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About Varied / Hobbyist Adrien V20/Male/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
VI. [ENG]
Your eyes crinkle and your straight teeth peek out
like rocks in the ebb of the ocean,
I no longer feel sick, more so shoved into an oblivion
that my thoughts scream for so often.
But then they are quiet at your gaze. I am numb
as you pacify me with the soft curls of your hair,
the peculiar angle of your nose and the strong set of your jaw.
I am happy to die this way, I think-
rolling around with you in the grass, pearly petals
of lilies caught in your hair,
mouth deep, wet, tasting of a river.
Fill me with your saint’s grace and the rasp
of rough fingers, oh, we are grass-stained and
panting among the watercress. If this is Hell, let it rock me
to a gentle sleep in the afternoon sun of your radiant heat.
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Literature
Ronin (unfinished)
The monks had once accepted you into their brotherhood. The brotherhood was accepting of all men, forgiving of all sins, as long as you had the will to redeem yourself. And you, after carrying the burden of your sins for many long years, had finally found the redemption that you had for so long searched for.
Your path had always been wary. You travelled the world, going wherever the wind took you. This time, you had led yourself to Thailand, more specifically to a quiet monastery, isolated from all civilisation. You were led to your brothers, who accepted you as one of their own, even though you were an obvious outsider among them, even though your past was riddled with dishonesty and countless mistakes.
The monks did not speak. They lived peaceful, solitary lifestyles. Each day, they worked in front of the great temple, as did you. Bald-headed and plain, you swept the thousand-year-old bricks that sat before the great structure, with a broom that looked as though it were made from eye
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Literature
Hugh
Today I wished that you were here with me, driving on the right side of the street, sleeping in the right side of my bed. But hate always tears into my thoughts and I wished that you would stay in the desert heat and veer to the right and drive there anyway. Because this is impossible, anyway. Because you broke me. Anyway.
I hope you crash your Mercedes.
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The bones in my back crunch whenever I stand, now. I feel as old as you. How anyone can have 50 trips around the sun without burning alive is beyond me. The ironic thing about my life is that I often find myself wanting to leave it. I don't have what it takes to be an astronaut.
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The thing is, you are so gentle and kind and you have more money than you know what to do with. I am angry and sad and I can never be funny without being mean. I am tormented by you. This is solitary confinement. Abandonment. The waves won't stop swelling to a terrifying height and they lash against my back and it feels like that time you
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Literature
1988
I first meet him in a nursery, his arms covered to the elbows in potting soil, sweat gleaming off of his skin.
It is I who speaks first- compelled by the muscles of his shoulders working under his skin. He stands to talk.
At first, he doesn't seem like he is interested in other men. He is introspective, shy, unpolitical. His stance is neutral and his eyes are hazel, kind. He is holding a tiny cactus that he was in the middle of arranging into a rather large display of desert plants. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His vowels have a roundness to them that hints that he is from the south. But his voice doesn't hiss or quiver at any telling moments. The only rag in his pocket is used to wipe the dirt from his hands.
But he looms over me like the boyhood fantasy that came to me far too late. He smells of old wood, greenery, the earth. His teeth are dark and neat, his smile, tentative. His knees rattle when he stands and there is a sound like the clattering of rocks in one's pocket.
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Literature
Lush Life
He doesn’t let me come over to his house. Manhattan high rise, spacious, with a view of the park. He always says “let’s do it at yours” in that voice with those eyes that burn me alive. I comply because he makes love so sweetly and his lips are always at my neck like the first time, like there is no ring on his finger. When we are finished, my fingers curl around his index and middle fingers. Warm metal brushes up against my knuckle. His touch destroys everything and he still takes my breath away. I think about how the bed would like in his high rise (probably soft, turned down, smelling of him) but then he is kissing me, through the door, gone. I wonder what his wife has cooked for dinner tonight.
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Literature
VI.
Tes yeux chiffonnent et tes dents droites surgent doucement
comme des roches de la mer dès la marée des vagues.
Je ne me sens plus malade, mais je suis poussé dans l’oubli
de laquelle souvent mes pensées hurlent.
Mais des voix sont tranquilles quand tu me donnes ton regard.
Je me sens engourdi et tu pacifies mon ciel détruit par une guerre privée
avec les boucles de tes cheveux, l’angle curieux de ton nez
et le plateau de ta mâchoire.
Je suis heureux de mourir comme ceci, je le crois, -
Même si c’est une fièvre chaude d’une hallucination délicieuse,
nous roulons dans l’herbe, les pétales nacrés
des lis attrapés dans tes cheveux,
ta bouche profonde et mouillée, avec un goût d’un fleuve.
