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About Deviant Jeremiah ArkhamMale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 11 Years
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Literature
The Monroe Doctrine
Monroe: a monolith on the landscape of American myth. White skirts billowing about her hips in an eternal updraft, melodious giggle carried on a breeze laced with wisps of Chanel No. 5. Object of worship and obsession and dark desires, after all these years still Hefner's creamiest slice of cheesecake. The effortless pucker. The slight tummy pooch. One can calibrate instruments from the placement of the beauty mark . . .
In no endeavor has my generation invested so much energy as in its attempt to establish an iconography to equal that of our parents and grandparents. There were giants in the earth back in their day, and rather than accept their passing as the consequence of a changing world, we regard the dearth of equally towering figures among our own number as a failure in ourselves and attempted to construct our own mythology. Unfortunately, we went about it in insecure, derivative ways, borrowing and relabeling. Johnny Depp was supposed to be our James Dean, except he wise
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Literature
Smoky Mountain Setback
Driving blind-curve Carolina pass
fast too fast, you know, and reckless but
darkness cuts travel time and you need
speed, coffee plucks your nervestrings,
sings in your eyes, you couldn't go
slow if you tried, full moon at your back
jacks you up like bad memory driving
Broken glass diamonds on the road in
overloading headlight glare
flare into sudden screaming ganglia twitch
switch into reflex jerk on the wheel
realtime stretches and snaps back
smack across the eyes and you see
three bodies split and broken
Smoke from wreck of pickup overturned
burned collapsed, roof crushed, one slow tire
on fire, spinning stench of charred rubber out
doubtless bodies were passengers in the bed,
dead on the road, but where's the driver?
survivor you hope, without looking at flattened cab
grab nose close eyes to blood brains and smoke
Clutch your gut stumble to the guardrail
frail barrier between road and falling gorge
gorge rising, shooting in burning-truck glow
so helpless, aware of a space between s
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Literature
A Lizard Girl He Knew
She had all the things
he wanted: beauty, brains,
a flawless sense of timing,
and a positive mania
for the old switcheroo, yet
there was something
that called to mind the lizard,
perhaps the jeweled eyes
that never blinked, or
the pink darting tongue
that teased but never twined
with his, but in any event,
it was enough for him to search
her skin for emerging scales
to peel one
by one.
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Literature
Everybody Wants to Be Bukowski
My friend J was just fired
from her job teaching philosophy
at a small Catholic university
for not wearing her mortarboard,
for defending the rights of prostitutes,
for drinking Cuervo in the beds of pickup
trucks in the shadow of the Alamo,
for kicking out the jams, for taking
young guitar players and old professors
as lovers.
I tried to tell her months ago, once
you join the tweed brigade and hang
letters from your ass, that's it --
no more scromping in the dirt,
no more rockabilly stomp,
no more flights to Amsterdam,
Huntsville, Toronto, New York,
no more busking in the subway,
no more lean taut dreameyed
poet boys, no more manufactured
grief.
Everybody wants to be
Bukowski, but nobody wants
to pay for the poetry. We all
want to be drunken heroes,
call ourselves angels and saints
and scoundrels, but we want it
delivered to our doors, no muss,
no fuss, no pain, no blood,
no damage.
It doesn't work like that.
It never has.
You can't be Byron without
Augusta and the clubfoot;
can't be
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Mature content
Tango Sinistre :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 0
Mud Puppies :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 1 White Box :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 2 5 Tub II :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 0 Tub I :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 0 Glass :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 0 Ghost :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 16 Wife and Son II :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 0 Wife and Son I :iconjeremiaharkham:jeremiaharkham 0 0
Literature
Little Thing
Little thing,
I've read your broadsides, your smug polemics,
your vague superior manifestos
on the mechanics of hate and the politics of suicide.
You claim to have been there, trod the morass,
but I see no swamp-grass on your shoes,
no crusted blood under your fingernails.
With your young limbs and child's eye
you ascended a mountain of words,
proclaimed yourself high priest,
began doling out cheap wisdom from a prefab temple,
telling me how to live, why to live, whether to live.
Little thing, you know nothing.
Let me work real wisdom on you with my hands.
If the world worked, trains would run on time,
hurricanes would remain at sea,
and all POETS
(in capital letters boldface type)
would be drowned like kittens.
Because some of us have no need to conjure
fervid intensity and existential despair.
We need but stand still
and they're on us like sudden snapping wolves.
Listen to me, little thing.
When you've paid for your wisdom in the hardest currency,
the coldest cash,
When you've engine
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Literature
Idiot Dog
Some days are walks in a magnetic suit
through clouds of iron
and umbrellas rusted inverted.
I am tired of swatting at chaos,
of banking on unhappy accidents
and random catastrophes.
I am tired of double-stitching my heart
against inevitable rents.
In the past I've often said
rather than be the optimist
perpetually disheartened
I want to be the pessimist
pleasantly surprised.
I am a liar that way.
By monstrous coincidence,
while rummaging through my trunk
of shiny objects and old ransom notes,
I put my hand in something cold and viscous
and discovered the nature of hope.
It is something from nothing.
It is conjuring, it is bad math,
the millennium locust,
or a dish made sloppily
with cockatrice eggs.
Hope is an idiot dog
chasing cars, never knowing
what it will do
when it catches one.
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Literature
Diploid
Here
is where we twine
and clot, here
is where my socket
meets yours, here
is where our fingernails
tangle, here.
Our patches stick
together, your breath
reeks of my disease,
geographies merge,
cosmologies collide,
borders have been
peeled and we
sluice into sea.
Here
is where we shoot
each other up, your profile
becomes half of my face,
my kiss infects
your shoulder, swelling,
you strip your throat
with my name, juices
ferment, honey
hardens, here.
Alliances are forged
between the cells,
accomplices despite
the fact, honesty
breeds graft.
It has come to this.
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Activity


deviantID

jeremiaharkham
Jeremiah Arkham
United States
Current Residence: Georgia
Favourite genre of music: Rockabilly, Blues, Alternative Country
Favourite photographer: Margaret Bourke-White, Roy DeCarava, Dorothea Lange
Favourite style of art: 30's Black and White Ultra-Realism
Operating System: Windows XP
Favourite cartoon character: Emma Frost
Personal Quote: It's a sad day for American capitalism when a man can't fly a midget on a kite over Central Park
Interests
Just a line to wish the world a Merry Christmas, and thank you for viewing my page over 300 times despite the fact that I produce no artwork...

Much love to everyone. I'm feelin' it -- hope you're feelin' it too.

Comments


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:iconcougar-ghi:
cougar-ghi Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2007   Digital Artist
omg hi dad!

luv ya! :glomp:
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:iconabsinthebride:
absinthebride Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2007
Thank you.
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:iconabsinthebride:
absinthebride Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2007
Thank you for the favorite. :hug:
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:iconkalrarii:
kalrarii Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2007
Hello, random deviant. =)
Reply
:iconcapndeek373:
CapnDeek373 Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2007  Professional General Artist
Happy New Year!
:ahoy:
Anybody seen my brain? Lost it somewhere between last night and this morning....
Reply
:iconcapndeek373:
CapnDeek373 Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2006  Professional General Artist
:holly: Merry Christmas! :holly:
Reply
:iconabsinthebride:
absinthebride Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2006
Thanks for the favorite. :hug:
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:iconabsinthebride:
absinthebride Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2006
:poke:
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