darkcrescendo

The Irreverend Runcible Spooner

482 Watchers72 Deviations

81.8K

Pageviews

Latest Deviations

See all

Recall a poet, how as a youth by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Recall a poet, how as a youth

Recall a poet, how as a youth they filled their cup in the well's dark depths, drawing out the mind's ink to spill over the pages. There was expectation in the words as they trickled in rivulets from line to delicate line; in their cursive elegance a hint of laurels. One day the poet's cup returned empty, and then again, until the pages dried. Perhaps then visit where a cup leaves its mark above where stripped bones lie. Nature disdains the cup's drab stone, the memorial grey bleak against its green, and the rush of its protests recall the poet's struggle to find water in the well where dry winds howled.

Portrait by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Portrait

Sketch us now, love; make the lines heavy beneath my eyes. Let each wrinkle be a trembling of ageing hands that scatter our memories across the page. Draw a still life, love; pencil in the arthritis just so. Let me not move from the cage of my chair as you hammer it down with manicured nails. Paint the years, love; spread the tears heavy over the canvas. Let the water dilute the colours until peaceful, hazy edges stain the history of our days. Sketch us; draw us; paint us and then, love, when the time does come, burn us.

Shadow Waltz by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Shadow Waltz

Night-time, a shadow waltz, and her voice forms the soundscape of dreaming. I dance through her absent spaces, hold the gravitas of silence about me, tread softly on each passing word. I imagine then I try to take her hand, kiss it with arm around her waist, brush lips lightly against her neck. We end in decrescendo and darkness. Woman tears away from my dreams, dressed in a hazy shade of forget.

Mantra: raging against by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Mantra: raging against

I want to read poetry like the crashing of waves on rocks, with shards in my eyes and salt lashing my tongue with every word, with every splash of syllables that race across the earth; I want to live in the boom of destruction, be reborn in relentless tides. I want to give voice with the rumble of a raging mountain, with fire on my lips, dark clouds about my granite face, and thunder in every sentence avalanched upon the world; I want to stamp on the lies of the nations, be the lightning in fading eyes. I want to be the coming storm.

Hippocratic Fingers by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Hippocratic Fingers

His fingers twitch, 'physician heal thyself', tapping to the absent clicks of flint, the scents of flame, butane, and the rush of chemical bliss. Hippocrates knew him of old: lighting his pungent fires, phlegm bloodied, offsetting the chills and humours. A tracheal convulsion, and he coughs smog and wet ruin, wipes bile from dry lips. Lined with his lung's tar, the asphalt is greasy underfoot and the city's lights spark a neon ember: he draws its smoke in, exhales, expires just a few breaths short of home.

6am at night is no stranger by darkcrescendo, literature

Tanka: dawn by darkcrescendo, literature

Tanka: nostalgia by darkcrescendo, literature

An Average Essay by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

An Average Essay

To be average: what does that mean? How is it achieved? It is best to start these things at the start of things: with the etymology of the word. It is quite apparent to any man of letters that there is some argument as to the rightful antecedent to the unglamorous 'average'. Certain classicists contend strongly that the word stems from Avernus, the lake believed to lead to the underworld - specifically that underworld lorded over by Hades. It is the author's argument, though, that the classicists in question say this only because they found mathematics to be a hellish ordeal and wanted to achieve a subtle revenge upon the hated subject. S

See All

Featured Gallery

See all

Recall a poet, how as a youth by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Recall a poet, how as a youth

Portrait by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Portrait

Shadow Waltz by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Shadow Waltz

Mantra: raging against by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Mantra: raging against

Hippocratic Fingers by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Hippocratic Fingers

6am at night is no stranger by darkcrescendo, literature

Tanka: dawn by darkcrescendo, literature

Tanka: nostalgia by darkcrescendo, literature

Watchers 482

See all

barnett22

sokarlf

VertigoArt

acunderground

tmpst24myst

ZekromFlame

Buknoy31

FirelordAshka

Amperstandard

isthisthingstillon

Py2hik

simple-whimsy

Watching 226

See all

TheyDontLikeItUpEm

FirelordAshka

Amperstandard

SirTiefling

anndr

simple-whimsy

KogepanT

Cuccoteaser

ScreamPrompts

raspil

Satokit

noturmary

CRLiterature

tdcwillz

secondmagpie

Poems of note

See all

Portrait by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Portrait

Mantra: raging against by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Mantra: raging against

A city scarecrow by darkcrescendo, literature

The cad who writes by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

The cad who writes

he's a proper taleweaver, that one; will spin you a fable of tavern-smoke thread. so she said, blowing smoke of her own to chase itself across the narrow bench, rambling up the air to play tug-o'-war with the bartender's nostrils he coughed up a story once, belched it out into a carnival of fancy dress parties and cocktail soirees; splashed their shoes with his muck. he metaphored on their carpets

Song of the city by darkcrescendo, literature

Winter by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Winter

The old man smiles through clear blue eyes and skies embracing fertile clouds expectant with fractal flake children. He doffs his hat of hazy mist for geriatric trees, bald heads displaying their crinkled-wood wisdom. One hand adjusts his bare-earth tweed to smooth the frost on collar hills and straighten a river-ice necktie. He wanders, smiling at his world unfurled in tasteful winter shades now painted on seasonal canvas.

