"bight" poems
Sometimes you have no reason to stay,
and realize that's a perfect argument to go.
And that taking an entirely new way,
is the sore but single method to grow.
If you're washed-on abeyance's bight,
and you feel decision's heavy heft:
To choose the left where nothing's right,
or go to the right where nothing's left.
Remember it matters not where you proceed,
or which mountain you want to ascend.
It does not matter whether you succeed,
it is the journey that matters in the end.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Trapped in a cage with golden bars of light
Of ancient habit and direful duties;
Below the water crashed into the bight,
The whispering waves baiting with beauties.
But her shadow lurked around the coast,
Dashing her to the beach like drifting wood.
Preventing her from what she wanted the most
To reach new shores from where she stood.
She wanted to travel and sail the open sea
Beyond the shingle, seaweed and shells
Closer to the horizon where the birds flew free
Or to the arenaceous ground in diving bells.
And coming back to where she started
She found her seaside changed since she has parted.
Or did the widening horizon change her perceiving?
For returning was not the same as never leaving.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
a single column around
my favourite part,
the inside of your wrists
I brush the fibers against porcelain
wanting to leave a mark
let me create a map of red lines
and bruises on your skin
this way I'll know where to
lightly caress or
run my tongue along or
dig my fingers into
breath you into me
and sync our breaths
slow and calm
I run the bight along your arms
tug it across your chest
it is meticulous as the rope runs tandem
and I go slow
savouring each ******* fold
over, under, through, tighter, harder
your smile commands me
so I ask you to beg
tell me you want it
I want to hear it
tell me you want me
of course I'll give in
we both know you're in charge
I maintain tension with the rope
it's a language I've become fluent in
I maintain tension through eye contact
though I pray you won't see through me
I maintain control
of myself and keep to the task at hand
wrapping you like a gift, like my gift
subspace is a land I've never been to
but I know the face you make
when you get there
your eyes flit and I can sense your arousal
our breathing quickens
as you contract against my lips
you are unbound and released
as I pull the rope tighter
I'll bind you free
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.
~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.
Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in
Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first fag
plenty of time plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds
A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.
Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.
As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
Un angle vole un angle vole.
Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
Humber - Fisher - German bight
Thames - Dover - Wight.
Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words
North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.
Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.
The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.
Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.
Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.
Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
I
have
yet
to
meet
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
the loneliness of a pair of eyes
deep and serene as a vast field of wildflowers
nestled between great mountains
they see your beauty and feel your allure
your bight colors make them feel alive
your novelty makes them feel worthy
the lonely people come and pick of your abundance
they take you home and display your essence in a vase
a memory of vitality
until the flowers choke and fade away from their Source
so the lonely people return
day after day they pick a small bouquet
because the field is endless
so it seems
what’s a few flowers to a whole field?
they picked the field to scraps of color barely vibrant
the field has grown thistles and thorns around its edge
with a riddle guarding a single entrance
“What are You that I Am?“
(to know you must
become the field)
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
I remember quite distinctly
The night the Angel came
Hovering above my field
And calling me by name
Fred, the Angel yelled to me
Waking all my sheep
I yelled "you stupid ****** twit"
I've just got them to sleep
He said a king was born to man
And I must go to see
I said, "I've got these bleating sheep"
I don't do this for free
The angel said follow the star
All the way to Bethlehem
I told him, you must be ****** daft
My next shift starts at ten
I've been around the world a bit
And I've seen a lot of stunts
But this angel hung right in the air
And his wings did not flap once
He said there is a child
And he will be the King of Kings
I didn't really listen much
I was still watching those **** wings
The sheep were going batty
The field was bight as bright could be
I said, of all the shepherds round here
Why did you come wake me?
He said to travel swiftly
And to follow yonder star
I said, I'm off to bed mate
I'm not going on that far
Then there came a bolt of lightning
He had barbecued a ewe
I thought this bird means business
I mean just what could I do?
I left my flock with Charlie
The shepherd two fields over one
And I said I'll be back soon mate
I'm off to see the holy son
I met up with some others
All of us had the same tale
Of an angel flinging lightning
So we all felt we best bail....
I got there in December
I'd been travelling for months
The only thing I thought of
Those wings...did not move once
There inside a manger
behind an inn...full up each day
Was where I saw a vision
I'll remember to my last day
Three wise men dressed in robements
A little kid, and his tin drum
Some donkeys and a camel
The baby Jesus and his mum
Dad, was in the corner
All alone hanging his head
He said "How could this have happened"
"I never left the bed"
I looked upon the baby
And I looked down upon that face
He looked at me and smiled
You could feel a state of grace
I really didn't know then
What I was here to do
But, now I know my task was
To tell everyone I knew
So, I started out on homeward
To tell old Charlie of the kid
I picked him up a present
Yep..that's exactly what I did
I guess the world must owe me
and this I 'll stand and shout
You could consider my gift to Charlie
Was the first true gift given out
Now, I sit and watch the sheep here
People come up just to see
The shepherd who started gifting
The shepherd...that is me!!!
