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Natalie Sep 2015
Untitled #1
"What are you?" he asks. "I mean what are you mixed with?"

He does not mean for the question to be rude. He has never seen someone quite like me, and the question has been bouncing around in his head for at least 2 minutes. So he blurts it out.

"Jamaican, Chinese, and White," I tell the stranger. I smile politely and attempt to mask my discomfort.

He only looks more intrigued. He thinks I am odd, oddly beautiful. Like a rare bird he has found. Not a bird one would ever keep. Just something to look at in awe.

"What are you?" the test paper asks, though in a more formal way. "Please bubble your ethnicity." I hesitate. I think about bubbling 3 different races, but I just end up filling in the bubble that says "other".

"What are you?" I ask my mirror. "Are you a freak? Why don't you look like everyone else? Why do they stare at you?"

"You are not pretty," i tell my reflection. "You are just different. The kind of different that no one likes. The kind of different that scares and intimidates people."

My reflection pauses for a moment. She smiles with kind eyes, forgiving my insult.

"You are everything," she tells me. "You are the sun, the moon and everything in between. You are a scorching hot fire, yet you are cold spring water. You are good and bad. You are you and I am, too. But most of all, you are human. Just like anyone else.
This poem is about the struggles and insecurities i used to have as a child of mixed race. Then growing up and learning to love myself.
#insecurities #identity #mixed #biracial #multiracial
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Akemi Jan 2019
Acid and Lost Time
The Ache is leaving. Three years languished by dead end jobs, drugs and friends. Last week above a bagel store, the sun morphs mute amidst travelling clouds, indifferent fluctuations of light on an otherwise featureless day.

You arrive a tight knot of anxieties over a moment in time that could only have arrived after its departure. The Ache welcomes you into their sparse interior. You trace last month’s 21st across the black mould complex; navigate piles of stacked boxes, unsure if anything is inside of them.

“I always make the best friends in departure,” the Ache says, flipping a plushy up and down by the waist.

“Maybe you can only love that which is already lost,” you reply, with an insight a friend will give you a week later.

The acid tastes bitter under your tongue. Small marks your body bursting, a glowing radiance of interconnections you’d always had but only now begun to feel. The Ache follows suit and you sit on the couch together to watch .hack//Legend of the Twilight. The come up entangles you in the spectacle; the screaming boy protagonist, the chipped tooth gag, the moe sister in need of saving from the liminal space of dead code. You take part in it; you revel in it. Bodies morph on the surface of the screen in hyperflat obscenity, their parts interchangeable to the affect of the drama. Faces invert, break and disfigure, before reformation into the self-same identity form.

A month earlier, you’d hosted a house show at your flat. Too anxious to perform you’d dropped a tab as you’ve done now. An overbearing sensation of too-much-ness — of sickening reality — washed through the nexus of your being. You writhed on the ground screaming into a microphone as a cacophony of sounds roiled through you. Everyone cheered.

The floor rose later that night. A damp, disgusting intensity that triggered contractions in your throat and chest. Pulled to the ground, you fought off your bandmate’s advances, too shocked to express your revulsion and horror, to react accordingly, to reconstitute a border of consensual sociality. You broke free and slurred “I’m no one’s! I’m no one’s!” before running out of the room. Hours later, you tried to comfort them. Weeks later, you realised how ******* ******* that had been. Months later, you learnt their friend had committed suicide days before the show.

Back in the lounge, a prince rides onto the screen on a pig. You turn to the Ache and say “This is ******* awful.”

The Ache responds “I know right?”

Outside the world burns blue with lustre. The Ache trails you and falls onto their stomach. “Oh my god,” the Ache blurts, “this is why I love acid. Everything just feels right.” They gaze wistfully at the grasses and flowers before them; catch a whiff of asphalt and nectar, intermingled. “Like, gender isn’t even a thing, you know? Just properties condensed into a legible sign to be disciplined by heteronormative governmentality.”

“Properties! Properties!” You chant, stomping around the Ache with your arms stretched out. You wave them in the air like windmills. You bare your teeth. “Properties! Properties!”

“You know what I mean, right?” The Ache asks, pointedly. “You know what I mean?”

You continue chanting “Properties!” for another minute or two, before spotting a slug on a blade of grass beneath your feet. You fall to your knees and gasp “It’s a slug!”

You and the Ache stare at the tiny referent for an indefinite period of time, absorbed in its glistening moistures. Eventually, the Ache says “I think it’s actually a snail.”

You used to read postmodern novels on acid. You loved their exploration of hyperreality; their dissection of culture as a system of meaning that arises out of our collective, desperate attempts to overcome the indifference of facticity. Read symptomatically, culture does not reveal unseen depths in the world, but rather, constitutes shallow networks of sprawling complexity — truth effects — illusions of mastery over an, otherwise, undifferentiated and senseless becoming.

Then one day, the world overwhelmed you. Down the hall, your flatmates sounded an eternal return. As they spoke in joyous abandon you traced the lines from their mouths — found their origin in idiot artefacts of Hollywood Babylon. The joy of abstraction you once relished in your books took on an all too direct horror. You recoiled. You bound your lips in hysteria, for fear of becoming another repeating machine of an all too present culture industry. Better dumb than banal — better to say nothing at all, than everything that already was and would ever be. You cried and cried until everyone left — until you were alone with your silence and your tears and your nonexistent originality.

Dusk falls in violet streaks. You reach your room on the second floor of the building, open the bedside window and stick your legs out into a cool breeze. The Ache joins you. Danny Burton, the local MP, arrives in his van, his smiling bald face plastered on its side like an uncanny double enclosing its original.

“Hey look, it’s Danny Burton, the local MP.” Danny Burton turns his head. He glares at your dangling feet for a few seconds before entering his house. “You know, this is the first time in three years he’s looked at me and it’s at the peak of my degeneracy.” You turn to the Ache. “One of my favourite past times is watching him wander around the house at night, ******* and unsure of himself. He always goes to check on his BBQ.” You bounce on the bed in mania.

“See this is what people do, right?” the Ache says, mirroring your excitement. “Like, look at that lady walking her dog.” The Ache motions, with a cruel glint in their eyes, to the passerby on the fast dimming street. “What do you think she gets out of that? Doing that every night?” Without waiting for you to respond, the Ache answers, in a low, sarcastic tone “I guess she gets enjoyment. Doing her thing. Like everyone else.” The lady and the dog disappear beyond the curve of the road. Another pair soon arrives, taking the same path as the one before.

A few months back, you’d met an old friend at an exhibition on intersectional feminism. After the perfunctory art, wine and grapes, she drove you home, back to your run down flat in an otherwise bourgeois neighbourhood. She sat silent as the sun set before the dashboard, then asked how anyone could live like this; how anyone could stand driving out of their perfect suburban home, at the same time every morning, to work the same shift every day, for the rest of their stupid life. The dull ache of routine; the slow, boring death. You said nothing. You said nothing because you agreed with her.

“Life began as self-replicating information molecules,” you reply, obliquely. “Catalysis on superheated clay pockets. Repetition out of an attempt to bind the excess of radiant light.”

It is dark now; a formless hollow, pitted with harsh yellow lamps of varying, distant sizes. The Ache flips onto their stomach and scoffs “What’s that? We’re all in this pointless repetition together?”

You respond, cautiously “I just don’t think that being smart is any better than being stupid; that our disavowed repetitions are any worthier than anyone else’s.”

The Ache returns your gaze with an intensity you’ve never seen before. “Did I say being smart was any better? Did I say that? Being smart is part of the issue. There is no trajectory that doesn’t become a habitual refrain. When you can do anything, everything becomes rote, effortless and pointless.

“But don’t act as if there’s no difference between us and these ******* idiots,” the Ache spits, motioning into the blackness beyond your frame. “I knew this one guy, this complete and utter ****. We went to a café, and he wouldn’t stop talking about the waitress, about how hot she was, how he wanted to **** her, while she was in earshot, because, I don’t know, he thought that would get him laid.

“Then we went for a drive and he failed a ******* u-turn. He just drove back and forth, over and again. A dead, automatic weight. A car came from the other lane, towards us, and waited for him to finish, but he stopped in the middle of the street and started yelling, saying **** like, ‘what does this ******* want?’ He got out of his car, out of his idiot u-turn, and tried to start a fight with the other driver — you know, the one who’d waited silently for him to finish.”

You don’t attempt a rebuttal; you don’t want to negate the Ache’s experience. Instead, you ask “Why were you hanging out with this guy in the first place?”

The Ache responds “Because I was alone, and I was lonely, and I had no one else.”

It is 2AM. Moths dance chaotic across the invisible precipice of your bedside window, between the inner and outer spaces of linguistic designation. There is a layering of history here — of affects and functions that have blurred beyond recognition — discoloured, muted, absented.

In the hollow of your bed, the Ache laughs. You don’t dare close the distance. Sometimes you find the edges of their impact and trace your own death. All your worries manifest without content. All form and waver and empty expanse where you drink deeply without a head. Because you have lost so much time already. And nothing keeps.

Months later, after the Ache has left, you will go to the beach. You will see the roiling waves beneath crash into the rocky shore of the esplanade, a violence that merges formlessly into a still, motionless horizon, for they are two and the same. You will be unable to put into words how it feels to know that such a line of calm exists out of the pull and push of endless change, that it has existed long before your birth and will exist long after your death.

The last lingering traces of acid flee your skin. Doused in tomorrow’s stupor, you close your eyes. You catch no sleep.
“Self-destruction is simply a more honest form of living. To know the totality of your artifice and frailty in the face of suffering. And then to have it broken.”
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Nomen Jun 2020
Misery Loves Company
Jason and the Argonuts

I heard about it from a coworker who thought it was a joke. Had seen it on an internet message board. Found it hilarious. I don’t. I’m certain I know what’s really going on. What’s hiding in plain site. And I want to see it for myself. Seems that most people who’ve come across it just write it off as kids messing around. After all, who would take this sort of thing seriously? If somebody were to do so, goodness knows there might be a pretty big mess.
Follow the directions I found online to this place called Joe’s Pizzeria. Find the brick oven. Press a secret button. The oven changes form. There's a mahogany door. I descend a stairwell, which opens into a small basement room. There are a number of chairs arranged in a circle. Four of them are occupied.
Without making it too obvious, I try to determine the safest place to sit. Across from some hipster with a pencil-thin mustache, I see a pair of identical, androgynous twins. Both wear identical jogging suits. A few chairs to the twins’ right sits a Native American looking fellow in full headdress. He stares blankly at the wall, making a slow chopping motion with his right hand. I take a seat closer to mister moustache.
Well, this is it. There's nothing to do now but wait.
A few minutes pass in almost complete silence, save for some giggling on the part the twins. Suddenly, the basement door swings open. In walks a portly redheaded man, wearing a neon yellow shirt and green cargo pants. He smiles and waves to everyone, then sits down next to me. I try to ignore the stench of what I believe is asparagus.
“Well, I see we have a new face here tonight!” He exclaims; “Always happy to see a new face!”
He looks at me and I realize it’s time to do what I came to do.
I stand.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Hello, my name is Dan, and I’m a serial killer.”  
“Hello, Dan,” the group responds in a collective droning voice, resemblant of worshipers at Catholic mass.
“Yes, hello to you, Dan!” the man in the yellow shirt huffs out, getting to his feet. “It’s splendid that you are able to join us. I’m the group leader, Jason. Welcome to Serial Killers Anonymous!”
I simply stare at him. I have no idea what to say.
“Okay, first and foremost, I want you to know that even though you’re new, I trust you like I would any of our more established members. Call me crazy, but I think we’re all in this together! So, it should go without saying that what happens in this basement stays in this basement. All members are prohibited from discussing group with outsiders, except when promoting the idea that it’s only an internet gag. Also, to help newcomers feel more comfortable, I like to share my personal history with them right off the bat, along with how it relates to the founding of this group. Once I’ve finished, one of our older members, I suppose it will be Mark, will tell the story of how he came to join us. And after that, you’ll get a chance to speak, if you choose to do so.
“Now, as should be obvious, I am a recovering serial killer. The news media referred to me as the Coat Hanger Killer. I was credited by our local Olympia County police with the murders of twenty prostitutes. In reality, though, there were a half dozen more. And there’s no telling how many more women I would have killed if I had not confronted just what it was that drove me to commit such atrocities and dealt with it.”
I return to my seat and it hits me...this man is the Coat Hanger Killer? The Coat Hanger Killer, also known as Hanger-Man to true crime aficionados, was a hero of mine when I was younger. He got the name because he was known for inserting straightened coat hangers into his victims’ vaginas. After the Coat Hanger Killings inexplicably stopped, authorities presumed Hanger-Man to be either dead or incarcerated for other crimes. There’s no way he could be this ginger with the loud shirt.
“I was born out of wedlock to a teenage mother,” he continues. “Raised in a strict Christian household. As a naturally rebellious person, my mother resented her puritanical upbringing and began engaging in promiscuous behavior at an obscenely young age. She thought it would be liberating, but her sleeping around led to an unwanted pregnancy It is not even clear who the father – my father – might have been.
“Well, my mother wanted to get an abortion. And knowing how desperate she must have felt, I cannot blame her. But when she went to a clinic, she learned that legally speaking, minors are not allowed to decide such things on their own, which lead to my being born. Mother was less than thrilled about this. In retaliation, she became more promiscuous than ever. And it did not take long for her to get pregnant again. However, this time, she decided to take matters into her own hands –’’
The narrative is interrupted when one of the twins suddenly blurts out,“With a coat hanger!” This elicits some chuckling from the other, which dissipates upon a severe look from Hanger-Man. He continues speaking.
“Yes, that's right. She went into the bathroom and after what must have been a grisly spectacle, my mother was no more. And there’s no denying just how much this damaged me. I spent a good deal of my childhood crying alone in my room, thinking about my mother’s licentious behavior. Thinking about her death. It absolutely tore my mind to pieces! To pieces! And eventually, all my obsessing over promiscuity and coat hanger abortions led me to become the Coat Hanger Killer.”
All the true crime books I’ve read dealing with the Coat Hanger Killings suggested that the killer did not hold himself in high esteem, which accounted for his tendency to violate his victims with an object so lacking in circumference. It's amusing how wrong they seemingly were...unless there’s some oedipal thing going on here, which wouldn’t surprise me.
“I was utterly consumed by my desires.” he continues. “I obsessively thought of new ways to ****** prostitutes and not get caught. Yes, the sad truth is that my entire life revolved around serial killing for a number of years.”
He stops talking and stares up at the ceiling, letting out a deep breath, apparently orchestrating some sort of dramatic pause.
“When I finally realized that serial killing had taken over my life, I knew I had to change. And I did. And you can change, too!”
At that, he looks at me with pleading puppy dog eyes. This man, who has taken at least a score of human lives, is now using the cutesy approach in an attempt to establish a connection with me.
“Do you want to change?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Then let’s get to it! Let the healing begin!”
And it begins.

