Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Charlotte Dec 2017
Bzzt​ ​Bzzt​ ​goes​ ​the​ ​silent​ ​vibrating​ ​ring​ ​of​ ​your​ ​phone
You​ ​get​ ​excited​ ​because​ ​you’re​ ​bored​ ​and​ ​all​ ​alone

Thump​ ​Thump​ ​goes​ ​your​ ​heart​ ​when​ ​you​ ​see​ ​who​ ​it​ ​is
You​ ​look​ ​at​ ​the​ ​name​ ​and​ ​see​ ​that​ ​it’s​ ​​his

You​ ​wait​ ​a​ ​beat​ ​to​ ​not​ ​seem​ ​too​ ​eager
But​ ​simply​ ​can’t​ ​wait​ ​and​ ​oops,​ ​there​ ​go​ ​your​ ​fingers

You​ ​wait​ ​a​ ​few​ ​minutes,​ ​pretend​ ​you​ ​don’t​ ​care
But​ ​there​ ​goes​ ​the​ ​bzzt ​again,​ ​you​ ​know​ ​something’s​ ​there!

Thump​ ​Thump​ ​goes​ ​your​ ​heart​ ​again​ ​as​ ​you​ ​look​ ​to​ ​see​ ​what​ ​was ​said

It​ ​was​ ​just​ ​your​ ​friend Ella,​ ​so ​you​ ​check​ ​your​ ​convo​ ​again
LOL​, ​SORRY​ ​*****,​ ​YOU​ ​GOT​ ​LEFT​ ​ON​ ​READ!
del  Jan 2018
bzzt.
del Jan 2018
my name is ace
i am seven years old
i want to be a writer one day!
i really don’t have many friends,
but i love books and that’s enough for me
bzzt
my name is ace
i am ten years old
i’ve written my first narrative!
even though i stayed up past my bedtime
i got an a+ and got to read it in front of my class
they kinda laughed at me,
but my teacher was proud so that’s all that matters
it kind of hurt that they didn’t like it though
bzzt
my name is ace
i am twelve years old
maybe i don’t want to be a writer?
everyone else wants to be
a doctor, or a veterinarian
we’re not allowed to write narratives in class anymore
the school told us to write essays about the american revolution instead
bzzt
my name is ace
i am fourteen years old
i laugh when people mention writing
what an impractical dream!
to be a writer is to sacrifice your heart and soul
for no profit
writing?
i vaguely remember doing that
i still do want to become an author
but i am so scared of reaching for my dream
that i have boxed it away
stored it in a closet
and now it lies abandoned
bzzt
my name is…?
i am…?
i have lost my sense of identity
in refusing myself
my dreams have left me
my eyes are blank
bzzt
my name is 203948
i am 45 years old
i lost myself to society long ago
i sacrificed my individualism
for becoming “normal”
my personality is programmed into
my actions and brain through
how others think of me
i do not resist
i cannot write any longer
hkr  Oct 2013
bzzt
hkr Oct 2013
i want to be like the bee
and sting you everytime you say
i feel nothing
i'll only get to sting you once, really
i'd die for you and it scares me
but what's more terrifying than living for nothing
and if i do -- die for you -- i'll know:
a little stinger
the remains of myself
will always be part of me,
will always be part of
you.
extreme love is terrifyingly beautiful
bleh Nov 2016
you'd always come home via the garden path, reveling in the crunching of the twigs, the slooshing of the leaves, the endless clackering of misfound footfalls. till the day, after a particularly satisfying stomp snapping, you looked underfoot and saw the remains of the fallen sparrow's nest


it took you five days to soak out the blood


tonight's supposed to be the biggest moon in 68 years. Biggest moon! Wow.


a girl at the party says it's stupid to care what others think. i agreed with her. She agreed with my agreeance, and then burst into tears. i ignored her and walked away. i'm a frigid *****, but theys' gotsta learn, they


God, the flies, it's such a cliché, but it's true, as you trek down into the sludge you can't see them but you can hear it, the buzzing, you can always, from everywhere, the buzzing


when our flatmate left, he deconstructed his bed. he didn't take it with him, he just, took the mattress, threw it in the water closet, left the headboard on the stairway landing, and the sides and springs'n-**** in the garage
                      i really respect the gesture


in the gully between the graveyard and the mine, they built a highschool. a ******* highschool. lord knows why. it looks like a ******* campers lodge, all the kids climb up the banks and the uni students sell them acid in lolly mix nickel bags. everyone i've ever known came from that school, one way or another. heavens know why. hey, look at the big chimney, guess the furnace is on. it's still in use, huh? probably shouldn't be loitering. anyway-


the big diggerman's dig up the concrete, put it in a bucket.
the big diggermans with the big digger truck, with all the cones and stop signs.
Bawm! Bwam! the big muscle arm, full of strewn piping and pistons, bab's the ground bab bab. Take that, ground! Bab Bab!! the spinning chair vibrates, the man gyrates, and the big arm up's and downs, down down, swivel, dump.