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
When I'm alone at night
Laying in my bed
The demons come out
Attach to my head
The voices whisper
Never knowing what they said
But every time
Fill me with overwhelming dread
My body only has evil fed
And all emotions have completely fled
My grey sight
Has just turned to red
And the rage takes over
Arms turn to bull dozers
Anybody in my path will be run over
I'm a *** addict
Popping perks
Like i gatta have it
Coke in my pocket
Gotta grab it
Your ******* throat
I gotta stab it
Living in poverty
Blinded by hate
Until i can't even see
That demon i hate is me
Deep inside it breathes
Blood it needs
And death it seeks
My cheeks turn red
My head starts to spin
My mouth opens up
No words appear
Constantly trembling in fear
Knowing my death is constantly near
Pills in my pocket
Take them with beer
Start shedding tears
I spit poison
My mind is toxic
My heart is frozen
Brain with no logic
Speak without a topic
My evil is atomic
Zoned out like im bionic
My life is chronically chaotic
And i smoke until im hypnotically psychotic
Stuck in a constant fight or flight
So much dark no hope for light
The darkness has taken over my eye sight
I'm a monster
Prepare for a fright
No bark all bight
And when i attack i come with all my might
Stuck in this eternal night
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
The strike of the rainbow warriors part 2
We arrive in the rainbow land of mystery and see lots of rainbow people watching us while the bight coloured green ship lands in the dock. The golden goddess watches with delight when a golden sheet is laid down for us to walk upon.
The crowd roars in laughter while our golden army is taken down towards the big bright palace of illusions to meet the king of rainbow land. After reaching the palace a guard dressed in bight orange takes us through towards a big golden study.
A confused white tiger looks around the strange bright palace and starts to feel very scared all of sudden at something in the air . We all comfort the white tiger while its mouth drops with shock at the moving roof above our bodies and the strange atmosphere .
All of a sudden the king of the rainbow people walks in and stands next to his gold desk of power holding his bright hands towards the roof . I hug luitent megs while the horses seem to become more concerned and unsure about the strange king while the room begins to spin about.
The golden goddess suddenly grabs a door handle to escape but get thrown down upon the golden carpet by some sort of strange force . At that moment the room becomes a mist of surprise and the windows have become metal shields of terror while we begin to run about looking for a means of escape .
We all stand in shock when the king transform's into a large pumpkin monster and his bodyguards have become large fire breathing dragon men with long spiked tails. The horses kick out at the dragon men's bodies while they try and beat us down but gets zapped by the king laser gun of hatred .
The dragon men then escort us all towards another room with yellow walls while the pumpkin king throws some magic powder over our scared bodies of terror. we promise to reveal the kings secret to the rainbow people until a smiling red witch with golden hair appears in the room and says we will evaporate into dust powder if we reveal the secret of the pumpkin king.
All of a sudden a door opens and we are ****** out inside the rainbow city with thousands of rainbow warriors cheering and clapping at our golden army. We look with disbelief while a guard of rainbow people escort us towards our bight red hotel of multicoloured glass.
written by wayne mockler
ownership and copyright wayne mockler
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 2:33 PM UTC
Rustle rustle through the trees
the wind of the North, a cool air breeze
shake as they might the leaves hold tight
as the cool sea breeze flew through the night
Through the trees and through the fields
and through the mines as which it wields
a chill that frosty death can bight
as the breeze flew through the night
the leaves they shook the seas they churned
the fields in which the poppies burned
a wilted flower in the breeze
holds tight to life while it pleads
in the distance of the night
a cool air breeze is now in flight
off to the void in which it came
leaving the world a frosty frame
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
Children between the ages of six and ten
boys not even close to being men
And you, you call yourself a man?
A man of what, of cowardice
a man of strange
of deranged
thoughts
scared faces
reduced to
scarred hearts
unable to heal
being torn apart
All the pain is too real
The eighteen children too young to know
to go to the unknown
A place set for a person no longer here
Eighteen children you robbed of their lives
put their families through all the fear
For what reason
Children no older than fingers on their hands
no younger than the time on their stands
standing graves for eighteen children
who won't know anymore of a summer breeze
or getting down on one knee
to pledge the love
the same love you took
from families
and victims alike
Causing all the strife
So you call yourself a man
when you stood before
eighteen children
That you put on their death bed
along with yourself
who couldn't listen
to his own **** head.