The moustached man rises from his seat.
“Yeah, I’m Mark You all know me, except for the new guy. I’m Mark and I’m a serial killer.”
I mouth along as the group drones its greeting.
“I don’t wanna be here, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t go to these meetings, my wife says she's gona leave me. See, this one night, I had just finished up with something I saw in a Ranch Burger parking lot. Wound up getting caught by my wife, stuffing it under our bed! I like keeping my finds under there after I’m done. It helps me get my rocks off when I’m nailing the old lady. Trouble is, before you know it, the body starts to stink. Then you gotta toss it. Good thing my wife has asnomia! Anyway, I almost had the whole thing hidden, when she comes in the bedroom. I didn’t even realize she was in the house! See, I was having some trouble getting the head underneath the bed frame, 'cause this one, lemme tell you, this one had a huge ******’ head. And my wife, she starts screaming and ****. Says something like, 'Mark, tell me you aren’t shoving a corpse under our bed! Please, tell me you aren’t!’ So, I told her I wasn’t.”
Mark’s witticism leads to raucous laughter from the twins, again ended with a severe look from Hanger Man. I stifle a yawn. The Indian remains impassive. Our orator continues with his narrative.
“I’m glad you guys find it funny, because my wife sure as **** didn’t. She fell to her knees and started crying. I swear, if there’s one thing in the world I can’t stand, it’s to see that woman cry. Breaks my heart. Except all of a sudden, she stops crying and starts screaming about how she knows what I’ve done and wants a divorce! So, I go up to her, put my arm around her shoulder, and tell her how sorry I am. Then I promise I’ll never shove another body under the bed. She asks me if I mean it and I say yes, figuring that’ll be the end of it. But then she starts begging me to swear that I won’t even score anything anymore. That I’ll quit. Quit for good!
"Well, I’d do anything to make my wife happy, right? So, I kiss her on the forehead and tell her nothing bad like that is ever going to happen again.
“But I’ll be ****** if the very next day I didn’t start getting that old itchy feeling as soon as I woke up. It was so strong I just couldn’t ignore it! Knew I was gonna have to score something soon as I got the chance. Of course, being so desperate, I wound up snagging this ***** that was all fat and gross at some supermarket. I did my business, then drove home and decided to leave the body in the garage, because I thought my wife never went in there. But go figure, she just had to pick that night to go ******’ exploring! Winds up seeing me ***** ******’ the ugliest, grossest, fattest score I ever made in my life. It was embarrassing, you know? Especially with how flat-chested my wife is.
“Anyway, to my mind, I had sort of kept my promise. I mean, I wasn’t putting anything under the bed, was I? But she didn’t see things like that. Just ran off in tears. Went right upstairs and locks herself in the bathroom. I eventually talk her out, but get the silent treatment for a couple days. Eventually, when she’s finally willing to talk, she tells me about this group. Says I go or else she’ll pack her **** and leave.”
“Excuse me, Mark,” Hanger-Man interjects, “but you are misrepresenting the character of your marriage! At last week's meeting, while you were occupied in the bathroom, your visiting wife revealed very much indeed about how you really treat her!”
At that, one of the twins decides to speak at length.
“Hey! Our dear leader isn’t going to let you get away with lying about your spouse, you know. Why, I bet he likes your wife so much, he wants to stick a coat hanger up her ****. After all, that’s the only way of showing affection he really knows.”
Both twins again erupt in laughter, this time so strongly that they fall out of their chairs. Hanger-Man leaps to his feet and begins chastising them for their lack of respect, which only seems to cause them to laugh even harder. Sensing failure, he throws up his hands in frustration and apologizes to me for not getting to my story, then announces that the meeting is to end early due to Nat and Richard's unruly behavior.
I wonder which one is which, but my interest fades. I head to the exit. Walking past Mark, I hear him talking to himself. Think I catch him say something about his “***** wife leaving,” before he sits down and buries his face in his hands. It occurs to me that a group of serial killers meeting in the secret basement of a pizzeria is strange enough without one of them bringing along his wife.
Open the door and head up the stairs. A man with flour on his hands, who was not here when I arrived, watches me coming out from behind the brick oven. I’m sure I see him wink as I leave.

Five minutes pass. I am standing in front of Joe’s, having decided to take a taxi home rather than walk. I'm trying not to stare at the Indian, who's situated next to a woman who'd been waiting outside in a **** nurse costume. He rests on his haunches, slowly rocking back and forth, still steadily chopping away at nothing. Everyone else from group has departed, the twins notably in a chauffeured limousine, whose driver bore a striking resemblance to Gene Wilder.
I feel uncomfortable. Perhaps I should try to make conversation.
“I’m pretty tired. Hope a cab comes soon.”
A grin appears on the strange man's face, which seems to stretch all the way back to his ears. The tomahawking stops. I wonder what would happen if I were to reintroduce myself.
“My name is Dan, as I said inside, but I think I should make a more formal introduction. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve never met a Native American before.”
“Chief Killing ******, round eye. Pleasure is all mine. And the reason you haven't met any of us is because there are not that many of us.”
A taxi mercifully appears.
“Yes, you’re right. See you next time, Chief.”

Romance

All alone in my apartment. I can find no reason not to give in to myself.
Down the stairs. Make my way through the vestibule and onto the street. Experience love at first sight with the anorexic looking woman standing on the corner of Seton Place and Ocean Parkway, waiting for the R-13 bus.  Approaching her, I get aroused. Ask for the time. She turns to speak with me. I pretend to examine the bus schedule. I have not looked a woman in the eyes since I began ******* at the age of eleven.
She tells me the time and I thank her, then quickly turn away so she will not notice my arousal. Our brief conversation replays itself in my mind until the bus comes.
We board and I sit as far away from her as possible, trying to position myself in such a way that my ******* will remain unseen. I wonder what stop she’ll get off at. I’ll get off there, too.

Our stop happens to be 2nd Street, between Peters Avenue and Chambers. My ******* has subsided. I am able to rise from my seat without concern. She exits from the front and I from the back.
Hide behind a minivan. Peer around it and see her enter a nearby apartment complex. She lives right here. As she fumbles around in her handbag looking for the right key, somebody wearing a U.S. Navy “Fear the Goat” baseball cap storms out of the building, slamming into her. She loses her balance and falls. The man continues on his way. He reaches the corner and turns out of view. She stands and regains her bearings, giving me time to ready the handkerchief and chloroform that I always keep with me.
Soak the handkerchief in chloroform.
Look to the left. To the right. Nobody is coming. Dash out from behind the minivan and head for my patient, who is just now opening the door.
Before clasping the rag over her mouth, I realize I have not planned our session very well. Where will I take her? Will we be seen? It doesn’t matter. I’ll think of something if the need arises.
After a brief struggle, my patient slumps over, dropping her keys. I bend over to get them, trying to cop a feel on the way back up. Enter the building and head for the nearest apartment door. Suspect it will be hers.
I keep her arm over my shoulder. Hold her by the waist, keeping her semi-*****. The feeling of having her limp by my side I can barely describe.
Now we’re almost there.
Almost –
I feel the rudiments of an ******* forming as I lock the door behind us. Home sweet home.

We have been in her bedroom for long enough to prepare for our session. I gaze at my patient, supine and unmoving. Seeing such perfection makes me lose control. Open my zipper, reliving each moment of tying her wrists to her bedposts. How I bound her with old, unwashed *******. ******* I found balled up, forgotten under her dresser, just waiting to be sniffed. I start jerking myself off. And this, I believe, means our session is ready to begin.
"Well, to start things off, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? Just whatever comes to mind."
Silence.
“How about your your name?”
Silence.
“What do you hope to get out of therapy?”
Silence.
“Where do you tend to purchase your feminine hygiene products?”
Silence.
“Do you generally get along well with your family?”
Silence.
“What is your favorite color?”
Silence.
"What’s your favorite word?"
Silence.
“Are you perhaps feeling a bit uncomfortable at the moment?”
Silence.
“Do you find me attractive?”
Silence.
“Assuming you no longer do, at what age did you stop believing in the tooth fairy?”
Silence.
“Can you name a word that begins with the letter ‘s’?”
Silence.
Stop mid-stroke. My patient has not yet moved a muscle, made a sound, nor otherwise offered any response. Perhaps it’s not surprising that she would show so little trust in her psychotherapist.
"If you are going to be this uncommunicative, there is no reason for our session to continue. Good riddance to whatever is lurking around in your id; I see that I have no choice but to terminate our relationship."
Shove my ***** back into my pants. Hands won’t stop shaking. Stumble out of the bedroom. Out of the apartment. Onto a quiet, empty street. Still shaking. Head for the bus station, but can’t make it halfway there before feeling on the verge of collapse. Make a detour into an alleyway. Fall to my knees. *****. Curl up on my side and my mind slips away...

Going Under

Apparently, time passes. I find myself standing in front of my place of employment, the Pointer Funeral Parlor. Grasping the doorknob with my handkerchief, as I can't stand to touch it with my bare hand, I open the door. Head in. Immediately see the old man, Mr. Pointer, the owner. He approaches me. As I put my handkerchief away, he shakes a newspaper in my face.
“Singer!” You know the news about that ****** downtown?”
“The ******..?”
“Look at this paper!”
He slaps the newspaper into my chest.
“Somebody smothered a woman to death with a rag soaked in chloroform. Used so much that her heart crapped out. They found traces of it in her nose and throat. Seems she died pretty quickly.
“But guess what? She came from a loaded family and we’ve got her! Sam’s downstairs with the body right now. Probably almost done.”
“I am aware of what happened, Mr. Pointer. I knew the girl. She lived just a short bus ride from my apartment. May I go downstairs? I’d like to pay my respects.”
The old man eyes me suspiciously.
“That’s what funerals are for. I pay you to keep this place tidy, not ogle the clients.”
“I will have to sterilize the embalming room when Sam finishes, anyway.”
The old man gestures around the room, “What about all the garbage here that needs to be cleaned up? I can’t have my place of business looking like an embarrassment.”
“Shouldn’t take longer than a moment, Mr. Pointer.”
“Make sure everything is immaculate! I don’t need a custodian who is unwilling to do his work. I know what you're up to. Did you think that I’d believe your story about knowing the client?”
“She was…something of a casual acquaintance. I did not know her very well. She was not in the habit of opening up. A quiet sort of person, really.”
“Well then your grief shouldn't hinder you in performing your duties here as my employee! I swear, if not for the fact that there just aren't many people lining up for jobs cleaning funeral parlors, I’d have fired you years ago. Now get to work. You can do the downstairs later.”
              Mr. Pointer scowls at me and takes his leave. When he is out of sight, I make my way to the basement.

