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About Literature / Professional Core Member William F. DeVaultMale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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Literature
playing the hard Abelard in the game of hearts.
I.
I fold, cold, cards rough to my fingers.
the bitter and brittle fear rising like vomit
in my throat, coating me in a mist of mysteries.
histories echoing with every doubt, case out.
road kill in the still morning air, food for fortune.
instinct blinking out with final thready heartbeats.
II.
at a distance puppets dance mad and sad,
our taint restrains tensions tested to wrest
incidental assumptions now made mad
as they burrow deeper to at length best
well-wrought defense, made of memories won
in games of chance with cards cut from our flesh
to bear barter for hearts in grimmest fun
mocking our marks, wagers we can refresh
from the seeming endless Tantalus purses
we hide, inside, to bide time for the tell
presumed in eyes that lie out of curses
ancient as an holy scripture, God’s spell
cast in castrations of divinity
as we take hemlock from necessity.
III.
the shadows dance because the fire does
and so do we
and our chaotic nature does not permit us
vision of all elements at on
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Literature
dance with the one who hung you
cross of cards
a cross of cards regards
and speaks in pantomime
the colours fade unmade
by memory and time
the shadows dance askance
suspicious of your whim
indifference suspense
illusions gone to grim
there’s no dharma karma
kisses in the distance
your path of least persistence.
mango
like a mango
my heart is not a freestone
and you will find it complicated
to feed
to fill your need
but I bleed ambrosia and magic
in ink and photons
Poitiers
there is an intimacy beyond the mere intersecting flesh.
but no one is ready for it.  steady enough we bravado our ways
through our days for the sullen nights in languages preverbal
and conveniently hardwired from the ancient brain.
you were a lousy lover, as liars always are, too far from the truth
to be able to transmit the synesthetic delight on the oversight.
the only person I lie to is myself, not wanting to have wasted
the years and faux passions like a hungry man eating dirt
when that is all he finds at the bottom of the pit he is
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:iconwilliamfdevault:williamfdevault 1 0
Literature
in common words
I want to hold you, to comfort you,
like a father to a frightened child
when then wind blows too fierce
and the night lingers too long.
I want to sing to you, in common words,
that lift your heart and feed your dreams,
when the world is stupid and uncaring
that you are in it, to make it more perfect.
I want to stay with you, wherever you are,
and wake to the sound of your breathing,
watch the way you fill the room with light
share with you the sound of my heartbeat.
I want to lay with you, every night,
and allow you to drift to dreams in pleasure,
your every need fulfilled in lover's joy
at peace with who you are and who you are to me.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
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Literature
Waiting for the Wyrms
planted in holy soil, toil to the tempest,
best of the wrested slices of time, prime
moments in the indifferent counting of instants.
intricate runes written in the air to dare breath
to freeze and fall, shattering on the stones
when our warm feet find cool solace in the night.
I have read the prophecies, seen the tapestries
and caught the disease of ennui.  on we march,
slower and our shoulders lower under our burdens,
burnt and bitter as little as possible, but even pig iron
runs in the core of stars running red and rosary rogue.
the heat is sweet but defeated we are by our hungers.
somatic components of a very complicated weave.
believing in something by second hand evidence.
present tense and the tension winds the bindings
until we are captured in the webworks of whims
both surrendered to and pretended to have seen,
the light delights us when we fear the dark.
from the backstab to the cold slab the distance
is in the insistence in making utility of the futility.
a very beautif
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Literature
arabesque in red and gold
flesh woven together in intricate confessions.
fingertip ministrations.  
words in arcane, ancient languages
that lovers shared
before there were words or languages
other than the cadence of breath
speaking in tongues
and hands reaching
for an uncommon commonality
I dream this with you
even when awake
the dances we improvise
rather than repeat the lies
of pas de deux past
new and urgent urges
purging our pretense
purgatorial passions
William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
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:iconwilliamfdevault:williamfdevault 5 1
Literature
joining the machine
fingers locking into the grooves
between the teeth
of the great god gear
joining the machine
finding point and purpose to stalk Sisyphus