remember when we were thirteen, and the idiot boys made a game of standing in a circle, trying to **** into their own mouths? you wanted to punch them in the face, but didn't want to get your hands *****. if only you'd known, back then, that your limbs were really just overgrown turnips, would you of been so insistent at keeping your distance? keeping the world at arms length? that's always the irony, isn't it. the world was inside you all along



At the end of the cemetery, past the hedges, a car park, overlooking the hill, where there's a huge oak tree, and all the concrete is just fractured under its weight, and the asphalt is in tar stricken colours a blackbird in mid-dive splatter. Anyway. Sorry,-

god, you're making porridge? Porridge? *******, are you even hungry, or did you just ******* want to see the ******* oat-*****-muchus coat everything you

-just, there, in this graveside car-park overlooking the city but also in the middle of nowhere, there's two cars. One, a ******* Mitsubishi GT, all slick and weltering plastic, pure pristine millionaire CEO's toy phallus, and beside it, a banged up old Datsun, and it all seems like an allegory for something, but it isn't, it's just, someone dumped these two ******* cars here, but they're not even dumped per see, the registry in the windows are up to date and everything, but they're just there


      all the damp men take the STOP out the truck, stand on the road, hold the cones, watch the digger man seat shuffling; gotta shuffle move up the pavement before you big hand down


You were too clever, weren't you? to bash her head, right there, in the corner, there, above the left cheek bone, so i couldn't tell, right? to make her look like just one more corpse, among the rot? obscure that one side, turned away? left to decompose, mid-perch, on a desert highway? well, maybe it wasn't, maybe it was just someone else, but the fact that you knew, you knew i'd check above the left temple, and that you ****** chose that as the point of rupture, it shows, it just ******* shows, the


the flies never gather, at the point of death, they just breed in the damp, the gulleys surrounding it, why is that


and just look at you now, sitting there, naked as a newborn, crying to yourself, wiping your weepy eyes with your simpering turnip paws, and it's just pathetic, isn't it? And i love you, i do, it's the one moment i can say it, i can feel it with burning, simple purity, with self effacing truth and clarity, because, here, i don't matter. you don't need me, you need a body to hold, an arm to hug you. in loving you i can be absolved of all qualities, and so, for once, i do, i do

Yeah no! In sixty-eight years! What even is the moon



it's amazing, i've eaten nothing in the last thirty-six hours, except a single dried apricot. yet
                                   i need to *****

  you know that feeling? What a feeling. You need to retch, but there's nothing to retch, and there you are, just standing there, at 5am gagging to yourself in a damp field. A stomach, trying to turn away, fold upon and shaft itself a vicissitude. A stomach, no, no, yes, you see?  You need to empty yourself of this bile. What bile? Exactly. There's nothing. Nothing up-emptied onto nothing. And that's all there is, right, that's all that life is, is given right there; the gag, the convulsion, the upturning unto itself, the attempt, attempt, you understand? Of the cathexis, of the innerworld, taken to contain only the unspeakable within itself, miserly bile, a concomitant of all the worlds ills and would be ills and then upon it taken as an ill unto itself, a single nebulous fluid husk of malignant umbra, held in *******, bound in fleshy lining. But then the expulsion, the retch, is attempted, to take all the seething disease of the inner and to project, upturn it onto the outer world. Where? It doesn't matter. In the bin, into the shrubbery, Anywhere but in here. Once it's gone, it gone, that's all that matters, gone, go, go, get. The body tries to push the malaise of(as) the internal unto the external, the outer, but in doing so, finds itself(boundary) empty, where it thought it incubated only vile, there was instead, only nothing, but still, somehow, the convulsing, the retching, the act itself, remains. And that's it, you see? That's all it is, all the emotional turmoil, all the half-hearted hallucentric episodes, the all of everything, is just that, just an, an emptiness trying to upend itself but finding there's nothing to upend, but it still asserts itself as process, as an unending nausea, unresolvable nausea, both grounding and thrown, the throwing and that-which-is-cast, bent under itself,  nausea



the swamp reclaimed the garden last summer. flood season, after all. some days the stagnant waves came right up to the brickwork, can still see the lines, see? your old swing set's a gonna though. all the rabbits either abandoned their dens, or were drowned out. lord knows how many micro-organisms died as well. lot's of new ones were probably borne though, right? hear those flies, bzzt, bzzt. life loves damp heat. you can never tell, never tell really.
fuuck, porridge. porridge is great. you start with some dry oats, but by the end, who knew? the porridge isn't the oats. the porridge is the *process*, the murky texture that you just keep pouring into and it just sits there, it just takes it in, ever cloudy, ever stewn upon itself.