                “Dan Singer! You little snake in the grass, what are you doing down here? Don’t you have work to do upstairs?”
“Your grandfather said I could take a break and see you.”
“Ha! I’m sure he did. “
Samantha rushes in my direction. She smells strongly of formaldehyde. I pretend to find the odor unpleasant, so as to be able to look around the embalming room as she approaches me.
“I’m so happy you’re here. I could use a little break, myself.”
My eyes settle on the body of my former patient, which rests on a table on the far side of the room. Everything else seems very far away.
“…I don’t know why I ever got into the profession of ******* around with dead bodies. Stupid family business. It’s gross. Well, I do tend to enjoy the macabre. But the way you Jews handle things is far better. Just put the corpse in the ground. Be done with it. I know you haven’t been religious since you left your family, but…”
Our session seems as if it had taken place a lifetime ago. It's almost as if it couldn't have been real at all.
“…And the fact that I’m stuck working for my grandfather is just one more pain in the ***, you know? He really is one stereotypical grumpy old man. Hey, Dan? Hello! Earth to Dan!”
“Oh, sorry about that. I’m a little bit distracted. I was a friend of that woman over there.”
Samantha’s voice takes on an almost annoyed quality.
“You were? I’m so sorry. A close friend?”
“No. More like casual acquaintances, really. I just find it strange that she'd wind up here.”
“Pretty ****** up, isn’t it? So many young women disappearing, or plain turning up dead these days. It had me on edge for a while. Remember a few months back when that lady disappeared from the Ranch Burger? I eat there all the time! Couldn’t believe it. Thank goodness I read about that goof serial killer group. Helped me laugh about the whole thing.”
“I’m sure whoever thought it up must be a real character.”
“Oh! You should totally check out the site it was on, if you haven’t. Didn’t I send you an email with the link? I forget the name offhand. With the Slinkee logo. It has all sorts of weird ****. There was a great joke on there yesterday. Something like, ‘Did you hear about the guy who liked to play Russian roulette while *******? He really shot his load!’ Ha!”
I force a smile.
“Samantha, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you don’t have a great sense of humor.”
She seems very pleased and smiles back at me, drawing a bit closer.
“Uh, Sam. What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Closer.
“Uh, Sam?”
“Huh?“
I turn toward my former patient, looking for help. She is in no position to offer any. “Dan, are you all right? You don’t need to be so shy when I’m around. We’ve known each other for years. I know that you're upset about your friend. You can talk to me about it, if you want.”
“I'm sorry, but I don't.”
Samantha frowns.
“Well, if you do, you know where to find me. Anyway, I’m going to take a trip to the  restroom upstairs, then speak with my grandfather. Maybe you can say goodbye to your friend while I’m gone.”
“Oh, yes. It was nice chatting with you, Sam.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Samantha fusses with her hair a bit and heads to the stairs.
Up the stairs.
The basement door closes.
Now.
Rush across the room. Within seconds, aroused and exposed, I empty myself over the face of my object of affection. Fumble about in my pocket for the handkerchief. Clean her nose and mouth. Run to the stairs. Out the basement. Out the building. This is the last time I will ever pass through that door. I do not even think of looking back.

The Golden Fleece

It's that day again. On my way to group. I have not returned to the Pointer Funeral Parlor since reuniting with my patient. Samantha has called me several times and left messages inquiring as to my whereabouts. Mr. Pointer has called once and informed me that should I not return to work, I can consider myself fired. He seems to not have considered the possibility that I might have quit.
Approaching Joe’s Pizzeria, I see the twins. They are engaged in what appears to be a lively conversation.
“You see, ****, here’s what it is. I fear death just slightly more than I hate life. That’s what keeps me from offing myself.”
“We all appreciate that you're hanging in there.”
“Oh, *******. I’m glad you can find satisfaction being a nabob trust fund baby, but I’ve never given enough of a ****.”
“I employ my position in a number of ways that enhance our fine city’s cultural standing.”
“What? You mean like giving money to museums and the opera? You think anybody cares that you’re a patron of the farts? Opera only exists so that fat Italian guys can get laid.”
“*******.”
The twins stare at one another for a bit.
“You know, I appreciate the arts. Really, I do. I once stuck my **** in a copy of Hamlet.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Your copy, in fact.”
“Disgusting.”
“Then I stuck it in a copy of Othello. After that, Hamlet just wouldn’t do it for me anymore.”
Both twins are overcome with fits of laughter. After the better part of a minute, it subsides.
“Ah, Dan. Good evening to you.”
“Hello, Dan!”
“Hello.”
“Off anyone recently?”
“Oh, don’t put it so boorishly.”
“No.”
“Oh really?”
“Even my sibling reads the Times.”
“There was a great story recently.”
“A crime story.”
“A ******.”
“A woman was found dead in her apartment. ******* all *****-like to her bedposts with her underwear. Nothing was taken and the woman hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She hadn't even been undressed. She'd simply been given a fatal dose of chloroform.”
“How strange so much information would be given in the paper.”
“It is curious, indeed, ****. But this is a strange world and these are strange times. And I’m willing to bet that our friend over here has been contributing to the strangeness of things. I mean, this chloroform killing was quite obviously not done by us.”
“We prefer little boys.”
“No. You prefer little boys. I also like little girls. And I have to endure as best I can our monotonous and boring escapades. Ours, as you know, is an associated effort.”
“Little girls irritate me.”
“Well wouldn’t you want to ******* **** them, then? Ugh. Brother. Anyway, we know we didn’t do this last ******.“
“And it certainly wasn't Chief Killing ******. He’d have made a far bigger spectacle of the thing.”
“So, since Jay’s no longer active and leaving bodies behind isn't Mark’s style, that leaves you.”
“It might have been somebody from outside of group,” I suggest.
A half smile spreads across one of the twins' faces.
“What! Are you denying it? Why the **** would you attend a serial killer support group if you aren’t going to dish out all the greusome details of your ***** deeds?”
“Some things are best left private,” I respond.
“Yeah, like a *****’s privates?”
One of them chuckles quietly.
“Hang on, are you intimating that our friend was unable to perform sexually?”
“I think he was limp as the left side of a stroke victim.”
“Oh, was that the case, Dan? Were you unable to attain arousal?”
“I do not want to talk about this.”
“Oh, of course you don’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Me either.”
“Well then, about what would you like to talk? We do so love making friendly chit chat, you know.”
“Nothing. There's no time. Group is about to start.”
“Oh, he's right. We should get heading in. I bet Mark has some great stories about his **** of a wife for us this week.”
“I am certain that he does.”
Wondering why I even came back for another meeting and strongly wishing that I were not in the twins' company, I enter the pizzeria. They follow closely behind. We make our way to the basement.
Everyone from last week's meeting is present, along with an excited seeming man. He wears a grey fedora and grey trench coat, under which he appears not to be wearing any pants.
“Welcome, welcome!” Hanger-Man exclaims in greeting. “We've all been waiting for you, but me especially. I must make a very important announcement! We will not be having regular group. Sadly, this means that Dan will not be able to tell us his story. Sorry, Dan. Still, everybody please be seated, so that we may begin.”
Everyone takes a seat.
“It is so wonderful to have the whole lot of you here. The twins. Mark. The Chief. Dan. What a splendid group! Truly, just the sort of people I think I need to begin the first stages of a wonderful project on which I have been working with my very good friend Marvin. Say hello, Marvin.”
“Hellooo, Marvin!” exclaims the guy in the trench coat, waving his arms above his head.
“Really enthusiastic guy, isn't he?” sneers Mark.
“I find his enthusiasm infectious!” retorts Hanger-Man. “And I am certain that you all will as well, once you hear a little bit about what he and I have been planning. You see,  I have always seen our meetings as potentially being much more than just a support group for individuals sharing our particular affliction.
“So much more! You guys don't even know the half of it!” Marvin exitedly chimes in.
“That's exactly right!” exclaims Hanger-Man, giving a thumbs up. “For you see, given my personal history, I knew I could help others overcome their murderous desires. After all, I was able to overcome my own. However, I realized that beyond simply assisting people in learning to control themselves, it would be better to also focus their energies in a new direction. Yes, to focus their energies in a new, profitable direction! For what I envisioned would function not merely as a support group, but as the core of what can only be called a great exercise in entrepreneurship! Isn't that right, Marvin?”
“Yep. Jason used to talk to me all the time about how he had these wonderful ideas, but lacked the people he needed to put them into action.”
“Excuse me!” interrupts one of the twins. “But just who's this Marvin guy, anyway?”
“I was wondering the same thing, myself,” adds the other.
Hanger-Man slaps the palm of his hand to his forehead.
“Ack! I suppose I should have made a proper introduction, what with the sensitive nature of our dealings here. Well, you see, Marvin is an old friend of mine. We grew up together. The two of us lost touch as teenagers, but rekindled our relationship a few years ago, after bumping into one another at an upscale cat house in Las Vegas.”
“I was there to **** a ******,” explains Marvin. “I'd never ****** a ******. Always wanted to, but never had the chance.”
He looks around the room as if hoping for a sign that someone else might share this particular interest. Not finding one, Marvin sighs.
“I'd seen a TV show where a guy went to Vegas and was able to **** a ******. It's how I got the idea.”
“Hey, whatever floats your boat, Marv!” shouts one of twins, barely able to refrain from laughing.
“All right, all right,” says Hanger-Man. “As I was trying to explain, Marvin and I wound up reconnecting after many years of not having seen one another. It took no time at all for us to pick up our friendship right where we had left off. And even though I was a bit wary of doing so, I found myself admitting to him that I, his old friend Jason, was the notorious Coat Hanger Killer.”
Marvin solemnly nods his head.
“It was a bit of a shock.”
“I know it was, Marv, but you took it in stride.”
“Excuse me!” again interrupts a twin. “But why the **** isn't this guy wearing any pants?”
Marvin, apparently embarrassed by this remark, attempts to adjust his trench coat so that it will hang lower below his knees. It doesn't.
“Enough!” erupts Hanger-Man. “No more interruptions! I'm trying to tell a story, here!”
He scowls at the twins. They adjust themselves in their seats and cross their hands in their laps, each smiling mischievously. Hanger-Man clears his throat, then resumes his tale.
“All right, it was not too long after my confession to Marvin that I began to reflect upon what I'd been doing with my life. I suppose finally opening up about my activities to someone else allowed me to also be more honest with myself. I searched my soul and was able to trace the origin of my behavior back to what had happened with my mother. Not too long after that, I abandoned serial killing. Yes, Marvin was the catalyst for my abandoning serial killing.”
“I was very proud of you,” says Marvin. “It was a big change to make.”
“Indeed it was, my friend. But I was able to make it, thanks in no small part to you. And so,  after forsaking the murderous path on which I was traveling, I began contemplating what I next wanted to do with my life. And it was at this time that I first began to develop the idea of forming our group.”
“We started discussing it, you see, over drinks at a return visit to the ***** house,” adds Marvin. “Jason told me that he wanted to do some outreach. I told him it would be a great idea and everything picked up from there.”
“It occurred to me,” continues Hanger-Man, “that the group should encourage its members to focus their energies on something other than committing murders.”
“You mean that entrepreneur ****?” asks Mark.
“Entrepreneurship, yes,” answers Hanger-Man.
“Jason had such a great idea, I immediately signed up,” says Marvin, “and I think all of you should as well.”
“Signed up for what, exactly?” Mark asks him.
“A no fail money making opportunity!”
The twins look at one another, grinning. Mark's face lights up.
“Well, ****! I could use some extra cash,” he says. “I need to buy a taller bed frame.”
Hanger-Man smiles in elation.
“I think, Mark, that this might be just the thing for you!”
“Well, how's it work?”
“It's quite simple, really” explains Marvin. “You first join the program, which Jason has named 'The Golden Group,' by paying an initial fee. Then you convince others to join. With their payments, you begin making back your original investment. When the people you recruit begin finding new investors, you get to collect on what they earn. So, as time goes on and more people join, the money just rolls right in!”
“Stop! Hold it right there!” cries out a twin. “You're trying to get us involved in a pyramid scheme!”
“Why, you scoundrel!” shrieks the other.
“Now just a minute, guys,” whines Marvin. “You have not even heard us all the way out.”
“Nor will we!” say the twins in unison. They clasp hands and rise from their seats.
“Hey, what gives?” asks Mark. “You telling me that this whole time we've been here, the group was really some scam?”
“That's right,” says a twin. “Jay and his friend have been waiting for enough people to arrive so that they could begin fleecing us all out of our money.”
“Come on, now,” pleads an offended looking Hanger-Man. “If I were really trying to do something like that, why wouldn't I have just targeted the two of you? You’re so well off that I'd imagine you have more money than everyone else here combined will see in their lifetimes!”
Chief Killing ******, who has been sitting silently throughout the meeting, suddenly springs to his feet and cries out at the top of his lungs. Everyone in the room looks at him. He shrugs his shoulders and walks out as if nothing happened.
“What the **** was that?” Mark wonders aloud.
“Who cares?” snorts a twin in response. “My sibling and I are out of here, too. Let's beat it.”
The Twins bow toward Hanger-Man. Before he can make an attempt to dissuade them from leaving, they turn and begin skipping away. I hear them laughing as they make their way up the stairs.
Hanger-Man tells them to wait.
“Will somebody explain to me what the **** is going on?” Mark demands. “This group's seriously just some scam?”
Hanger-Man looks at him pathetically.
“No, no, there's been a misunderstanding, Mark. Only a misunderstanding, that's all. Perhaps I should not have invited Marvin to sit in tonight. I thought that with the recent addition of Dan, the time had come to introduce everyone to my greater plans.”
I have had enough. Stand and rush for the door. Head up the stairs. Hanger-Man and Marvin yelling at me all the while. Exit the pizzeria and light a cigarette. I am halfway up the block when I hear someone call out to me from an alley not far off. I go to investigate.
“It is true, indeed, what they say. You cannot trust the white man.”
Peer into the alley and see Chief Killing ******, standing idly with his hands by his sides.
“Come here, I have something for you.”
Not entirely sure why I am doing so, I drop my cancer stick and enter the alley and approach the Chief. He smiles strangely and removes a silver whistle from behind the feathers of his headdress.
“I wonder, do you know why I am called Chief Killing ******?”
“No, I do not.”
“Then let me show you.”
              He places the whistle to his lips. A piercng shriek echoes through the alley.
               “Now you will see.”
              Nothing seems to be happening. I stare at the Chief in confusion for a few seconds, before I hear the clinking of high-heeled shoes. Dozens of pairs of high-heeled shoes, all of which sound like they are heading for the alley.
“I would like to introduce you to my *******.”
I see a series of strumpets, walking single file. They break line. Cover the wall to my left, to my right. They take formation in front of a dumpster at the back end of the alley, then finally close off the entryway. All wear pink miniskirts and black corsets. Black garters. Overly large, golden hoop earrings dangle comically from their ears as they take their places. The Chief stretches his arms above his head and yawns.
“Now they will show you what they do.”
More quickly than I can react, several of the prostitutes grab me from behind. One whispers into my ear that it will be fun to **** on my severed ****. She kisses me gently on the cheek. I am unable to refrain from getting an *******.
“Farewell, friend,” says Chief Killing ******.
A short, Arab looking ****** emerges from behind those standing at the alley's entrance. She makes her way in my direction, licking her lips and slowly drawing a forefinger across her neck. She holds a machete in her left hand.
I make no effort to struggle as I am forced to my knees. The ***** raises the machete above her head.
“This will not hurt a bit, my beloved.”
Close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. I know it won't.
An ironic and contemporary take on the classic Orpheus myth by a modern Beatnik
#dark #humor
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Shashank Virkud May 2012
Follow Me to Deadbeat Hollow
Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.