before we are lost in the imponderable
joining the machine
the great god gear turns
and we are pulled
as our slack runs out
joining the machine
pulled in pulled on pulled apart
our hearts start and stop and start
joining the machine
bracing our last traces of face
we ride with pride into silence
the violence of sentience surrendered
joining the machine
to serve as little more than lubricant
to a future generation
joining the machine
because we didn't dare we didn't care
to shout a warning over the thrum
of torn flesh and grinding bone
joining the machine
William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved
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Literature
watch the horizon for signs of life
trade greys for reds and golds and greens.
satin and silk.  and all the textures
a kiss can command.
warm, full lips.  walking their way
to the mortal portals.
you asked and I was tasked
to bring flowers to a garden.
to kiss the bloom.
petals softly falling.
like angels in rebellion.
show me your wings
my graceful faerie
merry
in the moment
extended into the night
and into the light
for I would more than lay and play,
but walk and talk
and practice the alchemy
that is ours
as it rises with the sun.
William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
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Literature
April 2016: a cycle
on the nature of poets
I once tasted a petal of clover, but that does not make me a honeybee,
merely a curious seeker unable to restrain myself from the moment
where I could imitate, faintly, the actions of the bee, aping the apis
to try to understand from where comes the honey, the nectar.
it was revelatory as the scale of the essence I partook of shook free
the magnitudes of mortal man from insect.  imitation by rote of role
constrained by nature and the Almighty is not the same as transfiguration.
I am not the clover.  not the honeybee.  I draw my sustenance in inspiration.
the undodged curtain (for my Mother)
I did not watch them shovel the rude earth over your mortal remains.
for that is not how I would remember you, celebrate you.
how many times had you dodged the curtain?  more than I knew, no doubt.
but it comes to this, a separation of mother and children
by the very ground we walked upon just weeks ago,
laying flowers on my Father’s grave you now lay
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Mature content
eloquent madness :iconwilliamfdevault:williamfdevault 3 2
Literature
weltanschauung
well, well,
the weltanschauung
is a dark place.
no surprises.
the mysteries were meant to be
complicated
and with a mercurial flow.
questions born as oft as not
from prejudice and memory.
but history
is only an echo
and echoes are just words
even when preconscious
and warning us of intended
consequences
that may never be.
the ebb and flow.
the ebon, below
the surface
measures itself
against the bloody flood
of passions.
and there are no strangers here
tonight.
William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
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Literature
Transcendent hummingbirds
Warm
no
hot blooded
iridescent breasts
sparks of transcendent beauty
guiding me in
framing the hummingbird flutters
I hear your song
transcendence
as the heat becomes light
between us
we shall share sweet nectar
that will fill us
and drive us
to a higher and deeper
state and sate
William F. DeVault.  All rights reserved.
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Mature content
demarcation (pause) :iconwilliamfdevault:williamfdevault 2 0
Mature content
Paris is not Palmyra :iconwilliamfdevault:williamfdevault 5 3
Literature
A Psalm of Thanksgiving, 2015
Praise the Lord, in all things.
In times of great prosperity and adversity.
We are not born to live
but to take this life to prove our worthiness
for a life beyond imagining.
Praise the Lord, in all things.
In an attitude of gratitude show honest thanks.
The gifts we have received
are beyond barter or compensation
as they are gifts of divine charity.
Praise the Lord, in all things.
For the first fruits and the final bone
are all because we have a loving God
who gives in a patient rain
that washes away our disobedience.
Praise the Lord, in all things.
In the silence of your dark corners
find the inner light and fight,
fight against the inevitable to show
that you know you are never alone.
Praise the Lord, in all things.
Dance like David before the Ark,
in celebration and without inhibition.
Taste the vinegar and contemplate Laozi,
for in the bitter there is yet beauty.
Praise the Lord, in all things.
Selah.
William F. DeVault
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Mature content
your garden calls the serpent :iconwilliamfdevault:williamfdevault 0 1
Literature
subtle smile
Dark eyes in subtle smile,
unassuming but lovely
like wildflowers.
In a field of lemon hair,
a bright bouquet that speaks
a language of charm
that disarms
me
such that words seem
frail tokens of respect
and desire.
William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
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More information and poetry