36 parents who have to
identify their child
who no longer roams free and wild
all because you exiled
The innocence and life
out of eighteen
bight
children
Tell me, what right
did you have
to be given the title
of a Man
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
He would ride up to the field
God had lain so purposefully for him
Along the final bight of an earthen track.
Narrow, which climbed, as with him
It swerved. He believed in God then.
Fenced off, blades became thick as
A dare, a moment—before confession
Or asking out his girl, the one whose
Crescent eyes in smile moonlit clefts
In his time. He would see her moving
Her body like His girl, exhaling His
Name, as if He was her only breath.
Through oceanic grasses she would
Flow in his ear, all the warm hadal
Mist of her. Aging wood throbbing
From gusts of wind on the fence. Deep
Enclosure of slender stalks and stems
Swaying by the rhythm of an ancient
Reverie. Crickets and junebugs, early
Fireflies lilting, sung to him tunes of
Indecipherable freedom. But not once
Did he cross, not once did he ever
Disturb a nature obeying the music.
Only the torrid yearning he allowed
To slip through the separation, knowing
There it was reunited, home among
The barely heard hum of the grasses
Oneiric and bare. Years later, when
The fence had disappeared, he once
Walked through and was overcome
By an emptiness thrashing against
Emptiness. In a single gust, scented of
His desinence, those years passed again
And he thought. *Even if I’d crossed,
Had joined—not disturbed. Even if*.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
They sailed out of Miami
Aboard the Southern Light
Headed for Sunset Island at
A place called Key West Bight
When suddenly a mist appeared
Filling a cloudless sky
The sea began to churn and boil
The compass spun awry
Their hearts began to flutter as
Their minds were filled with fear
There seemed no explanation for
For the thing that would appear
The lightning flashed; the moon turned dark
Then came an evil sight
Out of the sky a ghost ship sailed
That cast an eerie light
Unlike a craft that men might build
With neither rig nor tower
No sound of grinding engines
No oarsmen to give power
She silently hung in the air
Moved With no observed force
She followed without error every
Time they changed their course
And like the Ghost that haunted them
There still seemed to persist
The cloud that now surrounded them
That evil yellow mist
There are no words that can describe
The chilling taste of fear
The kind of fear that robs men’s souls
Of all that they hold dear
But I can tell you plainly how
Five sailors weighed with fright
Lost all their nerve that fateful day
Aboard the Southern Light
With the radio not working
And the compass failing too
The southern Light was lost at sea
Along with her whole crew
But then the ghost ship disappeared
And sky returned to norm
It seemed three hours of troubled sea
Had left the men forlorn
But when the crew was safe on shore
To tell their tales of their dangers
Twelve years had passed since they’d left home
Their families now were strangers
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 12:58 PM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
bright light of the hearts.
star light star bright can
you feel my love tonight.
the vastness of one heart
can bring endless joy to the
sad heart. you have voice
with in your self O'soft flower
life.
you are the bright light in the
night.
i hear your song in moon light
night.
bright light of the heart
bright light of the day
bright light of early morning
dawn.
you are bright light with in my soul
of life.
you are bight light that make my love
strong .
in endless sea of life .
you are the bright light in the sea of life.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 1:57 PM UTC
Where are we, Kaya?
Landscapes pock like amanita muscaria, fly agaria
the long-legged mushrooms, scarlet
and foot-cloven
and languages rage and quicken like seeds
Seated at the empty table
bloated from unrequited intentions
we refrain from embrasures
Your Garingau voice & throaty laugh
ripple over our eyes
Ha liya youn dabib?
You ask: Where
are we
going?
from here, with Lighthouse Caye in sight
on this sea of blighted corals beyond Seine Bight
where you were born as a footling--
inked though it became-- sole dark, Soul bright
emerging from the long dive
talismans training in your toothless mouth
foretelling the deeper plunges
off Billy Hawk Caye at Solstice
soulfully spearing our Sole--food without strife
And there is richer fare
where
we
are
going
into the night Kaya.
~ Lin Ostler
December 23. 2011
all rights reserved
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
I have no need for a knight in shining armor sitting upon their high horse
With perfect shields and swords held high
Give me a knight with battered armor dented shields and scratched bladed
Who have hunted down their demons faced their feare and won
With bight eyes and angry scars
Give me a knight that's traveled far
Not one that's stayed in their own court yard
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
That BBC accent over the air,
a beacon in my hour of despair,
Thames, Dover, Portland and White,
the warm, soft glow of the radio light,
Shannon, Fastnet, Plymouth, Biscay,
Soothing my soul ‘til light of day,
Dogga, Fisher and German Bight,
my only comfort throughout the night,
Cromarty, Malin, forth and tyne,
Through static crackle, his voice so fine,
Those childhood days have long since gone,
No big old radio to twist and turn on,
But I’ll always remember, forevermore,
Listening to the shipping forecast on Radio Four.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
An endless track,
Meandering predicatively,
305 times around,
Yet never knowing what lies beyond this
Grizzled track.