I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.

And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she

belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and

she had a broken look in her eyes

when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;

what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?

She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.

We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I  unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said

follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window

and she said

*lets go.
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Raven Feels Jan 2022
Yearning For A Yarn
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I'm well aware that nothing makes sense, including this poem :>

content is not something we give consent
you hold your pen yet the ink spills as it pleads
you are a walker of blood yet it sheds out when cut & bent
you have a brain yet the tongue blurts out the feels

content is not something we color
just an acceptance of the past
just a canvas you get to paint with limit bother
good for a day then a memory till it lasts

the kiss of a palm forehead & cheek
drafts in my head just to render a sleep
some greed never fed or a satisfaction to meet
yellow till it goes mustard & a shade deep

the saving of a night that would save the day
it's like it's gold but you're swallowing the sand?
the desperation for a treasure at some bay
how would I even find content when out of the hand?


                                                         ­                         --------ravenfeeels
#content #consent #gold #beach #treasure #yellow #lasts #canvas #paint #past
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HJV Mar 2019
Rational Man Bobby (short story) 06/01/2019
Everybody thinks Bobby stays in bed all day and that he does absolutely nothing. “Indolence in human form” is what they call him. In reality Bobby ponders one of life’s greatest mysteries day and night, he’s a student of being. “I Don’t fear A.I. rebellion” Bobby tells himself as he reflects on the futile and expedient nature of subjectivity. After many months of wrestling the behemoth that is Nihilism Bobby concluded that there was no intrinsic value to anything and that there was no reason to do anything. “You can’t derive an is from an ought” Bobby thought to himself. In that moment Bobby reached a new epiphany. There is no way of valuing anything in an objective manner, so therefore he couldn’t construct a dominance hierarchy of personal values, and thus he couldn’t justify getting out of bed or do anything for that matter. Bobby had justified his laziness.

Bobby never stopped thinking, Bobby wondered whether or not he should keep on existing. Since there was no objective value to anything, that, in turn meant that he had no value either. Bobby, human as he was, he was a rational man first. He wasn’t bothered by his own otiose nature. With this is mind he started to entertain a new thought. “Does a rational man choose to not exist?” Bobby thought to himself after pondering on subjective value. “Subjective value is our only hope for justifying existence!” Bobby exclaimed to his ceiling in his dim-lit basement room.

Rational as he was, Bobby still liked existing, it was something he never managed to explain. Apathetic in nature, he still felt a desire to be. The dichotomy he had become felt annoyingly quintessential. How could he, a rational man, not shake such irrational thoughts. After staring at his feet for some minutes he bequeathed himself to his human nature. “I’m but a talking monkey” he sighed.

Now a wiser man, Bobby shifted his philosophical gaze. He reasoned subjectivity, how could he maximize his experience, the only thing with potential for true, albeit subjective, value. “What stands atop the dominance hierarchy of subjective value?” Bobby wondered. After many journeys to the depths of his Being Bobby realized that love was the highest value. “What else is a better antidote to the chaos of consciousness?” Bobby asked aloud as if he wasn’t alone in his basement.

Other humans, Bobby knew they existed, but he never really spoke much with them. There was this one man he once knew though, Will was his name. Will was an odd fellow. Even though he didn’t owe someone a single thing, he would still always help everyone. “There’s a natural law of karma” is what he would always say. As Bobby recounts the memories of Will he starts to question the irrational nature of karma. “Is karma measurable by science?” Bobby blurts out as he stretches himself out in his dusty bed. “All human processes can be calculated, granted we posses a powerful enough calculator.” Bobby said as he muffled his mouth with a pillow. Bobby considered his own proposition and after some minutes he yelled “If all can be calculated, then so can emotional in- and outputs!” as if he was standing in front of an audience. Bobby came to the conclusion that if those values could be measured then karma would be a mathematically substantiated concept. This thought made Bobby’s heart beat just a bit faster, but only just a bit.

Sleep was something not even Bobby could be too lazy to do. Bobby had passed out for some minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell. When he woke his mind wandered back to his unfinished mental quest. “How to maximize the amount of love in my subjective experience?” Bobby groggily said. He widened his eyes, “eureka!” he screamed. Will, he himself, and all of humanity were all connected, socially. When Bobby realized this he quickly reached his next conclusion. If he wanted to maximize his own subjective experience then he needed to maximize his output of the highest subjective value, love. Karma was a natural law after all, a mathematical one. Being yet wiser again Bobby started to ponder the ways of love.

“The more I love, the more subjectively pleased I become.” Bobby thought to himself as he adored his human nature. Now that he had found a rational way for value, albeit still subjective in nature, Bobby smiled. He knew that, although there was no intrinsic objective value in anything, there was still value in subjecting himself to his consciousness. “It makes me feel good, so why not.” he said victoriously.  Armed with karma Bobby ventured out from underneath his house. The sunlight on his skin made his sense tingle, for the first time in decades Bobby felt alive. People were shocked when they saw the once indolent man indolent no more.

Over the coming years Bobby had changed and the people with him. Bobby had become a pillar of support for his community, spreading his years of indolently bred wisdom. The people had started to call him Wise Bob. Now with Wise Bob’s stultifying lethargic behavior gone the people followed his lead by example. Wise Bob was no leader though, he was still but a student of being, but with a slightly larger Being. “Not wise enough.” he told one of his many friends. Wise Bob still felt his objective insignificance in his heart, but no longer as a nihilistic threat. His futility gave him meaning. Bringing order to the chaos of consciousness gave him responsibility and thus meaning. This meaning made his life worth living. “The collective human condition will fight off our dragons.” Bobby professed.

Bobby was a rational man, but a man still.
Not a poem, but poetic
#shortstory #existence #love #karma #community #lazy #introspection #thoughts #thinking
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Ritjimwa 3mily Dimka Sep 2012
Grotesquerie
My woe, on this cold summer’s eve’ begins,

It is a story about how my light gets dim,

My nightmare, my foe
dims my light and begins my tales of woe..

He walks into my room after he is left my needs to cater,
my smile gets bigger, my eyes brighter,
for there’s a chocolate in his hand, it makes my mouth water,
I scramble from my bed,
run into his arms
wit nothing but ‘mars’ running through my mind
sure he knows with that my homework gets done in a twitch,
with which
even math, comprehensively my tutor will teach
and this I’d rather eat
than find I, building a sand castle on a beautiful beach.

He’s cunning, He’s witty, he’s crafty,
He says you’ve been naughty
Naughty?
I cried, no! that can’t be!
I’ve cleaned my cuttina,
I’ve washed my socks,
I’ve done my homework and my chores,
How could I av bin naughty?
I queried, as my lips grew pouty.
Nonetheless, this monster is haughty
Moreover, my mood makes him happy.

Suddenly he grabs me and says,
Kiss me on my lips
and it’s all yours to nibble and eat,
I shudder and begin to retreat,
then he calls and coaxes
He breaks into an evil smile
Revealing his teeth like axes,
I get frantic and am about to squeal
Wen he says: Hey! I was just kidding!
Here’s your chocolate, eat and get some sleep!
I mumble my gratitude as my body relaxes
With my treasure in my hand, I get ecstatic.

He leaves the room, without my notice,
only to creep back in, when sweetly I sleep,
peacefully and innocently without defenses.

He leaves the room, without my notice,
only to creep back in, when sweetly I sleep,
peacefully and innocently without defenses.

He climbs into my bed and begins to touch,
wit his hands strong and rough,
he raises my dress,
I flinch, as on my thighs his enormous hands rest,
prepared this tiny frame to soil,
His heartbeat fast against his chest
sets his blood to boil,
His built and domineering figure
upon my tiny frame falls
I wake abruptly
I wail out helplessly to an empty house,
I scream, till my voice I lose,
I struggle, I fight, I kick as his lips he licks
and crushes my pretty ones
In a violent kiss.

Our dogs howl,
My cat meows,
the wind violently blows
in an attempt to carry out my plea to an empty street,
where I live and this monster’s deaf ears fall ma desperate plea

c’mon! don’t be a spoilt sport!
he blurts,
it’s going to be al pleasure.
just but a lil’ hurt
I cried, I pleaded, I cursed.
I closed ma eyes and in agony, I wrothe
right at the time, a rose withers and falls to the ground
only to be trampled upon unnoticed by the soldier whose boots this has crushed,
just as this hurt became intense, my ordeal begins,
uncertainties unfurl
helplessly at the corner of my bed I curl,
as slowly my feelings get numb
and to those hurtful words my ears deaf turn.

-r3d-
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k e i Jun 2017
longing
red car, yellow car, blue car, white car

no lucky black car, no orange to wish on

they just sat there for awhile on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling looking at the rush of cars passing by playing the game they invented and derived from the tongue twister red lorry yellow lorry
if a black car passes by, luck will come through
spot the first green car and you pick the way you die
look for an orange car and make a wish

it was a game they played to **** time or whenever they went up the rooftop of the ballet studio they've been performing at since they were children and they were currently taking a break from swan lake rehearsals. they played the game for a little more though heather could tell that megan-meg for short- had her mind somewhere else.

"penny for your thoughts?"

meg just shook her head, tilting it across the pink skies that matched the tutus they still had on. a dreamy smile was strewn across her face

heather just watched her friend and the world surrounding them, a light gentle bubble in her stomach. she loved the building's rooftop so much; she was actually the one who first went up here and ever since then, it had been their place her place. she went here on weekends sometimes, when they didn't have rehearsals. everytime she was up here, she felt more than she was, like she was a goddess and everything below her was under a microscope like she could change anything with the click of her fingers. but most of all, in here she could freely be. it was her safe haven.

"okay spill tell me this isn't about hendrix again?"

meg smirked, looking at heather's ice blue eyes "okay you caught me" she says, traces of the english accent she had come with still evident in her voice

"i knew it. boy he's got you in such a haze. you've got a school girl crush on him" she teased, making her friend giggle nervously. meg was dating hendrix peters, a senior in the high school they were attending. theyve been seeing each other for six months now and heather knew how much of a ride it was almost as much as meg (being the first person meg ranted to everytime things occurred) the two were a match made in heaven and it was testified by the amount of gossip about them that was circulated, mostly by the senior girls who were head over heels for him and would hiss whenever their paths crossed with meg's and try to flirt with him every chance they got though he politely shook them off. he supported meg in all the possible ways, from attending to her performances on stage to supporting and showing off her stunning makeup looks and she did the same with him, coming to all his football games and enthusiastically cheering for him. they were madly in love, you could say

"it's not like that" meg scoffed, clasping both of her hands together. "ive just been thinking about the both of us and our togetherness and how we haven't done it yet and yea it's been in my mind alot" she bit her lip, a habit of nervousness she had "it's not a big deal i know, i mean, people do it all the time, people who aren't even together and it's not this eureka moment or anything of the sorts but i want it to be special at least"

"has he been asking you to do it?"