I keep a few sites around the web, aside from places that just have a piece or two of my work. These include:

My original blog, the City of Legends
www.cityoflegends.com

My pure poetry blog (with hundreds of works), Amomancer:
amomancer.blogspot.com

My primary showcase site, with my works, expressed with the art and photography of many DA regulars, williamfdevault.com:
www.williamfdevault.com

Yes, I am a Twit! Twitter me
williamfdevault

And I am on FaceBook:
WilliamFDeVault (of course)

And, you can find recordings of many of my works on blip.fm...

Visitors

:icondagohs: :iconhim21: :iconloremipsumpassage: :iconcourtneywalsh: :iconsecretsofaphrodite:
In case you were unaware, I am the editor and publisher of  amomancies magazine.  For this upcoming issue I am looking for a record number of poets, to each be represented by a single poem, on the topic of "Desire".  You can submit more than one, but I am hoping to get enough quality submissions to use one from a number of poets.  We'll see how that goes.

For more information follow the link above.  
For less information, too late.  

At the site (the link above) you can see the complete digitals for all of the previous issues, with poets and photographers and models from around the world.

I have for a long time depended on photographers and models I have met through DA for the photography we use, this time I am leaning on the literary population.  So don't let me down.

:blackrose:

Activity


I.

I fold, cold, cards rough to my fingers.
the bitter and brittle fear rising like vomit
in my throat, coating me in a mist of mysteries.
histories echoing with every doubt, case out.
road kill in the still morning air, food for fortune.
instinct blinking out with final thready heartbeats.

II.

at a distance puppets dance mad and sad,
our taint restrains tensions tested to wrest
incidental assumptions now made mad
as they burrow deeper to at length best
well-wrought defense, made of memories won
in games of chance with cards cut from our flesh
to bear barter for hearts in grimmest fun
mocking our marks, wagers we can refresh
from the seeming endless Tantalus purses
we hide, inside, to bide time for the tell
presumed in eyes that lie out of curses
ancient as an holy scripture, God’s spell
cast in castrations of divinity
as we take hemlock from necessity.

III.

the shadows dance because the fire does
and so do we
and our chaotic nature does not permit us
vision of all elements at once
so we play the dunce
understanding that control is an illusion

IIII.

the lion holds his wrath
because, somehow, he feels
that it is not the antelope’s fault
that it was born without claws
or jaws enough to make a worthy prey

V.

the Apollonian balance blanches at the excesses
of demons chained and near starved in old stone.
encrypted like the black words they spit
in a tongue I alone know the Rosetta stone.
hard and near permanent, illuminated
scripture to a mad God’s religion, sacrifices
proving only desperation and not worthiness.
I spit blood then split atoms, then start again,
the formula for the ritual not yet perfected.

VI.

the invitation is given.
no one accepts.
the temple is emptied
and the cycle begins again.
the religion is in the teachings.
but a God without worshippers
will slowly fade to legend.
then, into nothingness.

VII.

upon fresh stones and the attar of roses
I contemplate my cithara
then seek a new pluck of the strings
to bring perhaps a new magic
a summoning of something new
something
something less uncertain
still, in my stubbornness
refusing to surrender to doubt
in the eventual outcome
the elegance of sacrifice
the beauty of love
in a world of fragile, shattered prayers


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
playing the hard Abelard in the game of hearts.
I wrote this cycle this evening, trying to blow off a deep and degenerative funk.  Note the sonnet that is the second poem.  
Loading...
In case you were unaware, I am the editor and publisher of  amomancies magazine.  For this upcoming issue I am looking for a record number of poets, to each be represented by a single poem, on the topic of "Desire".  You can submit more than one, but I am hoping to get enough quality submissions to use one from a number of poets.  We'll see how that goes.

For more information follow the link above.  
For less information, too late.  

At the site (the link above) you can see the complete digitals for all of the previous issues, with poets and photographers and models from around the world.

I have for a long time depended on photographers and models I have met through DA for the photography we use, this time I am leaning on the literary population.  So don't let me down.

:blackrose:
cross of cards

a cross of cards regards
and speaks in pantomime
the colours fade unmade
by memory and time

the shadows dance askance
suspicious of your whim
indifference suspense
illusions gone to grim

there’s no dharma karma
kisses in the distance
your path of least persistence.


mango

like a mango
my heart is not a freestone
and you will find it complicated
to feed
to fill your need
but I bleed ambrosia and magic
in ink and photons


Poitiers

there is an intimacy beyond the mere intersecting flesh.
but no one is ready for it.  steady enough we bravado our ways
through our days for the sullen nights in languages preverbal
and conveniently hardwired from the ancient brain.
you were a lousy lover, as liars always are, too far from the truth
to be able to transmit the synesthetic delight on the oversight.
the only person I lie to is myself, not wanting to have wasted
the years and faux passions like a hungry man eating dirt
when that is all he finds at the bottom of the pit he is chained in
by his own expectations and insurrections against the beauty of life.


expatriate

exile and the inclusive banishment
vanishment behind a cloud of magician’s prestidigitation
and the puff of smoke and fire
like a bullwhip made of dreams and broken glass
invocation.  coronation.  theocricide.