Remplis-moi avec la miséricorde d’un saint et la râpe gentille
des doigts rugueux. Ô, nous sommes tachés par l’herbe et nous haletons
en gémissant avec l
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Literature
Persephone
I was broken by you; clean shaven, standing there behind the garden gate in your braces and shirtsleeves. Your mouth parted as you hid shyly among the thick flora that bloomed as a soft spring in your irises. My vision was flooded by pink and at the crook of your neck there was a scent of saffron. There was a moth in your thick, silvery hair as your hand met mine through the bars of cold, prison-like iron. Somewhere I could hear that a fountain trickled. When our lips met, I wanted to suck on your fingernails like pomegranate seeds as though three months of torment in Acheron were worth a single moment tangled in you through a garden gate.
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Literature
Le Voyeur
The receiver is pressed to my ear as
my mind wanders.
He runs a hand through his greying hair.
Sweat pools in the dip of his clavicle
and his eyes ask questions
without answers
from under thick lashes that tangle
together like lovers.
His teeth are dark but beautiful
and I kiss him on the mouth anyway.
I blink and he is gone.
But his voice is clear and deep in my ear.
"Hello? Are you still there?" He asks.
My brain hums softly inside of my skull,
radiating warmth until
I hear the TV in the background,
the rustling of paper,
the startling laugh of a woman,
and a slight, delicious intake of breath
from lips I imagined to be soft and pliant.
My mind glazes over.
There are tears in my eyes.
I hang up the phone
and I clean the shame from my guilty fingers.
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Literature
The prisoner (ENG)
I breathe last night’s dust like cocaine.
I am drunk on you,
on the lustres of gold in your hazel eyes,
on the softness of the springtime flower petals
in your hair, on the traces of an ancient
lullaby in your voice. Kiss me warmly,
and I will steal you into the night, our eyes
broken fragments of the moon. Dream of
me in your sporadic fever-dream and tell
me you love me against my dead lips.
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Sketchdump 2 by mybaehugh Sketchdump 2 :iconmybaehugh:mybaehugh 0 0 Sketch dump 1 by mybaehugh Sketch dump 1 :iconmybaehugh:mybaehugh 1 0
Literature
V.
His astral presence
never fails to floor me,
tongue in my ear
when I am trying to think.
He consumes everything
green coattails dragging behind him
and don’t dare say his name,
he will turn around,
like the sun turning its
face towards the earth,
and you will fall in love with
the stars in his eyes and the
cosmos in his throat.
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Literature
IV.
he is the seafarer in his
soul but a siren relaxes on the rocky
peaks of his gaze.
she leans over to whisper in my
ear, through the sweet sounds of crashing
waves. her sweet note embraces
me, hotly. the candle in our
room does not flicker.
She beckons me closer with an ancient
hymn, opening her
legs and I cannot help but stare at the
vein that travels down his thick
arm. a great wave roars in the
distance and I cannot bear the
look in his eyes any longer. there is a great
wave over me and I want to make love to the
turmoil.
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Literature
I give up
Gift me with your stare,
hazel and warm,
reminiscent of memory, that languid summer
and the scent of watercress
as I stared out of my window at night.
I would steal the flecks of gold
from the forest of your irises,
I would pin them to my ceiling
and maybe they would glow for me as do the stars.
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Drawing exercises by mybaehugh Drawing exercises :iconmybaehugh:mybaehugh 0 0
Literature
Le Prisonnier
Je respire la poussière d'hier
comme de la cocaïne.
Je suis ivre de toi, les lustres d'or
dans tes yeux marron et clairs,
la douceur des feuilles des fleurs
du printemps dans tes cheveux,
une chanson comme une ancienne berceuse
dans tes mots.
Embrasse-moi chaudement
et je vais te voler, partageons
la nuit, nos yeux comme des morceaux fracturés
de la lune. Rêve de moi dans ta fièvre
sporadique et dites-moi que tu m'aimeras
toujours contre mes lèvres mortes.
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mybaehugh
Adrien V
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
I'm Adrien. I'm a bilingual artist currently living in Kalamazoo. I love art history and reading when I get the time.
I'm trans and gay. I like to write/draw from that perspective, so men are often featured in my works. :)
My last name is weird. I chose it. No, I am not related to a fictional character.
I post when I get new ideas. If you decide to follow me, thanks a bunch.

Transgender Pride Flag Stamp by SavvyRed gay stamp by tiny-dragonite Achillean stamp by SnoodSpirit French language level EXPERT by TheFlagandAnthemGuy
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:iconcarlosstappev:
CarlosStappev Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2017
Merci à nouveau :hug:
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:iconmybaehugh:
mybaehugh Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
De rien 😃
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:iconcarlosstappev:
CarlosStappev Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2017
:icontnxfav1::icontnxfav2::icontnxfav3:
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:iconmadam--guillotine:
madam--guillotine Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:happybounce: +fav 
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:iconshining-scribe:
Shining-Scribe Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Greetings! Welcome to :iconpoetic-poetry:, and thank you for choosing to join us. I hope our group will give you a chance to meet many other writers, enjoy many new styles and, most importantly, blossom and flourish as both a writer and a member of DA. :) (Smile)
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