"no he doesn't really no, forcing there" meg shakes her head "but we did talk about it some time, once, thrice yea"

"someday then or tomorrow just be safe my dear friend" heather replies in a playful tone, trying to bring back the lightness of the conversation

"ugh help me practice my skills give it all to me darling, let me do you" her friend wickedly retorts, launching atop her and pinning her to the concrete, playfully mock *******

"ew dude *******'re so gross get off me" she says trying to act annoyed but she was laughing too all the while trying not to get crushed by meg's weight who was strangely heavy despite her small wiry frame

"ow babe im coming ugh" meg continues, laughing fooling around-this was how their friendship worked

"*******. now your germs are all over me" heather grunts, finally pushing meg off her and both of them just lay there for minutes, laughing too much and choking in their breaths, as the sky was bathed in watercolor above them, the sounds of the city being their soundtrack


"what's it like?" heather blurts once theyve both calmed down

"hmmm?"

"what's it like, being with him?"



meg raises her hands like she was touching the clouds, taking the question in deeply "it's....wonderful....i mean...we aren't always happy and we have loads of fights but....we manage to make it work and the whole thing drives me crazy but it's a good kind of crazy"

her answer dissolves in heather's thoughts are completely lost in it


"you know that when we first got together i told him how much i hated clichés? flowers, chocolates stuffed animals, fancy dinner dates you name it and he nodded and the first gift he gave me was a boquet out of makeup products and i laughed because it was thoughtful and he's just full of surprises but you know he did give me flowers and letters on an occasion but i didn't mind it.
i guess that's how love is, made out of all the things you love thrown in with things you don't like but you don't mind at all"

heather nodded, still deep in thought "how did you know?"


the question seemed to have an incomplete thought but meg got the gist "i just did. well i didn't know itd last but i did know that he was for me but he's not my soulmate see, you don't find soulmates, you make them. anyone could be your soulmate, soulmates are just a ****** up idea at finding love. someday you'd know kid"

heather rolled her eyes. she hated being called kid because she was reminded of how much younger she was from meg when it came to these sorts of things "don't call me that"

"you'd know" meg pats her friend in the head, lovingly still teasing her

she sits up, tying the ribbons of her satin slippers. they climb down the fire exit and join the rest of the ballet dancers, rehearsing for the rest of the day



and heather went back to the rooftop the day after, a saturday in solitude sorting out the contents of her brain, replaying the conversation she and her bestfriend had in this very place the previous day, all the while feeling a sort of feeling in her heart very familiar to nostalgia. she realized it was the feeling of longing. longing for love like meg's description of it. longing for love like the glow of stardust. longing for love
sure she had a boyfriend before but not once did she feel like how meg described love out to be with him not once did she feel like their kisses and hugs mean something and their fights never felt worth fighting for. sure she had this guy in her grade whom she passed notes and looks with and texted for days but it was never serious and he didn't see her in that certain light that makes people glow that you fall for and even if they dated it would have been too complicated.

it was a winding day for her mind to wander and she played their game as the cars went on their journey on the highway down below.

an orange car swooshes out of nowhere and she closes her eyes and makes a wish when my person comes please i hope i'll know, holding on for a beat more. after that a black car passes and her luck was aligned with the stars
im going through stuffs rn
ugh my brain is so sloshy
#longing #prose #poetry #tumblr #nostalgia #happy #light #melancholy #deep #thinking #thoughts #friendship #love #girls #childhood #dreams #fantasy #romance #aesthetic
Continue reading...
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2013
Restoration
Restoration

I found myself in a desert the sun beat down relentlessly you see I was just one more fool living on the
Devil’s life plan he comes and sizes you up watches with intensity not of care but hate he doesn’t take
Long he has seen the same thing multiplied many times before he does a little razz and dazzle if you
Could have seen my face you would know how appealing it was oh that’s right you got the same
Treatment you see this desert is where he houses all of his captives it’s so wide and vast the thought is
Who’s trapped but we are like the icy ice berg but with us it’s the conscious like the tip then the
Subconscious is all that mass the true awe and power of being human I want to insert two pieces I wrote
That deals with the subconscious I believe you will benefit from them just one more person’s thoughts
On Such a grand subject
Piercing the Inner Sanctum
The trivial the less important will never even get a start into the bastion of peace and well being that is
Sacred and defended to the last breath the one irresistible caller that is never barred and who is as a
Master key is beauty to no avail can you post guards loveliness has no comparisons like spectacle in any
And all forms it governs and rules all of our hearts once seen the invitation is never with drawn like the
Vistas seen from a high mountain incomparable glory is touched sequestered in depths of appreciation
Moments of grandeur with this spell compression is ultimate the thick richness slowly sinks beyond all
Comprehension it will linger for a life time the blues are the high honor of dress befitting a person of
Rare quality to have and squander cherished gifts the emptiness can never be measured but to make
Contact with the sublime on a desert plane the one invaluable gift of solitude no pretense or frivolity
To cause error or a missed chance to speak and hear wonders undeniable voice that is attended by rare
Essences of tranquility that robes itself in splendor it beckons in pure language simplicity that astounds
Bewilderment of the highest order lodges in your soul the hush of holy beings are noticed if only by the
Assured peace that builds a walled fortress nothing can assail these attainments visited and began
By The unutterable beauty that moves with conscious and deliberate design to bestow upon you
The Perfection that once ruled in Eden

Now deeper the mind seeks to find the way where all rules are absent

Bedazzled Dreamer
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are
Sound Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how
Crazy we would be without it

So with that small insight this is more truth I signed my life away to the devil and here is the fun
Part it’s like your hardly comfortable on a computer your on this small frame here he is on a
Worldwide super computer and he is a **** like no other you are slowly crawling along he is
Miles Ahead of you try to strike order in life this answer comes back it has been high jacked its
Not even your thoughts any more it’s completely contrary to all that is decent and ideal but it
Comes as a fog it creates a state of disinformation this is how we find we are bound in half truths
In this state how far from love how desperate is our circumstances what caused and allowed
Us to be left to the dry treacherous land of being forgotten misplaced without remedy to know the dark
Embrace of loneliness we are a people of language it finds us it speaks health to our inward being it is
The gentle soothing the spell that alone provides the structure the melodious times hear the flow of
Refreshing water from hidden springs they bend at just the right place they find us where dark
Broodings Are pulling us into compromise and ruin we feel and taste the surety of joy the call of
Assuredness is known in these depths this internal dismay of mazes infernal are their crushing blows
Does it wash away the meaningful is the face of grace seen to be drowning in walled in terrain to high to
Climb to understanding that enlightening that is our very humanness our ability to connect to share
Never forgetting who and where we came from the integral foundation that builds us as a people was
This first dislodging the first steps of chaos the hardness that drives and separates to quickly we are
Adrift and at the stern is ego without measure and the seeds of discontent are what we are sowing not
The creative roots of harmony and good will burned black by the desert sun all descriptors fail to show
The unique the part that truly was wondrously made no one is looking they are only into the new
Exciting theses very words are the quiet assault that is aimed at them they need restored but they never
Will agree then a nanny kills two little ones in her charge stabs them to death with this insane step into
Yet deeper subterranean darkness the roots of life are growing but they are poisoned throughout it
Reflects on the service the body is racked twisted as a gnarled old tree that can look picture perfect in
Nature but terrible in human life in this state of waste and need of restoration I could hardly see who
Cares at that point the view is most disgusting and in this condition all hope lost the final boat has sailed
With it the last of human dignity goes under the deep black waves when this thought was strongest the
Sea was not my reality only the lifeless desert it was all there was but all of a sudden was it mind tricks a
Mirage I was seeing this beautiful bough filled with blossoms and from there it continued to grow and
Spread out before me all green grasses a profusion of glorious colored flowers of all kinds it started to
Break through the deadness of my mind a time long forgotten slowly started to emerge I couldn’t see
Anyone but I knew that a visitor had joined me tears started like a dam had broken somewhere deep
Within all I knew I was truly loved I had worth and value I could feel it being added anew where I was
An eye sore just moments before now I was a princely person I had this intense sense of whoever it was
Who joined me had known extreme suffering He got me on every level and he was repairing and
Restoring those long festering wounds they just seem to fall off and the greatest peace started to emit
From my inner being there was just a sense of well being that was mountainous and truly rivers of joy
Started to flow out and away my friends step into these words they come from the great restorer your the gift that the thief stole and now you have been reclaimed
Continue reading...
Cameryn Micheal Nov 2014
Blurts
I’m constantly tottering on the wall of It’ll Get Better and Suicidal,  whispering to both

" How?”

How can anything get better, but how could I take my life and any chance that it will?

When I was in sixth grade a test asked me what I wanted to do after highschool, and I didn’t know how to answer because..

I didn’t even plan on living past highschool.

So I filled in the buubble beside other, and when my teacher took me outside the classroom to ask that godforsaken question Why?,

I fibbed and said college wasn’t for me, and that I wouldn’t need it for my dream job.

I didn’t mention that I couldn’t afford college, or my suicide plan, or the fact that I had no dreams.

Now, not long after, I’m intent on breaking myself until I shatter, desperate to feel anything after I died inside so long ago and left a scarred shell behind that walks and talks and laughs and smiles, but most of all hides and cries.

I’ve tried suffocating myself. I tried drowning myself. I dont cut simply because I can’t find a blade.

I have dreams but I’m constantly assured by EVERYONE I won’t be anything special I nod and change the topic because I know.

<p>I’m abused and home and I know I deserve it, every nasty truth they sneer before saying they love me and sending me away, every hit that lands hard enough to hurt but either smartly hidden or delivered in a way I won’t bruise.  I’m breaking,

With few things giving me happiness, and humans bringing me pain with nasty looks and cruel words that hurt so bad but I nod and agree.

My friends don’t even know how much it hurts me to hang around them, as my darkest demons whisper how much happier they would be without me.

But selfishly I cling to them.

I need help but I dont deserve it, and I’m so, so sorry to whoever read this that I bothered you.

But again tonight I'll whisper to both sides.
How can it get better?
How can it get worse?
Sorry.
#depression #abuse #tears #sorry #helpme
Continue reading...
Stephen Vincent Benet
Portrait of a Boy
After the whipping he crawled into bed,
Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.
How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!
He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping
A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before
In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,
Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor
Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.

Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light
Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth
Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,
The crooked constellations of the South;
Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,
The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.
Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,
Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold
Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,
Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,
A black chest bore the skull and bones in white
Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,
Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,
Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,
The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.
"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"
Continue reading...
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2013
Restoration
Restoration

I found myself in a desert the sun beat down relentlessly you see I was just one more fool living on the
Devil’s life plan he comes and sizes you up watches with intensity not of care but hate he doesn’t take
Long he has seen the same thing multiplied many times before he does a little razz and dazzle if you
Could have seen my face you would know how appealing it was oh that’s right you got the same
Treatment you see this desert is where he houses all of his captives it’s so wide and vast the thought is
Who’s trapped but we are like the icy ice berg but with us it’s the conscious like the tip then the
Subconscious is all that mass the true awe and power of being human I want to insert two pieces I wrote
That deals with the subconscious I believe you will benefit from them just one more person’s thoughts
On Such a grand subject
Piercing the Inner Sanctum
The trivial the less important will never even get a start into the bastion of peace and well being that is
Sacred and defended to the last breath the one irresistible caller that is never barred and who is as a
Master key is beauty to no avail can you post guards loveliness has no comparisons like spectacle in any
And all forms it governs and rules all of our hearts once seen the invitation is never with drawn like the
Vistas seen from a high mountain incomparable glory is touched sequestered in depths of appreciation
Moments of grandeur with this spell compression is ultimate the thick richness slowly sinks beyond all
Comprehension it will linger for a life time the blues are the high honor of dress befitting a person of
Rare quality to have and squander cherished gifts the emptiness can never be measured but to make
Contact with the sublime on a desert plane the one invaluable gift of solitude no pretense or frivolity
To cause error or a missed chance to speak and hear wonders undeniable voice that is attended by rare
Essences of tranquility that robes itself in splendor it beckons in pure language simplicity that astounds
Bewilderment of the highest order lodges in your soul the hush of holy beings are noticed if only by the
Assured peace that builds a walled fortress nothing can assail these attainments visited and began
By The unutterable beauty that moves with conscious and deliberate design to bestow upon you
The Perfection that once ruled in Eden

Now deeper the mind seeks to find the way where all rules are absent

Bedazzled Dreamer
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are
Sound Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how
Crazy we would be without it