Shivering,
My gray spirit presses on,
305 steps taken
Through this impenetrable fog,
Many more to go.
This bight winds on,
This way and that,
305 turns.
The speckles of this devious path
Cloud the search for meaning.
Only a breath,
Only a moment,
305 days.
Run away from the end,
Clear the path for me.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
*You want me to tell you what happened,
don't you?
You want me to bare it all,
every sordid detail.*
..... And so she sat there at the dining room table,
even now 20 plus years later, I still feel sorry for her.
How hard it must have been for her to say,
"I think we have become too familiar with one another,
and I need to find myself".
What the **** did that mean?
She has never said anything like that in the 10 years we'd been married.
What the ****
I didn't know then, but those were euphemisms a friend had told her to say.
She wasn’t really all that good at communicating you see.
She took a bight of souffle and kept blankly staring at the refurbished china hutch,
the one she picked out at the flea market and said we would refinish it together.
We... never did.
I said, with a new found fear in my voice, "So this is it?".
I hadn’t yet felt the sting of actually getting a divorce.
And with a heart stopping seriousness in here eyes she said,
"I think it is."
Blood rushed to my head, like a car running a stop sign in front of me,
I crashed.
On my one shoulder was a devil that wanted to yell and scream and call her names.
On the other was the Angel of Karma, telling me that this is one of those moments in life
that you are either going to be proud of,
or regret.
So quietly I said,
"how can I help you find yourself ?".
All the while frantically thinking.....
Think, think, think of something to say that will keep her from leaving.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
The golden goddess looks around the cold dark house of horrors and see a large light shining from a room upstairs. The golden warriors follow the horses up the stairs to look at the bight light ad a large tunnel in a bright red room.
A frantic golden goddess leads our army up towards the room while the black creatures begin to break down the cold doors of evil. At that point the gargoyles fly down from the large black mountain and start to attack our brave bodies in the house.
We all quickly run down the dimly lit tunnel towards another bright light below. the evil black creatures begin coming up the stairs firing laser shots at our warriors heads. Our army manages to blow some of the dark creatures apart with our glowing cyber swords of hate while running down the tunnel.
After reaching the end of the tunnel we become trapped inside this big green world of plants and trees everywhere. The dark creatures turn back halfway down the tunnel laughing at our warriors of hope.
All of a sudden thousands of green goblins appear in front of us surrounding our full army with hate and anger across their deep red faces. We are all made to stand in a line on the green grass of goblin land.
The gremlins point their big machine guns of hate at our bodies making us throw our weapons on the cold green grass of horror. An army of gremlins march us down towards a bubbling orange river and make us all strip to the smiling hordes of other goblin creatures.
I look in to the eyes of luitent megs while four goblin monsters force the underwear off her shaken body. we are all made to sit in a big steel cage of horror while the goblins lead tow naked warriors to a long blue pole.
The golden goddess and her army watch while the goblins begin to cut off each finger of the brave warriors hand. We all scream anger at the goblins while they begin cutting the poor souls faces off with a large glowing red sword.
A disgusted golden goddess screams in terror while the bodies fall to the the floor faceless with eyes and noses lying in the thick mud of evil. The horses bounce up and down in anger at the goblins evil tricks of horror.
We all lay down in the damp cold smelly cage of hatred while the big blue moon shines over the world of the goblins. The green goblins guards sit and watch our defeated bodies in cold cage of hate.
written by wayne mockler
ownership and copyright wayne mockler
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 2:42 PM UTC
Bite One
What are you doing?!
You know you're on a diet!
Don't eat that!
Bite Two
OH MY GOD.
That last bight could've just made another official pound
Bite Three
Don't think just eat!
Bite Four
Bites Five
Bite Six
Bite Seven
Etcetera.
Purge One
What am I doing?
Google said this is a mental disorder
Purge Two
Mental disorder or not you're still fat!
Do something about it.
Purge Three
The acid is burning my throat...
No more.
Purge Four
Keep going until it's all gone!
Purge Five
Am I ever going to be skinny?
You see,
They call me, "thick thighs, nice eyes."
I call me, "stretch marks bigger than a kind man's heart"
And...
I know that when I'm skinny this will all fade.
Because I know that, the girl across the room is laughing because of my fat face.
And I know that, that boy is saying that he'd never date me because my fat is a disgrace.
And for now...
I'm not thin enough
Not pretty enough
Not light enough
Not bright enough
But every time I purge I'm closer to being perfect enough
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC