PLEASE this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you!

The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it should be a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado this Sunday's Specials



Literature

Love TriangleThey call me square.
Don't get me wrong, I'm actually quite a nice guy.  But they still call me Square, probably because of my four equilateral sides and right angles.  The joke gets old very quickly.
I met Ms. Triangle at the supermarket about two weeks ago.  She's a beautiful shape.  Isosceles, I believe, with an obtuse angle.  Although she's not an acute shape, she is a cute shape.
I haven't worked up the nerve to ask her out.  I don't know all her angles, so I'm not sure how well we'd tessellate.  But one thing's for sure.  I love Triangle.
Then came the day I caught Rhombus flirting with her.
I don't like Rhombus.  He thinks he's so cool, the way he always leans one way with four identical sides just like mine.  He can't even stand up straight and he thinks he's so cool.
So, basically, I love Triangle, but so does Rhombus.  There's not enough Triangle for both of us.     The PianoThe voice you hear is not mine. It forms words, but it's not me. I can no more speak than I could fly; not if you begged me, if you tortured me.
Once, a lifetime time ago, I could sing, and I lived for my song. Once she sang with me, and oh, how beautiful we were.
I sing no more.
I don't know where she went; far away, I believe. Perhaps she replaced me with another who sang more beautifully than I ever could. Though she tried, I give her that, she tried to take me with her; brought me all the way down to the sea shore, onto the very sands, but that's as far as I could go; the end of our life together.
Do you think me foolish, allowing myself to be so defined by her? Since she left I stayed on that beach, on a sand bank; high above the furthest waves. No-one came, no-one saw me. My life thereafter was a broken world of memory, and every thought reflected her musician's hands.
A diminished sixth, from A to F, resounded in the twilight of my first night before the sea, the mournful sound    The Hole You LeftA bizarre kind of high
is the blue depth of pain,
like the pressure in your lungs
from the clear nitrous mask
when they tear out your teeth
and you laugh through the holes
in a bruised, splintered jaw
for the tickles in your brain
and the bubbles in your blood
like a flute of champagne
at a wedding...
And the gaps left behind
in a moth-eaten soul –
like a sheet on a car
that's been out in the yard
for twenty years or so,
like a veil on a virgin
or a shroud on a corpse,
maybe coming, maybe going,
never staying very long,
like a Hallowe'en ghost –
but I digress...
No, the gaps left behind
in that sandblasted soul –
can be filled by delusion,
'til it runs out your eyes
and it soaks through your gut
with a mean, vengeful glee –
are the things you hold tightest,
for the one who has gone
is now best remembered
by the shape of the shadow
of the pale silhouette
of the hole where they once filled your heart...   :thumb245196342:

SinEvery Sunday, I sit in the same pew with my family. In the summer, the church is abominably hot, and my cotton dress sticks to my skin. In the winter, the wind tears through the bell tower, right through my many layers of wool. Whatever the season, my burning shame in that church never changes, never ceases.
I am fourteen and I am in love with my preacher.
Father Reed is a fine, imposing man, with his black robes and dark flashing eyes and thunderous Commandments of God. "Christ died for our sins," is the popular refrain these days. Not my sins, I am sure. I have not yet confessed them, so how could He know? Christ was too pure, too good and humble to do as I have done. To touch himself under the blankets after his sisters have fallen asleep. He knew nothing of the want in the tips of his fingers, the heat lingering in the pulse at his throat. He has never wanted what I wanted. I have never confessed, but I can truly be silent no longer. I must do something, or else I am sure I will go    A Dignified Game of Poker(Lights up on a modest kitchen.  MAN and WOMAN are standing, facing each other.  WOMAN is seen poking her stomach with an invisible knife as MAN looks on.)WOMAN
My stomach hurts.  When I poke it.  Does yours?
MAN
No, stop poking it.  Knives are for cutting, anyway.  Not for poking.
WOMAN
(still poking) Who are you to tell me what to do?
MAN
Darling, you said you loved me...once.  Isn't that enough?
WOMAN
I don't remember what I said.  I could have been on hallucinogens at the time, or benzos, or catfood.
MAN
Were you?
WOMAN
If I hadn't taken them, my mind would have been clear, and I would remember not taking them.  As it is, I can't remember taking them and can't remember not taking them, so it's about 50/50.
MAN
You're caught in a memory paradox, eh?
WOMAN
Seems like it.
MAN
I love it when you're like this.
WOMAN
How?
MAN
Confused and disoriented.
WOMAN
Ah.
MAN
Poking       

Mature Content

On the Subject of Finding XI'll have you know that I've just spent a considerable amount of time searching for x. I've looked in all of the places that x might plausibly reside, and even in some places where I assumed x would never be caught dead, but I've come up empty-handed.
I checked to see if x was under the bed, perhaps hidden among old school notes and forgotten art projects and lonely orphan socks. I scoured the closet, checking in every pocket of every innumerable pair of jeans, which, trust me, is no mean feat. I screened for x in every drawer of every dresser in every room, but it was all to no avail.
I proceeded to flip through all of the books that have stubbornly accumulated by the side of my bed, all of those novels unread and read and reread. Thousands upon thousands of dog-eared pages were turned once again, the worn out words flying by to form nonsensical stop-motion sentences, but it was all for naught. In all of those tens of thousands of pages, the x that I was looking for was nowhere to be    Dear Nazisevery other week,
I get a letter from
the Hackensack Liabrary.
they plead with me,
to pay my late fees
and return the over-
due books I checked out
several months ago.
I'm not sure how
they got my new address
and my initial instinct
was to ignore them,
but after the 34th letter,
I decided to be a good
sport, and write a reply.
"Dear Nazis,
A tall skinny fellow with undersized clothes unkindly asked me to leave your establishment. He had thick knots for elbows and his ankles showed which lead me to believe he wasn't wearing any socks. This guy's breath smelled like a dumpster in the summer, and as he spoke I could picture a dirty diaper peeking from a torn trash bag to suck the sunbeams. Anyhow, he told me I wasn't allowed to slip my home-made chapbooks between the novels and selected poem anthologies on the shelves because my chapbooks weren't in the inventory database. I assumed he thought it was religious propaganda so I assured him that I was not a jesus freak, but a poet. He then,      



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