So with that small insight this is more truth I signed my life away to the devil and here is the fun
Part it’s like your hardly comfortable on a computer your on this small frame here he is on a
Worldwide super computer and he is a **** like no other you are slowly crawling along he is
Miles Ahead of you try to strike order in life this answer comes back it has been high jacked its
Not even your thoughts any more it’s completely contrary to all that is decent and ideal but it
Comes as a fog it creates a state of disinformation this is how we find we are bound in half truths
In this state how far from love how desperate is our circumstances what caused and allowed
Us to be left to the dry treacherous land of being forgotten misplaced without remedy to know the dark
Embrace of loneliness we are a people of language it finds us it speaks health to our inward being it is
The gentle soothing the spell that alone provides the structure the melodious times hear the flow of
Refreshing water from hidden springs they bend at just the right place they find us where dark
Broodings Are pulling us into compromise and ruin we feel and taste the surety of joy the call of
Assuredness is known in these depths this internal dismay of mazes infernal are their crushing blows
Does it wash away the meaningful is the face of grace seen to be drowning in walled in terrain to high to
Climb to understanding that enlightening that is our very humanness our ability to connect to share
Never forgetting who and where we came from the integral foundation that builds us as a people was
This first dislodging the first steps of chaos the hardness that drives and separates to quickly we are
Adrift and at the stern is ego without measure and the seeds of discontent are what we are sowing not
The creative roots of harmony and good will burned black by the desert sun all descriptors fail to show
The unique the part that truly was wondrously made no one is looking they are only into the new
Exciting theses very words are the quiet assault that is aimed at them they need restored but they never
Will agree then a nanny kills two little ones in her charge stabs them to death with this insane step into
Yet deeper subterranean darkness the roots of life are growing but they are poisoned throughout it
Reflects on the service the body is racked twisted as a gnarled old tree that can look picture perfect in
Nature but terrible in human life in this state of waste and need of restoration I could hardly see who
Cares at that point the view is most disgusting and in this condition all hope lost the final boat has sailed
With it the last of human dignity goes under the deep black waves when this thought was strongest the
Sea was not my reality only the lifeless desert it was all there was but all of a sudden was it mind tricks a
Mirage I was seeing this beautiful bough filled with blossoms and from there it continued to grow and
Spread out before me all green grasses a profusion of glorious colored flowers of all kinds it started to
Break through the deadness of my mind a time long forgotten slowly started to emerge I couldn’t see
Anyone but I knew that a visitor had joined me tears started like a dam had broken somewhere deep
Within all I knew I was truly loved I had worth and value I could feel it being added anew where I was
An eye sore just moments before now I was a princely person I had this intense sense of whoever it was
Who joined me had known extreme suffering He got me on every level and he was repairing and
Restoring those long festering wounds they just seem to fall off and the greatest peace started to emit
From my inner being there was just a sense of well being that was mountainous and truly rivers of joy
Started to flow out and away my friends step into these words they come from the great restorer your the gift that the thief stole and now you have been reclaimed
Continue reading...
laura-jessica Jan 2018
i am fake.
i do not write poetry.
i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
i am not a poet. my heart spills the ink onto the page and lets me take credit. i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not original, i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
i am not original. i copy a poem that my mind already wrote and then i plagiarize it. i am not a poet. my heart spills the ink onto the page and lets me take credit. i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not original, i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
Continue reading...
John Mar 2013
Rats
"A rat is a rat."
He said
"Attack, attack."
His double vision
Scares me sometimes
The way he fuses word
And ties ideas lines apart
He thinks along a separate plane
Always conscious of the next step
"A live rat is worth less than a dead one."
He looks down
"Because a dead rat is already dead."
I shake my head and
I agree, wholeheartedly
But he stares at me
Unsure if I comprehend his meaning
"Your eyes tell me you don't feel the same way,"
And his eyes dart to his shoes
I open my mouth to speak
"You don't have to explain yourself,"
He blurts
"You're the kind to pay the lowest price.
Even though you have the money."
I smile and languish the comment
I was raised in Hell
And the Devil doesn't pay well
"You're the type of man who'd never think of paying more when he can get what he wants for less.
Especially when it means he gets to **** a rat himself."
He knows me
He scares me
He lets me speak
"You know me too well."
Continue reading...
Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012
Restoration
I found myself in a desert the sun beat down relentlessly you see I was just one more fool living on the
Devil’s life plan he comes and sizes you up watches with intensity not of care but hate he doesn’t take
Long he has seen the same thing multiplied many times before he does a little razz and dazzle if you
Could have seen my face you would know how appealing it was oh that’s right you got the same
Treatment you see this desert is where he houses all of his captives it’s so wide and vast the thought is
Who’s trapped but we are like the icy ice berg but with us it’s the conscious like the tip then the
Subconscious is all that mass the true awe and power of being human I want to insert two pieces I wrote
That deals with the subconscious I believe you will benefit from them just one more person’s thoughts
On Such a grand subject
Piercing the Inner Sanctum
The trivial the less important will never even get a start into the bastion of peace and well being that is
Sacred and defended to the last breath the one irresistible caller that is never barred and who is as a
Master key is beauty to no avail can you post guards loveliness has no comparisons like spectacle in any
And all forms it governs and rules all of our hearts once seen the invitation is never with drawn like the
Vistas seen from a high mountain incomparable glory is touched sequestered in depths of appreciation
Moments of grandeur with this spell compression is ultimate the thick richness slowly sinks beyond all
Comprehension it will linger for a life time the blues are the high honor of dress befitting a person of
Rare quality to have and squander cherished gifts the emptiness can never be measured but to make
Contact with the sublime on a desert plane the one invaluable gift of solitude no pretense or frivolity
To cause error or a missed chance to speak and hear wonders undeniable voice that is attended by rare
Essences of tranquility that robes itself in splendor it beckons in pure language simplicity that astounds
Bewilderment of the highest order lodges in your soul the hush of holy beings are noticed if only by the
Assured peace that builds a walled fortress nothing can assail these attainments visited and began
By The unutterable beauty that moves with conscious and deliberate design to bestow upon you
The Perfection that once ruled in Eden

Now deeper the mind seeks to find the way where all rules are absent

Bedazzled Dreamer
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are
Sound Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how
Crazy we would be without it

So with that small insight this is more truth I signed my life away to the devil and here is the fun
Part it’s like your hardly comfortable on a computer your on this small frame here he is on a
Worldwide super computer and he is a **** like no other you are slowly crawling along he is  
Miles Ahead of you try to strike order in life this answer comes back it has been high jacked its
Not even your thoughts any more it’s completely contrary to all that is decent and ideal but it
Comes as a fog it creates a state of disinformation this is how we find we are bound in half truths  
In this state how far from love how desperate is our circumstances what caused and allowed
Us to be left to the dry treacherous land of being forgotten misplaced without remedy to know the dark
Embrace of loneliness we are a people of language it finds us it speaks health to our inward being it is
The gentle soothing the spell that alone provides the structure the melodious times hear the flow of
Refreshing water from hidden springs they bend at just the right place they find us where dark
Broodings Are pulling us into compromise and ruin we feel and taste the surety of joy the call of
Assuredness is known in these depths this internal dismay of mazes infernal are their crushing blows
Does it wash away the meaningful is the face of grace seen to be drowning in walled in terrain to high to
Climb to understanding that enlightening that is our very humanness our ability to connect to share
Never forgetting who and where we came from the integral foundation that builds us as a people was
This first dislodging the first steps of chaos the hardness that drives and separates to quickly we are
Adrift and at the stern is ego without measure and the seeds of discontent are what we are sowing not
The creative roots of harmony and good will burned black by the desert sun all descriptors fail to show
The unique the part that truly was wondrously made no one is looking they are only into the new
Exciting theses very words are the quiet assault that is aimed at them they need restored but they never
Will agree then a nanny kills two little ones in her charge stabs them to death with this insane step into
Yet deeper subterranean darkness the roots of life are growing but they are poisoned throughout it
Reflects on the service the body is racked twisted as a gnarled old tree that can look picture perfect in
Nature but terrible in human life in this state of waste and need of restoration I could hardly see who
Cares at that point the view is most disgusting and in this condition all hope lost the final boat has sailed
With it the last of human dignity goes under the deep black waves when this thought was strongest the
Sea was not my reality only the lifeless desert it was all there was but all of a sudden was it mind tricks a
Mirage I was seeing this beautiful bough filled with blossoms and from there it continued to grow and
Spread out before me all green grasses a profusion of glorious colored flowers of all kinds it started to
Break through the deadness of my mind a time long forgotten slowly started to emerge I couldn’t see
Anyone but I knew that a visitor had joined me tears started like a dam had broken somewhere deep
With in all I knew I was truly loved I had worth and value I could feel it being added anew where I was
An eye sore just moments before now I was a princely person I had this intense sense of whoever it was
Who joined me had known extreme suffering He got me on every level and he was repairing and
Restoring those long festering wounds they just seem to fall off and the greatest peace started to emit
From my inner being there was just a sense of well being that was mountainous and truly rivers of joy
Started to flow out and away my friends step into these words they come from the great restorer your the gift that the thief stole and now you have been reclaimed
Continue reading...
Ma Cherie Oct 2016
"The Wisp of the Woods" Narrative
I took a nice long walk,
and had a very nice talk
went down my  driveway
past old man pickles...
wearing old flannels and boots,
tipping his John Deere cap
relying on his cane in vain
down to the edge of everything
to my  favorite secluded path
just past familiar borders,
where a mossy stone fox
and 2 giant maple trees
guard her entrance
down laden paths of brick red
and burning orange
...I press on,
woodland creatures
scurrying & hurrying about
no doubt getting ready
for Old Man Winter visiting

As a chubby squirrel
sits happy and thankful
for the crumbs I laid down
I give the eager fox a pat
on the head,
thanking him and asking my charge

Agreeing to the terms,
signing a waiver
traveling deep in the woods
to a glen  
with a canopied
ceiling of golden mustard,
greeted by an eager ******
cutting wood
Past the foggy bog
and past his favored log
at last I hear the croaking frog

Where I suddenly
saw some very interesting
....looking people
they are obviously not from here,
  I'd say,
I know these woods well
they brought a pet,
we've never met
but a wonderful way
to meet and greet
thank you guardians of the forest

"Adorable dog"  
my hand reaching from my side...
smiling at the newcomers
and to my critter friends

"Oh, my ...he looks just like a giant
toasted marshmallow,
so perfectly groomed,
a very beautiful animal,
so curious he is"
I compliment the hound

The gentleman was just that
Said how friendly he is
Brought him right over, for a pat

Of course, me...
I get down on one knee
talking to the furry fellow
'bout the crooning drops of yellow
communicating
he looks in my eyes,
& past my disguise
and sits,
patiently,
gracious and thankful
for the new friend
and bidding adieu
to some old,
but not forgotten acquaintances
"We understand one another"
I chuckle warmly...

The two ladies looking on
in seeming horror
& utter disbelief
so I think, anyway...
that I'm gonna get *****
doing such a thing?

That is until she blurts out
unable to restrain herself
seeing her lips fumble with thoughts
"Interesting get-up you have on"

I ponder the comment,
not wanting to say anything just yet,
I squint my eyes to see her face
then I look at her & quietly say

"Likewise my lady, interesting indeed"
the gentleman smirking at me
giving a wink, perhaps
hoping she doesn't  notice
then she goes on to say...

"That shirt, is...
perfect, I love the natural look
such quaint embroidery"

I again ponder,
speaking,
with a thoughtful reply & a sigh
"Quaint, by definition,
meaning...
old-fashioned, charming, sweet, picturesque?
Or more like bizzare
unique, offbeat & unconventional?
Then I agree, all of those are fine compliments, my Grandmother,
a Native American...
hand stitched this beautiful piece,
colors of Fall
I am just like Vermont & this place"
I laugh low for a second...
admirin' the trees clapping happily

She stared at me
with a puzzled face
one, I'm sure I won't soon replace...

The gentleman now smiling
into his discomfort,
when the other, lady pipes in...

"Your Grandmother, you don't say?
well... I suppose if you take it away
that tattered old sweatshirt over it,
those faded blue corduroy pants...
& those shoes....I just can't..."

Now I'm getting,
a tad bit irritated
though amusing still
remembering the goal
to help those weary souls
I look off to the side,
staring in one direction...
gaining insight
still thinking,
... the second lady chiming in

"Yes, so true..has potential,
how much for the shirt dearie?
It might be worth something"
... urging the other gal on

As the gentleman
steps back in disbelief
I'd imagine anyway,
not uttering a sound now

Now my one eye,
the left one is twitching
I look at her, I stare on,
as her mind I'm bewitching
keep on looking at the stitching
as I call out my Grandma,
to tell me exactly
...what to say,

"Anyway, thank you, I think.
I happen to love everything I'm wearing, especially these shoes.
You know what they say about walking a mile in someone else's?
I might consider loaning them to you if I knew you better, except the thing is,
like this place, like this land ...
and people are never supposed
to be for sale, this piece of history,
the weaving of my family ...
is not for sale either,
for any price each stitch in time
is priceless, so I am sorry,
but no deal ma'am.
Hope you enjoy this beautiful place, thinking yes,
by the look on your face?"

Befuddled and speechless...
the gentleman finally speaking,

"Oh, I think she means that this place is so interesting and amazing.
We probably should get going, get some lunch.
Very nice to meet you though."
The brushoff?
a nervous calm falling over

Humphhhh..

A good idea and distraction
as they hem and haw  
about being "famished"
I offer...

