peaches-en-regalia

Brigid

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untitled6. by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

untitled6.

there was a time, she said quietly when i knew you. her step was slow like that of someone twice her age and her dress matched, brown flour-bag material triangle-etched. the suede of her coinpurse had worn down to nubbed balls smoothness worn to smoothness worn to roughness. (i think her skin matched) there was a time, she repeated as she tapped him on the shoulder. when i knew you. but her time was in the past and she was indebted to the years. he turned, glanced, and turned again. his shoes shone like her eyes, and his tie was knotted small and tight (i think his face matched) there was a time, her arms waved aft

untitled two by peaches-en-regalia, literature

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untitled two

The town lived on ice cream sales and sweat. somehow, the air had transformed itself into a new substance that reminded one of chalk in the mouth. It was a weight of heat from every side, caused by long-awaited but absent rainstorms. Even the breeze offered no relief - it was simply a tease bringing the futile hope of coolness. Bald men walked the streets and wiped sweat off their brows, trying to dry the shine off with cotton handkerchiefs. Children ran away with ice cream, coasting down hills on bicycles, splaying their young lean legs into the air. Young women wore thin dresses, trying to prepare for the heat but failing. Old women

'accidents happen' by peaches-en-regalia, literature

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'accidents happen'

"accidents happen" all i have is myself and the trees. and this is a truth, in the face of many lies. faced forward to defy, take my breath away and give me hope. i see a purpose in your pain, even if you are blind to it. all i can do is counsel and after i must leave. ", he was screwing his wife's neice in their own home, the quilts she had sewn together, the beds she had ordered, the doorways they had shared each other underneath and he was screwing his wife's neice in the doctor's office he had secured for her protection on the bed she had given birth in, he was screwing her neice. and i asked her how she could live how

my name is. by peaches-en-regalia, literature

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my name is.

i've taken time out of my book-bank, and it somehow cost me a fortune. i've taken mine out of yours out of ours and now i'm lost in us. i take it that this is over. but now something new will grow, here in these wastelands. green springing out of the ground, quickly followed by a lamp-pole, popping up and growing faster than any tree pushing up the sky. brighter than sunlight, it shows us where we head. somehow we got here, headed through thick weeds we tripped head over heels. and woke to find ourselves in love. let us fly! let us fly! we'll take it all in now, or forever lose us in a sea-green span. the quickest glance, a

passing through the median, or by peaches-en-regalia, literature

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passing through the median, or

taking time across clear-cut floors, we walk through doorways made of oak that were hewn in the neighboring lawn. taking our time we remember that today won't last forever but at least we can pretend. playing dress up in your mother's attic, you pull on an old wedding dress off-white, the sunlight through the window catches and your skin glows with added warmth. highways take us across forever, speeding down rippled greys you pass all the others 'why are you in such a hurry,' i ask. 'because i never know when we'll get there.' across the windowpanes, our faces flash, a pressed-relief on long meadows and patches of woods the

Queen Anne's. by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

Queen Anne's.

so let's lay here in fields, sprawled under tall grasses, and watch white flowertips reach the blue sky streching toward white clouds against sunlight and let's watch all the world pass in cloud-shapes. and lets sing us a song about blueberry patches, and picking and light. and my time here is always and my time here is short but let's lay here and feel how we always were meant. and the sky looks so blue and the world looks so bright and your yellow sweater is so soft on your shoulderblade let's just lay here in fields taking all our time out just laying and feeling the tips of eyelashes and spreading like eagles the edge of ann

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untitled6. by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

untitled6.

untitled two by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

untitled two

'accidents happen' by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

'accidents happen'

my name is. by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

my name is.

passing through the median, or by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

passing through the median, or

Queen Anne's. by peaches-en-regalia, literature

Literature

Queen Anne's.

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last year's losses by peaches-en-regalia, literature

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last year's losses

what would it be like to have my face plastered to the side of a bus? an eternity of happiness, giggles, no worries. nothing but a laughing face frozen in an expedient motion, an empty eye. free of order, shaped clay being formed from the dirt on my knees. spraying water on a snowman, spraying dreams on memories of dark nights in those mid-life crisis consisting fluently of girls in flowered summer dresses, swaying in summer wind, blond hair flowing with a toss, a turn, brushing itself free of dank hatred, purity. be clean! sweeping marks, broken mops and broken backs made of candlesticks propped gently against the wall of blossoming pear

last year's losses

peaches-en-regalia

About peaches-en-regalia

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United States
Deviant for 18 years
She / Her

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My Bio

Current Residence: killa city
Favourite genre of music: alternative
Favourite photographer: Nan Goldin
Favourite cartoon character: wakko. from the animaniacs. he was modeled after Ringo Starr!
Personal Quote: "the trap i set for you seems to have caught my leg instead" - mewithoutYou

Favourite Visual Artist

Rothko

Favourite Movies

Everything is Illuminated

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Sufjan Stevens, Radiohead, mewithoutYou

Favourite Writers

Steinbeck

Favourite Games

Apples to Apples

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peaches-en-regalia

Oct 10, 2006

i've run out of paint.

0 min read

it's pretty disappointing. i don't know when i'll be able to buy some more, because i've been so busy with homework and the rest of my life. but i'll get to it...eventually.

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peaches-en-regalia

Jul 24, 2006

why does poetry have to be sad?

0 min read

i mean, i know, i was one of those kids, who would readily throw themselves into a good old angsty teenage poem, but i've started to just see the immaturity in writing about "an object you value negatively". there is a time and a place for getting out bad things on paper. but that doesn't have to be all the time. i'm tired of seeing negative things! do i have to create more and new negative things? do we really have to permeate our society with more negative things? you may say that's what all art is about. i beg to differ. i challenge each of you to go out, and to do something you would normally do unhappily, whether that be poetry, prose,