Tapestries by darkcrescendo, literature

Blue by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Blue

Saxophone smooth in a three-piece suit enters Blue - cool and suave, disdainful to those of duller class - the crass beiges and browns seen down the street and around the town. Electric, Blue glides bar-ward, in charge and smug with martini charm - rhythmic in conversation, his words slide like the saxophone ride he came in on. Red can't leave him alone. He presses convivial keys, playing the spectrum with a smug smile - It's an old game with new names and people to mix with. He smirks his way to Ebony. 'How have you been?' and all that jazz, just the casual quips and usual digs of the typically hip, tripping over tongues an

Shades of Sleep by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Shades of Sleep

Another blue ceiling, shadow-choked and unfamiliar, stares back in sympathy - withered paint crackling with unshed dust and old-man's tales of long ago, a silent confidante with blown-bulb twilit wisdom - It's comfort as cold as this half-empty bed. Cataleptic - a midnight-waker with four hours lost and the ceiling is shadow-smothered, blue gone grey like old-man's ashes spread out over this dark grave of a room - dust unto dust in the throat, and coughing with all the enthusiasm of russian roulette. Pull the trigger on the TV remote to no effect - 3am and the damn thing's still dead, the traitor with screen black like a post-midn

Half a Glass by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Half a Glass

Liquid lounges at midway, sloshes, settles in a glass half-empty-full of undecided understanding. It plays in a positive-negative stop-go stream of thought coursing through the same old considerations. Which? Is it Half filled with aqua vital to life, longevity, enjoyment and proclivities to see delight in luminescence and the brighter side of strife? (Perhaps it is) Half empty of water drained in silver-strand descent down fleshtone tapestries - drip-dried stains in a monochrome-mascara pain-pigmented perception. A final glance, and it is half-full-empty of any meaning save that gleaned from half drunken deliberations

Collection

Favourites

See all

tomatoes by Sperpy, literature

Literature

tomatoes

the garden has grown over. rows of metal stakes sit barren, tilted if you were here, I would ask - do you remember each spring those sagging, strained vines grazing the ground and all the varieties of reds that brightened the back of our yard? the sound of the doorbell, a cue to load up the bags, and the postman, your sister, my friends leaving, laden with a bounty and Mum heaping two kilos of them in a deep saucepan, bashed and dented from years of cooking for four, and they'd simmer for hours like time meant nothing our crop, we shared when there was so much

The Art of Aging by nycterent, literature

Literature

The Art of Aging

There was a time he built sand castles by the sea without the fear of waves and wind and careless birds with fretful wings and restless feet of human beings that made his castles crumble down again, again, again. The crisp and salted seconds dripped out of his days Memories became his beaches, his castles mere accounting forms, and paper-thin bills his dragon kites. And his grandchildren built sand-castles. These ironed trousers were not meant for beaches as childhood is not meant for men. But all his desires would begin to conspire; he'd fall into white sky sheets and re-wind life during dreamless nights. He counted the

strangers by TheHungerArtist, literature

Literature

strangers

I could tell by the way you folded The newspaper that you'd given up hope of ever finding that long lost pet, the remote for the TV you pawned, the shrapnel that had dug into your flesh like a lover's fingernail, broken off and left to help you remember that today would have been her birthday. You couldn't help me if I was drowning because you never learned to swim or no one tried to teach you that the Good Samaritan was a stranger who couldn't help but steal the wounded man's wallet as he lifted him from the dusty ground.

Composition by anarchypress, literature

Literature

Composition

Composition There is almost nothing of life left in me. I spasm like a broken wasp, like a headless samurai. As openings go, I could do worse. You respond, tell me about someone we knew from high school, how you write him letters in longhand, the way you once wrote to me. You converse about your shared love of music. And I know. I conceive of how I could still play your piano forte, how I could make your guts vibrate. I could find the key. I have spent so long practicing. Theory is not enough. I tune my instrument and bang out a few notes.