"Famished?
Can't have that.
You mean to say,
you went all this way,
and you didn't squirrel something
to eat
in that ***** pack?

Pulling out a yummy sandwich
slinging a worn backpack,

"I have drinks in there too,
lovely lemonade & some nuts,
dark chocolates even.
Perhaps some things in there
I forgot about, best not to venture out
into these woods with nothing.

"Here you go, take this,
I won't take no for an answer"

Stunned and stupefied she just reaches out and humbly replies
"Thank you, I think?"

I smile and say
"You are most welcome,
thank my Grandmother
and thank you for coming,
enjoy your stay"
I wave them on

"How do I thank her dear girl?
  Is she still with us?"

Now I am quiet
I look to the heavily
opening in the trees
"look and you will see"
I point upward reaching
my hands are teaching
drawings in slow motion
as the trees open to the sky
colors gradate and radiate
a red tailed hawk comes by
the largest one I know
completely in awe they are,
as I slip off...

Something whispered under breath,
"Can you believe that?
Where'd she come from anyway"

Then,
looking in the bag,
he reaches in opening
the sandwich
and bites...
chewing on goodness

"Oh, wow, this is amazing,
this is just delicious,
everything you could want, try it"

the man offering to the ladies

Unable to resist a satisfying nibble, tempted by fate, they take a bite,
"your absolutely right"
she declares...
"and such a lovely lady she is"

"Hey where'd she go?"

"Why, I don't know..."

"Gone like a wisp,
you can tell she is deeply rooted
in this place and such a
beautiful place it is"

they see eye to eye

"With so many valuable lessons
to learn along this yellow wooded path"
as they all agree,
satisfied with their journey
eager to push on...

"Did she mean that bird is a spirit?
Her Grandmother?
Maybe she is a ghost too?"
They are definately wondering...

"So true and I'm kinda of full,
  how about you?"
He states, poignantly adding
"Let's try some of that chocolate"
sampling the lemonade
and roasted nuts
topped off with that sweetness
tasting the menu of sharing

From  behind the tree
where I'm sitting
I have a VERY big smile covering
  that clever, wily face

Knowing I'm not seen
letting out a giggle  
as they turn in wonder
I know the secrets of this place
all its words
and where
it echoes

the loudest.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Inspired does this make sense?
#love #poetry #fall #stories #teaching #handeddown
Continue reading...
S Smoothie Apr 2014
blurt
the blurts cut me more than ever.

ice and cold metal to my warm ferver

blurts of poisoned pain

they spatter me like paint on the floor

the colours change

but the pain moves the same.

flattend and spattered

pain on top of pain

blurt and blurt and blurt again.

hold that evil *******

swallow it down

I cant spread myself

any more than I am.
Continue reading...
Glynis Kearney Jun 2010
Tarot...
Glass ball rotates in gypsy hands
Fortunes told of master plans
yet darkness looms behind the cloak
Untruths in words she never spoke

Laughter crackles from hollow holes
Sights unseen in distinctive roles
Light appears then dims to shade
The jagged edge of a lovers blade

She twists the cards and they reveal
The saddened loss of last appeals
Hangman, Magus, Prince of wands
Shackles tied in tireless bonds

Blatant hurt from heathen cry
Today I choose the time to die
Credence blurts it last farewell
The journey begins out of hell....
© Glynis Kearney 2008
Continue reading...
David Jul 2015
Untitled
'be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harsh battle'

David Wakeman, 20, thin, pale and dark haired. He has no particular style and doesn't look like he could really fit in with any group of people in particular, but at the same time, wouldn't look too suspicious with among a group. A constant look of desperation plagues his eyes. He looks as though his face would appear in the news in a few months for shooting up a school or blowing up a public building.

david is shown driving down a stretch of road, snow covered everywhere, crazy eyed

Some people are meant to be alone in this life, and I am one of those people. I no longer wish to pretend otherwise. I now know what has to be done.

The sounds of ******* haunt the hallways outside of the tacky, run down hostel where they both lay. She is lying on the edge of the bed.
The sheets are creased. There are cracks on the wall.
But for 3 euros a night, you can't complain.
She lies there, still; staring blankly at the ceiling. Her short robotic breaths are the only life seen.
He eagerly moves close to her, but for the life of him, cannot touch her. His unsure attempts at moving his arm over her are prevented by a sudden urge to break into tears.
Finally, his hand places itself over hers.
She is cold.
"Did anything change?" he says, afraid of the answer.
There is a pause. It might've been a few seconds or half an hour.
"No." Speaking so quietly, barely audible to him.
He is about to say something, but he catches the micro-expression that followed her reply.
A sigh.
He becomes impatient,
"Then kiss me." he blurts out, clumsily.
It sounded better in his head.
A deep exhale and an almost exaggerated look of contempt washes over her tired face. She puts her hand to her face, failing to cover up her outburst of honesty, pretending to clean out something from her spotless, green eyes.
She quickly moves her face closer to his, with her eyes closed, and she puckers her lips in such a way that suggests she'd rather be dead.
His eyes are open, and now he is the one who is lifeless.
"What?" She says, breaking the awkward seconds of silence.

Silent seconds are followed by silent minutes, and now they are sitting up on the head of the bed, watching the old, fat TV that hangs from the filthy wall. Something is  playing but he can't understand the language.
'Pedifilios' is the only word that seems familiar.
She is smoking another cigarette.
The faint sounds of her mouth blowing out the smoke, are telling him all he needs to know.
She loves her ******* cigarettes, he thinks to himself.
She grabs the worn out ashtray that sits on the side of the bed, and goes to put it out.
"Here, let me get that" he says, gentlemenly, and snatches her  it out of her hand, then puts it out into the back of his other hand.
The pain doesn't make him feel any more alive.
" There you go," the cigarrettes crumbles into ashes over his hand and he pushes the ashes into the ash tray, then looks at her.
Her expression is a weird mix of diisgust and fear.

Minutes turn back into seconds and the sound of her footsteps are the last thing he hears from her, just before the slamming of the door.

Chapter 2:

Two bloodshot eyes scan the aisles and shelves, looking for the gluten free bread. It wasn't in the bread aisle.
Who the hell buys gluten free bread?
He contemplates appraoching one of his coworkers and asking her if she knows, but she is far too pretty for him to talk to.
Besides, he's been here 4 weeks now and wants to make it seem like he actually has a clue about what he's doing.
Afterall, he had already convinced his then potential manager,Chris,  that being a 'personal shopper' was in fact his dream job, and that this very supermarket was his dream place to work.
He always was a good liar.
He's so good because for a little while he manages to convince himself.
'Working hard David?"
****.
with Chris you could never tell if he was ******* or beingplayful.
"Always!" David shouts back, then picking a random item off the shelf and placing it into the basket, then nodding at Chris with a look of false sincerity.

(David is shown sitting in the living room, the light emenating from the TV appears to hurt his eyes, and he is slumped back on the coach, clearly worn out. he is flicking through late night informercials, on the coffee table in front of him there are numerous energy drinks seen empty.)
Davids thoughts: The living room is where I come to when I cant sleep. It's more of a dying room, really.

(David continues to flick through channels before stopping for a second on a ****** phone-in show (like babestation). He flicks back through the channels again)

(The scene cuts to a few hours later, with daylight seeping through the curtains and David sat in essentially the same position except he has fallen asleep, with remote still in hand. It's time for work)

watch alarm rings.....

'You coming out with the lads on friday dave?
He always wondered why people tried to talk to him in the middle of the set.
He places the barbel down onto the rack.
'With who?'' He asks,
"Me, sam, jack, carl and"
"and?"
"and Bill. Yeah. bill"
David's face changes as if suddenly remembering something
"Oh, did you say friday? I cant make it. I'm doing a thing with..."
With?
"with the family"
His friend looks as if he was expecting this anwer,
"no worries lad."

"qeue sad music"
David sits in his room, and is looking for something.
Upon rummaging through his things he pulls out a drawing, it's of a girl, he looks at it and a short shot of the girl from the beginning of the movie is shown, then it cuts back to him, stressed looking, and he shove the drawing into a red travel case that sits under the bed, as though he can't stand to see it but at the same time doesn't want to get rid of it. The case still has its travel ticket on.
He pulls a notebook from under some wires in his drawer, and begins to write.

'poem read accompanied by scenes of davids life'
'poem is interrupted by a knock on the door.

-dave is approached by someone in the gym telling him he has a great body, and that people would pay to see it. looks into 'gay4pay' and ends up actually going on a site and doing a cam show before aborting the whole thing-

scene with mum sat with the missionairies 'mum we need to talk' mum seems uncaring and cold, later on they talk
'Whats the probem dave? do you need money'
'No mum, it's just that'
'if youre struggling for cash just tell me, you can always take out a loan and-'
'No. mum. its not about money'
'then what is it?'
As David began to speak, his vocal chords failed him. He was walking into a 20 year old wall that he just couldnt get over.
'It's just that..'
'Yes?'
'I'm not happy. Mum.'
'Oh, well we all feel that way sometimes son' brushing it off in her famous way.
'No, this is different. I'm really depressed. Well, it's'
Depression wasn't the right word, he thought. Depression was an overused and futile term, it had become synonymous with sadness, and this wasn't just sadness; he had felt sadness many times, and this certainly wasnt that.
'it's?' she says, interrupting his inner verbiage.
He looks at her, knowing full well that this entire conversation has meant nothing.
'Look Dave,' she starts again with her 'mother' act, 'if you think that youre responsible for the divorce, just know that it was always going to happen anyway. It was just a matter of oppurtunity.'
What the **** is she talking about?
'Your dad and I never really had a-'
'No,' he says, cutting her off before she has a chance to justify the divorce again.
He was sick of the endless reasons and justifications.
'It's not about that.'
'well, what else could it be about?'
Because the whole world revolves around her and her divorce.
'Nevermind, it's nothing, really.'
She smiles, happy she doesn't have to act like she cares anymore.
'We all feel like that sometimes, like you say.'

He was starting to think that maybe he needed to see a therapist. Until this point he had always been confident in his own abilkity to reflect, introspect, and deal with his own issues himself, and he had alwas been skeptical of people who st in chairs and tried to prescribe you things; but this was beginning to be too much for him to handle. He felt he needed to be eevalutated, that he was losing his grip of his own life.
scene with therapist, coldly looking at her papers, davids desperate face searches for answers in her countenance.
'Right, Mr. wakeman.'
Hope. There is hope.
'I have you down for a prescription of 50mg of lithium, 250mg of benzedrin every week. I'll see you back here on thursday and we'll discuess your', she stops to see his face totally destroyed
'to discuss your.. issues'
David walks home like the scene of travis walking to see betsy at the theatre, something in his face just says that he knows that this story isnt going to end well. and that terrible things are on the way.

'Drugs, drugs, drugs,' david writes, 'theres a drug for everything in this world. drugs to make you numb, drugs to make you dumb, and ones which make you love everyone and see leprochauns and jellyfish driving cars, though those are the illegal ones.'

'Dave ya sisters here!' says his mum.

Scene where dave meets his sister and has coversation, on her way out,
she pulls out a red napkin and holds it like they do in bull fights, david looks slightly confused and smiles, she says 'dont be the bull!'

scene cuts to dave watching a bull fight on tv, where the bull kills the humans. david laughs to himself as the bull chaes people away. he is eating peanut butter on its own. Daves mum walks in abruptly and he switches it off.

(divorce is mentioned and the fact that dave caused it is mentioned)

dave trries to approach a girl in his work but it i awkward aand he gets rejected the same way he he rejected going out with his friends 'im doing something witht he family'.

dave comes home and there are arguments or something, so he punches a collage of family photos.

scene cuts t dave in hospital being told the cast  will come off in  4 weeks.
scene where david is trying to do everyday things with one hand, accompanied by happy music, contrasting the despair of the scene.

(An exact copy of the earlier scene is shown where david is up late flicking through late night tv channels, except now he is using only one hand with the remote. David finds himself at the eroitc call in show again, but this time instead of changing the station, he notices the number written in big, pink letters, and the woman manning the phone is obviously not in a call. Davids vision darts from the tv to his mobile phone that sits on the coffee table, he doesnt hestitate too grab the phone. The look on his face shows he is somewhat bracing himself. David dials the number unusually fast, without having to look back at the screen. The phone is being connected)

pre recorded phone message: Hey there naughty boys, you've reached TEASEYTALK phone love station, the sauciest ******* line in thebusiness. Press 1 if you'd li-

(David presses a number without hearing the rest of the message, suggesting he has heard the options before. Davids eyes are fixated on the bored-looking woman on the screen, until she picks up the phone that shes been using as a mock-***** till now, and answers)

Woman on TV: Urite babe? How can I  be of service?

(She speaks in a strong mancunian accent, and provocatively looks into the camera and moves sensually. All the while David looks back, with an expression of almost disgust.)

Woman: Dont be shy love!

David: Sorry. I'm not really a people person

Woman: haha thats alright darling, feel free to just watch me if ya like

(she turns to her side, showing the front of her body to the camera, she rubs her hand over the thin lingerie covering her *****)

David: Do you not feel a bit weird knowing guys are waatching you like this.

