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About Literature / Student Roarke CoventryMale/United States Group :iconopen-mic-poetry: Open-Mic-Poetry
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Fear perhaps most the pulsing cries of funeral bells in the distance,
Though there are worse things than death.
I have watched the mouse face the cat,
Watched it make final stand
Watched also the student who sits alone in the corner,
Watched silent, the way that a man's eyes shift side to side as he considers options,
Plots routes of escape and waits for his Lady to arrive in the flaming airs
Righteous fury.
Perhaps death is not the worst of things, the grinding of clockwork
To a halt, the way the breath stills.
I wonder if the sudden darkness would not be for the fox facing the hounds
A boon, the struggle edited,
For perhaps it is not the death that frightens
But the dreading, fearing future fear,
Fearing that which comes slowly like some terrible beast
With slow mind and slow feet.
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The Core of the Night
Sordid and Sickly, the feeling of
  1:53 AM. The student stares into the LED, the
Grizzled drunk drives on in the
   Core of the Night, the child awakes
  Stirring alone in the dark of
Night's Nadir.
      The scholar reads his Eliot
  And writes his Yeats under the lamplight
In the core of the Night, the
  Eyes of the madman are bright and the
Eyes of the Cherub Cat are brighter.
The new convert tosses and turns in his bed, the
  Old Saint cries quiet in his bed in the
           Core of the Night; here, the
   Artist is finishing up a long night, the
Poet is awake and sordid and sickly
The feeling of night-- weighs heavily, it is weighing
   Here in the Core of the Night in the
Heart of the Night the Dark Bosom of the night, the
Heartbeat place, pulse place of drums in the night where
Talking is done with,
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Day of Defeat
Today is the Day of Defeat,
Today the day when stones sing instead of men as
Promised, the day when
    Little Ai refuses to go quietly into the Outer Darkness,
  The day when there is sin in the camp and
The day when nothing happens when you pull the trigger.
Unwanted, feet that belong to blank faces
Stomp the street and whisper, looking down,
Like weary streetwalkers painted and rouged up
     Only to find that no one will buy,
   Desperate the man who asks again for
A chance.
Today is the day when the sun retreats farther
And faster than we thought. Today
When defeat is, it is deep and it is long, a
     Chasm that goes far down into the
   Dark heart of things, into the core of the world
  And pulls up silvery ghosts to sigh and explain
To wondering men what futility tastes like
     They know it well in the core where
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Conversation Between Cats
The cat at the window fears nothing, not the
Scourge of the sun nor the flight of the missile, nor
The coming of the hand nor the anger of the day nor
The treachery of the night. Sleeping, the cat at the window
Knows that the world is iron, that some things shall not be.
Says the cat to his brother:
Wake! Fool, wake and gird yourself the day
Comes! Danger is at our doorstep, Hannibal at the gates, the
Promise of green fields and slow prey is out there! Can you not
See it, can you not almost feel the air that would be blowing?
Says the one who sleeps, Jesus in the boat:
No. Sleep, brother, with closed eyes sleep and wait. See this--
A barrier. The world is hard and we are soft, it does not give way
Before creatures of flesh. The faith of Geoffrey in God is ours, who
Go about the lords bidding in the morning, prowling in the night electric
But who sleep in the dread hot. There's no getting to the promise just as
The faith of Windows keeps us from the danger of the world.
Says the cat pla
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Fallout Equestria: Motivations
It was a beautiful and utterly arresting moment, this Pegasus with the sun at her call. Her wings spread out to slow her swift ascent towards him and in doing so it seemed as if she was on fire, the sun behind her a halo. A few raider rifles went off outside, and he imagined he could hear and see the bullets shy away from her, as stones thrown at a goddess might refuse to fly. Even from afar, through this great hole in the wall, he could almost imagine that he was back home, in Mosaic, seeing that old, beautiful image again. If she wavered, he didn't see it. He had lost track of time to some extent, he was aware of her hanging far off in his sight one moment and then she was right there with him in the next moment.
The young stallion's dry throat tried to force itself to speak, and he was barely aware of what he was saying as this beautiful creature touched down next to him. He just wanted to touch her… he held out a hoof. He heard what he assumed was himself asking if she was Cel
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I Dream Sometimes of Lions
I dream sometimes of Lions.
The plains call in twinned tongues to the child of
Mississippi pines, who loves the forest which
Shields the tiny sons of men from the eyes of
God, which is their wedding veil--
Those plains call "Lions! The majesty of Open and
The galling width of Deep."
      Hills and mountains
Belong to the distance, the plains are here and now.
I dream sometimes of Lions.
They run over those plains, they find trees and
Trees congregate into forests, they
Bring to Warrior Kings shade and water.
They go, cresting over this ridge and that,
         Carefree and Courageous,
   Captains of mighty bands which beat the times and
  Establish empires in the sun.
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Roads in the Open
Let us strike the chord of desolation, the winds
Carrying cries of the gulls and the waves pounding like
A pulse on some Tyrhennian shore. Somewhere a boy learns that
Death comes for fathers and mothers and that
Life is perhaps not what he anticipated.
It's a sense of apocalyptic grandness, that those
Wide fields of promise may swallow you up, that
Alexander may come into the East and find that he is
But a drop in the ocean and that all is remade as of old
In his passing, that the hills will forget Greek feet and speak
In harsh guttural tongues of the dark mountain creches again.
Friend- roads crisscross this desert like the scrawlings of children in the dirt
Which is fearful, a harboring for death and scorpions, they are the
Coloring of tiny men who tremble in the eldritch light of stars so great
That the world is a dot of easily vaporized water, a puddle of a world.
Roads, friend, run over the desert, make the Unmade into the Halfmade
Mar it and pin possibility to the ground-- makes
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Carmina X- Heartache
O Postumus, tell our mutual friend
That the years and days are long. They are
An Ourobourous, unending worm which feeds, stretching always
Stretching back, devouring all the works and days of hands and
Love and smiling. O Postumus,
Heartache is a thing of geography, I think.
