure they had caught everything and only they could tell what a growing cycle could be.  This had come up fast so chances were it wouldn't be more than a couple of days.  But you could never tell.
The other problem was that the infection was blocking three lanes of roadway, heading right into the heart of the city.  Rising up as a giant mound of putrescent yellow tissue. The shelf of it was  taller than the average Cohm.  Tarmac either side of it's base had been ripped up leaving a giant gash in the center of the road, the sidwalks on the east side were ruined.
And somehow, it had come up overnight, the fruiting body of some giant mushroom bomb.  The rumour mill seemed to believe that  this was a lef
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The Chase
The wind was fierce across the highway that night, making it hard to steer the bike.  The lights of Washington D.C. had  long since disappeared from her rear view mirrors.  
The truck had been barrelling down the 95 at 105 miles an hour, carrying it's illicit cargo to buyers across state lines but Cammy's Hellion rank gave her jurisdiction on that cargo wherever she could stop it.  
The trick was that stopping it to close to the city might only demonstrate it was carrying workers between a job site and their shelter.  She hoped that this long haul would prove evidence that an actual purchase was happening, that these workers were being sold to a new boss.
The truck started to slow just before the exit for the 103, which would take them god knew where.   Relishing the chance given by the isolation of the empty road and radio silence Cammy swore quietly; tasting each forbidden word in her mouth, and swerved around the truck.
Focusing her IR cameras and gene-
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Lately, I've been fascinated by fireworks; the idea of fireworks.
It's no secret that humans love fires;
Worship it still, so many years after Baal has sinewed away into a symbolic memory and children no longer feed the flames.
We will love fire long after the language used to capture that idea has been text-mangled into a hieroglyphic polyglot of w y no lk fr?
We love fire; it is the foundation of ability to grow, to learn, to build, to feed ourselves.
We speak of the cleansing fire, the fire of passion, the fire of ecstasy.
We build fireworks.
We love fire so much that we create statues of it -statues with lifespans of moments- and we hang them in the sky.
It's an incredibly selfish act; I take my resources and brighten my day for a moment, I commemorate this day with a tiny fuse-lifed fire statue.
And it's accidentally generous, in order to have your fireworks you must share them. You cannot create a fireworks display that isn't seen by others.
This is art, this is poetry;  thi
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So, I was watching skyfall the other night and this occurred to me:
We have already terraformed the earth beyond recognition; that's not science fiction, it's just simple fact.
We build mountains and dredge rivers with alarming disregard.
And we all agree that we are changing the atmosphere.
Life as we expect it is incredibly fragile
And only a tiny part of that whole is capable of language.
Language, at times, is the most fragile part of the global bio-system.
And poetry?
Well poetry is so much more fragile than prose, or dialogue, or documentation.
Poetry is barely a language, it's a set of symbols liked together to unlock something hidden deep inside language.
And here we are, as  a species building mountains, and rivers, and machines bigger than houses.  We sell each other on the idea that natural gas is clean, using language to commit a slow species-wide suicide.
And here, in a tiny mouth, are these  lines:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
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Bear Tracks
Did you kitten all the way over here
Just to tickle me with false sermons
And mawkish accolades
I won't be dealt a hand of salmon, no sir.  
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Sandpipers stumble across the shore
dragging crab legs from tide pool to nest.
A memory of  water swirls away,
chasing the tides, forgotten.
The skeletons of trees stand witness.
Cantilevered cranes lift up the hem of the city,
exposing shin and shoulder.
Scandals bloom in between the times
you identify, entering your pin.
I  uncoil the foetal grip that anchors your illusion to the night.
Shadows burn against the tissue of this downpour.
A sandpiper stumbles into the horizon.
A blue sail flaps on the water as you change tack against a red red dusk.
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Every Film is A Funeral
So, while I was making dinner tonight I was thinking about 1 page web design.  I love the idea of one pagers, they are interactive (by default) they are fast to load, they are great to link to and have the option for enough text to be search engine optimized.  I love one pagers for a lot of geeky reasons,  I'm exploring how to turn them into e-commerce solutions.
I love them because they are very human, and fun, and for all the geeky reasons too.
And I love them because they feel like the credits in a movie.  Every single movie includes an end-credits block, that block is the films final chance to say something.
After all, every film is a funeral.  A film is born as an idea in someone's head, whether it's a sequel or an original IP, somebody has the spark; let's make a movie.  That person tells their network, and people get involved in the project.  At that point in time the film is a collection of people with the shared goal of making a motion pictur
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On this piece I'm going to start with where I'm taking stars away because I really didn't want to take any away at all, yet I found whe...

I've been sitting with this in my inbox for the last few days looking at it with the intention of writing you a critique and not knowin...



Crispen Smith
Artist | Student | Varied
I am a teller of stories.
Over a year since my last submission? 

Well that needs to change.



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PoetryOD Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2016
Thanks for the fave :}
exquisiteoath Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2016  Student General Artist
PoetryOD Featured By Owner May 1, 2016
Thanks for faving :heart:
exquisiteoath Featured By Owner May 2, 2016  Student General Artist
Thanks for writing. ;)
highonwords Featured By Owner Mar 20, 2016
hi crispen - thank you kindly for the fave :)
exquisiteoath Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2016  Student General Artist
IyraEMM Featured By Owner Feb 19, 2016
thanks for the fave! nice to see you around.
exquisiteoath Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2016  Student General Artist
You are most welcome.
haphazardmelody Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You left a comment on one of my haiku a little over 2 years ago telling me that it was okay to invent a word in poetry because as long as it feels right to the reader, it works. I think about that advice every single time I sit down to write; it's impacted my writing so much for the better.

I just wanted to say thank you. :heart:

Happy New Year!
exquisiteoath Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2016  Student General Artist
So glad to hear it.
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