all the sounds, all the sound, all the sound, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound all the sounds, all the sound, all the sound, all the sound, all the sound, all the sounds all the sounds, all the sound, all the sound, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound all the sound, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound all the sounds, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound all the sounds, all the sound, all the sound, all the sound, all the sounds, all the sound all the sounds, all the sound, all the sound, all the sound, all the sounds, all but sound



when we'd get lost in damp forests at dawn, or around the sea cliffs at midnight, you'd always sing Poison Oak to me, and i never really got it to be honest, that one song always eluded me. why a yellow bird?
many years later, after my cousin killed herself, i'd think back to you, standing there, and i started listening to it again, and something, something really resonated. a kinda deep, all absolving, wash. but i still don't *get* it, i



******* porridge man, what the **** even is it
Judy Ponceby Feb 2012
As the fiery teardrop of evening
Bursts upon the horizon,
I weave my iron hammock,
All eyes glittering in
Ravenous anticipation.
I and the shadows collude darkly--
Awaiting your arrival.

Wending my way
Through fruited garden
In search of treasure
I take without pardon.

To land from aloft
On warm steamy goo
Tasting with delight
This joyous poo.

And once quite sated
I move on
To cooler climes
This garden spawned.

Glinting temptingly,
My steely dinner plate
Stretches limb
To limb.
And soon--
My bulbous stomach
Churns in delight--
It is you that will be
Stretched limb
From limb.

Buzzing about
Out of the Sun,
Feel the foreboding
Dampening my fun.

There's a vibe in the air
That makes me shiver.
Setting my hairs
all quite a-quiver.

For all the eye facets
sitting in my head,
I still miss the trap
set out dead ahead.

I can feel your approach--
A barely discernible thrumming
That agitates the threads of my
Handiwork.
My mandibles quiver
And drip
In excitement while
The winds soughs secretively
Through the evening,
Whispering you towards
My gullet.

Evasive maneuvers
They have no effect.
Tangled in this web,
"Oh, What the Heck!"

Wings rasping loudly
Trying to break free,
When suddenly I sense
What could only be...

My enemy most Arch
Evil eyes a-glitter
Racing down wires
Oh, how he skitters.
I laugh inwardly,
Hungrily,
As my supercilious stare
Condescends upon you.
Escape?
The very thought insults me.
Your frantic buzzes,
Imploringly urgent,
Evoke nothing from me.
Implausible and impossible,
Your continued survival is made
Increasingly improbable
As my constraints surround your
Thrashing wings.

How I struggle to be free
As you come quite near
Your fangs how they glitter
How plump is your rear.

Feeling the terror
deep in my being
Wings wrapped fast
In silken sheeting.

Quailing at the certainty
With which you approach.
And yet, a flicker of  hope
When shadows encroach.

An agitation of the wind,
A vibration less susurrous
Than that which the night
Should betray,
Causes me to freeze in
Apprehension
As my struggling supper
Loses even the dregs of my attention,
The faint glow of the night
Is changed--
More swiftly than the
Rasping of leather wings
On a midnight silence
r the warm, mammalian
Bite of all that the
Darkness contains--
To the ubiquitous blackness
Of nonexistence.


As luck would have it
My executioner has failed
To finish me off,
And so I must regale

My frenemies
with a delightful tale
Being saved by fate
In moonlight pale.

Now, if only I were able
To free myself from
This quite dreadful mess
Wound about me ***....

Bzzt.
My consciousness
Crushed to
Confused
How?
I can't feel my
I hear mumbling
Thunder
Nature's laugh
Irony.
In collaboration with Ben Taylor, a fine young word warrior who has many fine writes on Writer's Cafe.
Stefan Michener Jul 2016
This is my romance
I long to fly,
sunsoak, sundance,
buzz and sing

When I'm a bee,
I fly erratically,
looking for flowers.
to help make honey

Where are you, Queen?
I respond just to You
I bring my nectar only for you
I feel your presence near

Buzzit! I feel strange,
downright deranged.
What's that in black?
Is our hive under attack?!

Humans are very fine
targets for my behind.
Buzz, buzz, I make a pass;
Now he gets a piece of ***

Uh-oh, what's that smokin'?
Bzzt, I'm feelin' heartbroken.
Bee hearts are so tiny
And easily broken

I'm flying
erratically
so high now



I'm out of breath
I'm closer to death

I'm going down now,
drifting
I'm going to sleep now, dreaming
of my Queen in our Hive of Honey
When I'm a bee
Kelly McManus Aug 2020
Isn't nuclear mankind
like insects flying around
a bug zapper BZZT!

— The End —