Theodicy has to do with how and why the worm eats;
I only know that it does.
O Postumus, tell our mutual friend that the wrinkling and pressing of
Age is the end, the troubled moment in the dark, leaning against the wall is
The Beginning, when a word burrows in your ear like an egg planted by a neglectful
Serpentine mother finds warm delightful nourishment in flesh and spirit.
I think that heartache is two fold (evil things rarely reach three):
It is Geographic and it is Geometric, it is point and line.
It is a location, and let us not linger there, clutching at burnt
Odds and Ends of Life, the Measurements of coffee spoons and the numbers of
Counters and scales that wind up or down.
Stepping is difficult without p
:iconjuliusscipio:JuliusScipio 5 0
As the Sun Walks
I will rise and walk the sidewalks as the sun walks them.
With careful steps I will do my best to stay up and awake,  
         Though the sun has no problems with this,
I do— we are far apart, Sol and I, fire and earth.
I will rise and walk the sidewalks as the sun walks them,
  To the best of my ability, be the tip of the invading spear as it
       Mirthfully chases away the night, calling that day has come,
Let Night retire to their mutual couch!
I will rise and walk the sidewalks as the sun walks them.
  For the morning is a sort of table, a place of parley between
Light and Dark, and between silence and noise.
          You, walker, with me walk the sidewalks of Clinton where
     The faithful scholars walk, and the two of us will be quiet.
Perhaps we will speak, but it will be a calm speech,
:iconjuliusscipio:JuliusScipio 111 35
Sand is the Avatar of Fear.
Soft, too soft, the sands lie dormant, lie
Passive, lie waiting, lie--
This is the ground which gives way beneath falling weight,
Which catches the sure foot,
But longs with cavernous mouth
Covered by veneer for the weight
Of one in free fall, who has let go.
A story of Sand:
Fearful, the tearing away of the supports, that
Awful moment when the guiding rails are
Gone, simply missing, torn from their positions of safety
And nowhere to be found. That terrible moment
When the alarm rings unexpectedly, when the
Tool slips, when you lay out a page of words in your mind
And consider it. The Lord said to weigh the cost, so
You do. You turn it over in your mind, front and back,
Perusing the contents. You feel the heat of an alien, fictional sun
And the cool grass and the cold waters, you know the
Faces of this story's heroes, and you taste the air and
Live in their hearts in a tiny home, knowing them, being the
Dark Gods in the Blood that whisper instinct to them.
:iconjuliusscipio:JuliusScipio 2 0
Carmina VIII- These City Walls
My generation lives in the darkened alleys of a great city of concrete,
   And the minds of a million children wander with you and I as we visit.
They whisper of the coming wasteland and war with the vermin, claiming
  Food and shelter from them, winning this engagement, this skirmish,
Prolonging the struggle again. This generation knows little, they read
  Little, only whispering nameless, authorless tales of an end.
Even the skeptic can feel it. In the darkness as he prowls, hoarding and devouring,
  He too can feel the baleful eyes of some awful thing (time come 'round at last) and
The weight of the moon in his back pushing slowly and inexorably. The skeptical boy feels
  That weight right between his shoulder blades, in the crick in his neck, along the
Stretch marks on his stomach from growth which are red, he feels that itch
  Of the Apocalypse. Our fathers feared atomic fire and mute Slavs come from
Frigid wastes, b
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The Poet Greets the Dawn in Dreams
Hail, bright and glorious Dawn, hail and well met!
He who fathered the Galaxies with words commanded thee
  To rise, to gather the rays of the Sun, your brother
    And to rouse your father Day.
Oh Golden haired Daughter of Day and Night, Dusk's sister,
Come with brash trumpets and wake the tiny men of Terra,
   Flinging wide their windows and doors and pouring
     Golden light into their eyes. Dispell the ruin and
Growing corruption of Sulva, the evil in the night,
And strengthen the arms of man so that he may bear burdens.
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My Old High School recalls the past
In large picture frames.
The pictures are small, crowds--
(Turbam ego (solus) video)
Standing still as they are I
Am, large while they are small.
One for each class: faces crowded
Into a pile in the chain gates of
These wooden frames.So crowded,
Little faces jostle for position,
And every addition diminishes them all,
O Malthus,
We look out at crowds sometimes.
I look and think of you and I shudder alone
Thinking of you and not because food is scarce
But because the light that lights men's eyes is so
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The Earth will end in sound.
In those last days, the sky will be red
Over the field of Megiddo and the horses will run
Over it, feet churning the ground into mud as the Lord
Churns the grapes of wrath into that last terrible draught,
    And as he comes to bring the completed brew to its receiver
  He comes with trumpets and a song, his sword compose of bars
    And scales and slaying,
   Breaking the earth which the music of the spheres once cradled.
:iconjuliusscipio:JuliusScipio 2 0
Errant Sons
Oh errant son of the Earth and God who
Beats the ground and tries to tell the skies
   That the God who made them hates them all.
Oh little son errant, Childe of Cain,
The flowers are mocking you, mocking your
   Rhymes, and no one listens to the little boy Shelley.
So a poet said once that God was hate,
Spoke it bold into the air and sneered at the sky.
Oh little shadows will cry with a happy snarl that
  God hates us all, and with wide arms will cry that
The All-Father is cruel.
No lightning has struck him yet, no curses or plagues
    Scourge him. Oh cruel God, will you not
Swat a fly, then? Will you not break this tiny ant,
  Burn him with holy fire?
But the voice remains, droning on that God is Hate.
Oh Cruel God who never intervenes,
   How cruelly you let those who let you blaspheme against you
Live to continue. How cruel it is how you have mercy on fools,
:iconjuliusscipio:JuliusScipio 2 2
Ode II: Nature, Her Perusal
Nature tells its own stories and speaks its own rhymes,
               Crafts its own  images and engraves,  
              Sets out the pieces for its own mosaics.
   She is the playmate of man our
                        Nursemaid and companion; she is one who walks beside.
Nothing is as obscure as the falling of golden leaves,
            Nothing as clear as the crunch of pinestraw under boot—
Poet and hunter will read the signs of wind and passion,
    Mark quarries and try to guess the movements of others
            Who are not him. Poet and h
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  • Listening to: typing noises
  • Reading: Legal stuffs for work
  • Watching: nothing
  • Playing: Final Fantasy XIII
  • Eating: Smuggled crackers
  • Drinking: water
You can't pick someone on DA. :P