Waste by coolcrowe, literature

Literature

Waste

An angry wind is coming, blood on the window and haven't I been here before? It's a long long time that we've been scraping our fingers against the bottom of the bowl and the howling outside just puts me to sleep There is a lot of this world for us to waste away An angry fire is burning, blood on my front door and what was it I meant to tell you? It's a hard, hard road that we've been carving behind us hoping to find one to follow and the burning inside is what gives me these dreams There is a lot of ourselves for us to waste away But I've been here before and I've so much to tell you and all the waste in the world couldn't

Deviation Spotlight

Metre 101 by darkcrescendo, literature

Literature

Metre 101

So. Metre. It has become a dirty word in some poetry circles. It conjures images of withered, grey-haired men laboriously counting out beats and stresses whilst coughing up phlegm because of all the dust in their cramped and quasi-arcane libraries. It really isn't all THAT bad, trust me. So, without getting too 'old-man' technical - What is metre? what is it good for? And, importantly, how does one use it? Well, let's see if we can come up with some workable and easily understood answers by the end of this. #1: What is metre? Technical Language: The most well known metre, 'Accentual Syllabic Metre' is the rhythmic arrangement of syl

Metre 101

darkcrescendo

Group Member 6

Group Admin 1

the-haiku-club

About darkcrescendo

See all

Artist // Hobbyist // Literature

Mar 22
Australia
Deviant for 20 years
thatcheerfulchapeau.tumblr.com
He / Him

Badges

My Bio

Current Residence: Melbourne, Australia.
Favourite genre of music: Doom Metal, Classical, Jazz.
Operating System: Stimulus Response, Sleep Deprivation.
MP3 player of choice: www.soundzine.org/index.php
Skin of choice: Thick skin.
Personal Quote: I am a poet. I make bad things verse.

Favourite Visual Artist

Moyan, Dorian Cleavenger, Mallory Dyer, Noah KH.

Favourite Movies

Cyrano De Bergerac

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Draconian, Opeth, Pink Floyd, Simon and Garfunkel, Johnny Hollow, S.K.Krow, Miles Davis, Maynard.

Favourite Writers

Poets - Dylan Thomas, R.S. Thomas, Louis MacNeice. Authors - Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman.

Favourite Games

!sdrawdkcab gnipyT

Favourite Gaming Platform

TILteg#

Tools of the Trade

Words, Pretension, Sleep Deprivation.

Other Interests

Historical rapier fencing; general swordsmanship; Latin and ballroom dancing.

Deviousness Award

darkcrescendo can’t be bothered with flattery. He will joke it off or redirect the attention. Instead he remains honest and polite. He will never jade. His critique and encouragement have the ability to advance the art, lives, and careers of every deviant he’s worked with. This award is for an invaluable member of the literary community. He is absurdly helpful at every turn, clever, and talented at his craft. He is a regular around our forums, always proactive toward improving the quality of writing, and communication. With the creation of writers-adoption he has given all writers access to each other, teaching us to learn from one another, to grow together. There is no better lesson.

Awarded Aug 2004

Posts

See all

darkcrescendo

Nov 1, 2013

The NaNoFuckNo Chronicles

0 min read

Herein I shall display my trophies and proclaim my accumulative bodycount in the war against NaNoWriMo. Bodycount for day 1: 1753. Current trophy: A quick google search suggests I am the first person to use the phrase 'I'm in the middle of outdoing John Dee with nothing but a handjob from Prometheus.' For Context, an Excerpt from my atrocious Thruppenny Pulp fiction    It had started like all men's troubles started: with a woman. My ex-wife, in fact, who happened to be in town chasing up money owed. I had been in my office, because that was the last place she'd ever look for me. Which was how I was unfortunate enough to be seated at my d

Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In

darkcrescendo

Oct 31, 2013

NaNoWriMo, NaNoLifeNow

0 min read

So. NaNoWriMo. My Arch-Nemesis. I once faced you as a younger man, all serious, full of pride and determination. And you curbstomped my pitiful poet arse into the ground and laughed as I lay there bleeding my obligatory crimson tears. But I am back now. Older. Beardier. Full of piss, vinegar, and cheap Irish cream. And I will tarnish your very soul with the worst fucking hack genre pulp I can regurgitate into the written form. Oh yes. I shall dance on your desecrated corpse, you bastard fucking thing. NaNoWriMo, this is me putting you on notice: I am coming to do unspeakable things to you. -------- For those poor fools who delude the

Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In

darkcrescendo

Oct 20, 2013

Taking my cues from PTerry

0 min read

*Signpost* ____________  I Aten't Dead ____________ Really, that's probably all there is to say. For those who find my disappearing acts a nuisance, I now have other online presences via Skype/Google Hangout. Drop a note if you want the details, as I am always down to sit down and read stuff aloud over the internet. I'm not shy in that regard. Though typically it will be the likes of Louis MacNeice, Dylan Thomas, R.S Thomas, and others from that crowd. FYI: Skype disdains being useful for anything other than text chat. For sound/video, google hangout seems to like me best. Benedictions!