Tempered glass that passes for the lens of the eye of God

I do not recall in perfect clarity the taste of a woman’s lips.
the currency of seduction.  the toll into the palace of Aphrodite.
for I have lived my appropriate years in the desert where slips
the shards of self-delusion out, away and the darkness so bright we
conceal ourselves that we cannot burn away to the crust
we have folded within to guard and ward as we conceal
the resplendent truth that is evident by the ashes and dust
that coat our feet and fingertips as we crawl to the well to kneel
in confession to the love gods of forgotten religions, with my psalter.
praying they will forgive us, for that is their principle of redemption,
that everyone deserves a second chance to dance before the altar
and proclaim their faith in tongues of flame and the fool’s exemption.
love is too feeble a word for the transcendence of pyre and desire
I have seen through the eyes of stained glass and fire.


idolatry

the argent sergeant gave the order
and we followed in our line
over the cliff
for no purpose
other than evidence of faith


ripping the stitches

don’t move too soon, too much, or you’ll tear the wound
open again
and again
sedentary goes from temporary to the way of the nosferatu
just slowly
but inexorably


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
NSFW!  The photography and video edits are by her...and most if not all of the pictures are of her, but she whipped this up in response to a recording I'd made of my poem "God's Care"...My thanks to my friend, known here on DA as LadyMartist:

I want to hold you, to comfort you,
like a father to a frightened child
when then wind blows too fierce
and the night lingers too long.

I want to sing to you, in common words,
that lift your heart and feed your dreams,
when the world is stupid and uncaring
that you are in it, to make it more perfect.

I want to stay with you, wherever you are,
and wake to the sound of your breathing,
watch the way you fill the room with light
share with you the sound of my heartbeat.

I want to lay with you, every night,
and allow you to drift to dreams in pleasure,
your every need fulfilled in lover's joy
at peace with who you are and who you are to me.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

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williamfdevault
William F. DeVault
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
I'm a poet. Ronin for now, making my way in the world. I don't write poetry. I don't do poetry. I coexist with it, some have even suggested I am poetry.

I can live with that. I have to. Because it is true. And that is what poetry is: Truth.

Favourite genre of music?
---Experimental rock
Favourite photographer:
---Mariya Andriichuk (LadyMartist)
Favourite writer (and editor):
---So many, so many
Favourite style of art:
---Surrealist, hyper-realism
Operating System:
---Mac OSX
Skin of choice:
---Soft, warm, ready to explore and share.
Favourite cartoon character:
---Daffy Duck
Interests

Groups

:iconthewritergang: :iconsensualitas: :iconwrittenexcellence: :iconliteratureroadtrip: :iconmy-art-and-proud: :iconarts-shadow: :iconnotreforteressebrule: :iconlove-original-lit: :iconlove-literature: :iconromanceforeveryone: :iconreadandberead: :iconfirst-floor-poetry: :iconoccupyartists: :iconpoets-n-prose: :iconfantastic-faces: :iconpoets-and-warriors: :iconlovecostsnothing: :iconthemadhatters: :iconopen-mic-poetry: :icontomes-and-grimoires: :iconart-students: :iconartistsmind: :iconandroxazone: :iconknownames: :iconuniversalpoets: :iconbardic-tomes-poetry: :iconthe-odd-group: :iconpoetryisart: :iconword-smiths: :iconwriterspen:

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:iconlochyg32:
LochyG32 Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2017  Student Traditional Artist
Please check out my profile
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VMPSelene Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2017  Professional Photographer
hello from Poland <3 
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:iconwilliamfdevault:
williamfdevault Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2017  Professional Writer
I hope you are well and strong and your work flourishes.  Some remarkable work, my lovely friend.  :blackrose:
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:iconraining-insanity:
Raining-Insanity Featured By Owner Nov 27, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you!! :D
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TheEvilOvelords Featured By Owner Oct 22, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for joining our group! :D
May we be graced by your presence for a long time :meow:

Sakurai Amy
Founder of The Writer Gang
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:iconmmoreland:
MMoreland Featured By Owner Aug 21, 2016  Student Photographer
Thanks for the watch!
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:iconwilliamfdevault:
williamfdevault Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2016  Professional Writer
You are welcome!
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:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday :heart:
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:iconwilliamfdevault:
williamfdevault Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2016  Professional Writer
Thank you.  Thank you very much.  :blackrose:
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:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome, dear. I hope you had a beautiful day :heart:
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