I vary, but I'll have to say Lovecraft, King, Donne, Tolkien, and Lewis for writers.

For artists... I like Degas! Even if he is a little creepy. I suppose Winslow Homer (sp?) goes in there too, and definitely Raphael.

What about you follower/watchers?


JuliusScipio's Profile Picture
Roarke Coventry
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I am a poor and somewhat lowly servant of my Lord and a practitioner of the Craft he authored: the Poet's craft of words and measures.

I'm a Student in my first year of college in Mississippi, and a proud Southerner. :) I have a beautiful Girlfriend of three years and two cats named Frodo and Sam. (Unlike in the books, Frodo is the better one. ^^ )

I am a poet and an author, but I dabble in drawing and painting. I am an abysmal painter, but I'm working on it. I wanted to be a painter when I was little, but I've given up on that. I'm just happy to paint.

Which My Little Pony Are You?
Which My Little Pony Are You?
Hosted By Anime

It is both true... and slightly embarrassing. Contrary to popular opinion, my favorite color is actually green.


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AwSweetHolyHell Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2013
Happy Birthday, man! Hope life's being good on yer! :D
JuliusScipio Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2013  Student Writer
IT has been going quite well actually! :D
AwSweetHolyHell Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2013
Glad to hear it ^^
ChineseLung Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave
EmaciatedandEpitaphs Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2012
thank you kindly for the fave :)
equilibrik Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave, I really appreciate it.
Catspaw-DTP-Services Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2012  Professional Artist
Thanks for the favorite! :-)
JuliusScipio Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2012  Student Writer
Quite welcome!
Baron-Engel Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2012  Professional Traditional Artist
Thanks for the interest in my work. I hope it continues to hold your fascination.
JuliusScipio Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2012  Student Writer
Absolutely! :D
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