Woman: it just turns me on more babycakes

(she maintains her playful act but appears just slightly agitated)

David: I think you're lying.

(again, she starts to rub her hand over her **** and tries to look playful, but is now clearly agitated)

David: I don't think you like this at all.I don't think you wanted this for yourself.

(she snaps quickly and becomes more aggressive in her act, trying to hide her obvious agitation)

woman: I ****** love it babe. If you could feel how wet i was right now I could prove it to ya

Men: do you have a boyfriend?

(she pauses for a second, shocked and unable to hide her uncomfortable feeling. She stalls and grabs a purple heart shaped pillow and changes position. She assumes another playful position but looks bothered in her eyes)

David: how does he feel about this?

(her movements now hault and she looks at the camera with a sad glare(

David: does he even know?

(she bows her head for a moment, before running her hand through her hair, and looking back at the camera with that playful smile again)

woman: do you have a girlfriend?

(she says smugly, making it appear as if she has said some provacative)

camera pans into davids face, his look of slight disgust has eased into one of sad reflection. for a split second, a scene of the girl from the beginning of the movie appears, the scene is light, contrasting the darkness of the room, then the shot of david continues

(davids long silence has create an awkward look from the woman on the TV, she has stopped the provacative movements and briefly gestures to someone off camera. the scene cuts back to david with the phone put down, then it cuts to a shot from the same angle, except its obviously daytime as the light is seeping trhough the curtains and davids watch alarm is ringing again, however unlike before he is wide awake)

Scene where david takes off shirt in the bathroom, revealing his arms, chest, etc, covered in cut marks like tiny cat scratches.

dave gets skinner throughout the movie, the gay4pay scene stops him from working out. contrast scene with self harm marks with the earlier scene he is more athletic and healthier  looking. pants fall off

this s were dave develops the bad thoughts about killing people and ridding the world of bad people. ' i always wanted to make the world a better place'

throughout the movie dave asks his mum if any package has come for him, and that he expects a package.

the underlying theme is waiting for things to come and being patient, and that you dont know whats around the corner. that you know life will  be better but you grow impatient, and its only when you forget about wanting things to change, that it does.

in the movie he either does **** people or he has fantasies about doing it but something stops him (a girl?)

before doing whhatever he feels he needs to, he has a ritualistic session of burning the contents of the travel case, including the travel ticket, a postcard from porto, some drawings, and a carboard cutout of a leopard.) he gives the travel case to a charity shop, a long with all the clothes he has worn in the story up to this final scene, where he is weaing guirella warfare type attire. he puts facepaint on(?) and dumps all his anti depressants

at the end of the movie, when he has forgotten about the package, i arrives, and he opens it, not showing its contents, the camera zooms into the words 'handle with care'
OR
he has done his deed and killed whoever (*******) and now his package has come and it says 'handle with care'. it either sits at the front door or is thrown into some postal van, the irony being i tis not handled with care.
Continue reading...
Emanuel Martinez Aug 2011
Human Freight
Cosmos’ in line
Trying times are hanging up
Harrowing efforts
Are disappearing from the host

Flying through concrete
The gold trap is deepening
Pant pockets are disappearing

Frayed lives are whimpering
Too much whispering
Richness is changing our living

Galaxies full of notion and time
In our mind they harbor
Asteroids driving our madness
To the core of the emptiness inside

Ticketing our ride home
The rail blurts its bias for us to be gone
So we fall asleep with its subdued sounds
Until we’re out and about
On our own two vehicles

Blasting tasting racketeering tricksters
Devine, sane, and holly men
No one is the same but we’re falling in
Forces are at a tug of war
We’re just the pawns in between
August 5, 2011
http://endorsinglife.blogspot.com/
Continue reading...
Vanessa Marie Nov 2015
A Terribly Awful Gesture
Oh where did I go?
"What a shame!"
They'd all say as I'd sit
Waving my white flag
"I hope you feel better!"
One always blurts out
With eyes of pity and curiosity
Creeping over my being
What a terribly awful gesture
You see I too hope I'll feel better
Oh but please tell me
How can one do so
When all that surrounds are onlookers
#terrible #hope #shame #help #pity #curiosity #surrender #gesture #onlookers
Continue reading...
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
CHOCOLATE EXPLANATIONS
CHOCOLATE EXPLANATIONS

“Right. . .!”

I try to explain it
with chocolates

that she( girlishly )
keeps trying to eat.

I pick a luscious
dark chocolate seahorse

And I say “Now this is. . .”

( and she finishes my sentence for me )

“. . .your hippocampus!”

She squeals. . . delighted with herself.

“That’s correct!”
I praise her
“. . .it’s shaped like this seahorse!”

“And it controls
your memories of you
your “who you are”

your “how your self assembles
its sense of self

. . .with all its past and future mysteries!”

“Yes. . .yes. . .that’s it!

She claps her hands
thrilled to bits

by the familiar telling
the reassurance of sounds.

And this twisted twirl of almond
with a real almond in the centre of it

“. . . is your amygdala!”

She blurts out before me.

“You got it”
I smile.

“Everyone’s got one!
a seahorse & an almond
one on each side of our brain.”

“Now the almond tells you how
to respond to the things
that you’ve assembled
into a sense of self

. . .with the proper emotion

. . .the right feeling.

. . .whether you just like

or love it”

“Oh, I love it. . .I love it!”

She almost sings.

“Now, explain it to me again!”

I give her the finished explanations
and she eats them

with much exaggerated
mmmmming & ohhhhhing.

“I love your explanations
about what’s wrong with my thingy”

She knocks upon her head
like it was a door
to a self that she had
locked herself outside of.

Most times
she doesn’t even know

her name

or who

or what

she is.

But she loves this story of

HIPPOCAMPUS AND ITS FAITHFUL AMYGDALA

She loves

each sound

each word

each letter

each pause

of the chocolate

explanations.
Continue reading...
Cheryl Mukherji Sep 2014
My father has Alzheimer’s
Unruly crayon marks,
ketchup stains
and ***** handprints
held an affinity for
the newly painted white walls.
Half-chewed nails dug into the soil,
tender feet splashed into puddles of joy.
Laughter echoed through the hallway
and the sweat on the forehead
was a sign of happy times.
The hardest decision of the day was
to find a place away from mother’s prying eyes;
torture was confined to the glass of milk
that she forcefully tried to make me drink.

Speaking of which,
I remember her screaming at me,
over her shoulder, as the milk boiled
to spread on the kitchen slab and turned to vapour,
“You are a mess”
and I always wondered what the word really meant.

There was a corner in my house
that I called my own- a bench for two,
often occupied by one,
unless ‘Baba’- what I knew my father as,
would come over, hiding,
what he called “magic”,
the same glass of milk that I had been avoiding.
I would cover my mouth
with my little hands
as he would begin to sew a thread of words into rhyme,
I often found myself lost,
weaving a meaning,
after I was done licking my milk-mustache,
it was magic, indeed, I thought to myself.

His biceps always were the right size of pillow,
the songs he hummed was
all I that I needed for a good night’s sleep;
the tickle in his fingertips as
he pulled my cheeks
was an affirmation that I was his favourite one
and how firmly I believed that I was prettiest of all,
even with the shabbiest of the braids
he managed to tie that morning.

Even on lazy Sunday mornings,
my mother, out of habit,
would draw open the curtains
for the blazing sunlight to disturb my sleep.
It was continued by irritable faces and whines,
lectures about management of time,
when Baba would somehow convince
mother that it was important for me to dream.
On regular weekday evenings,
I would sit by the attic window,
stare at the front gate,
wait for him to return from work.

He walked me to school,
locking his little finger with mine
and waited for me at 1.25 pm sharp
outside the school gate,
a balloon in his hand
and a glint in his eyes.
For hours together,
he made me repeat my mathematic tables-
5 times 3 is 15,
5 times 4 is 20,
5 times 5 is 25
a million times.

I was sixteen
when it first “skipped his mind”
to pick me up from school.
That didn’t change anything between us
until the night he called me up
to ask me the way back home
from his office because he was “too stressed”
to remember it on his own.
I remember him
entering the house at 2.06 am,
asking me who all were home, then
and also,
that I giggled at that question of his.

From then on,
for months together,
I woke up to my father
screaming at my mother
for not arranging his socks in pairs,
for being disorganized and careless
even when the third drawer from the right,
in his cupboard was the place where
he would end up finding all his belongings.

I was coming to terms
with the fact that my father
was too much under the pressure
of work
because that pretty much explained
why he stammered
before recalling his “to-do-list”,
had difficulty in meeting deadlines
and skipped family time.

I am 21 years old,
my father doesn’t seem to get any get younger day by day.
Last month,
on a sunny day during awkward monsoons,
I saw him sitting by the window,
tracing droplets of rain race
down the glass for hours.
He left the room without
saying a word when I asked him
if he wanted to play football beyond the bars.
“Gaah, he must have been preoccupied”, I still convince myself.
Around the same time,
we were invited
to his best friend’s marriage anniversary-
he was thrilled
so he narrated the story
about how they first met
thirty two and the third time;
introduced himself to my boyfriend
twelve more times, that same night.
“Fathers”, I just rolled my eyes.

Some time back,
one afternoon, at 3.16pm,
I saw him flip through sheets
of a calendar dated 1985.
When I asked him
to fill his details in a form,
he, without second thoughts,
scribbled “8” in the box
that enquired about his age.
Eight.
The same night, mother
must have called out his name
eight times to join us
for dinner but,
he didn’t respond to a single one
nor did he come out of his room,
his excuse being that
he couldn’t move.

He doesn’t talk much to us, anymore-
just blurts out vague and irrelevant
words like Screws, Notes, Coffee and News
at irregular gaps.
Apparently,
mother understands it all
and chooses not to discuss the facts.

Few weeks back,
on a lazy Sunday,
he entered my room,
squinted his eyes at the curtains
that were drawn open and
flexed his arms to draw them close.
He left without saying a word.
When I asked him about it,
he replied, “No talk strangers”
and kept quiet for the rest of the day.
He walks to places,
jogs back home
with a balloon tied to his little finger, sometimes.
And when he is not asleep,
he repeats mathematical tables
from 2 to 13
in a monotone for hours together.

The good side of it
Is that Baba and mother
do not fight
over lost pairs of socks or belt and wallet;
Baba just calls them “Things” generally,
and fiddles through all the drawers in the house.
And he proudly says “Stuff”
when mother asks him about
what he would like to eat.

Doctors say,
Baba has been suffering from Alzheimer’s.
I believe he is not.
#father #alzheimers
Continue reading...
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Bedazzled Dreamer
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not

Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly

We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always

Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding

Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid

All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing

Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems

Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred

This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme

Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are sound

Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how crazy we would
Be without it
Continue reading...
Joshua Haines Sep 2016
God of Death
Techno-blurts bleed between neon corners.
And she walks among the flashing lights,
an illuminated epidemic.

His name is Arthur Brunswick,
or so the rumor goes and goes.
Art. Artie. God of Death.
With a hand on a gun,
the other on the pulse of America --
redundant --
his eyes slide up and down
her shimmers of symmetry.

If there's another place, somewhere,
he said bedding tobacco behind lip,
Let me know. Hell, let yourself know.
There would be no greater shame
than becoming a mystery,
even to yourself.

Whether or not she is nameless,
she strutted around body of the room,
untouched by the God of Death.
Stopping, her stare turned towards his,
Your name isn't Arthur Brunswick.
I know this, you know this.
Whether or not, you say my name,
you know who I am.
No matter who you say you are,
I have known what you are
since we were created
to be in this room.

They both turned their heads towards the ceiling,
waiting for the author to acknowledge them.
But he couldn't -- wouldn't -- for whatever reason
he told himself over and over and forever.

He grinned, Arthur of course, before saying,
This may not be entirely original, but you
cannot, will not be saved. Even by him.
There are a thousand girls like you,
nameless, an object of a wanna-be
pseudo-provocative, pretentious, poem --
Too many P's, big guy; let's tone it down.

Listen, this ******, he said as he pointed up,
wants to be David Foster Wallace;
all soft-spoken, trying too hard to be smart --
which came effortlessly to Wallace, not him --
but I can tell you what he doesn't want to be:
The person that saves you. Your messiah.
Are we using any words correctly, yeah?


Either way, he doesn't want to save you.
You are meant to die -- you're going to die --
know how I know that? Because. Because he...
He, Arthur pointed towards the ceiling,
He is telling me what to say, and these words
are leaving my mouth. You die, I die -- **** --
I die... I don't want to die, but we die.
Maybe you could have all of this dialogue,
but it's common for his males to, well,
you know, be interesting and somewhat developed.

Her body, pearl and on the verge of objectification,
had glimmers swim across her moon-crater-pores.
Looking up, as she had throughout her
line-by-line life, she asked the creator what next.
And, before she was given another breath,
the neon of the lights dissolved into her skin,
burning her alive, eating her alive;
her body falling apart, disintegrating.
Fatty rain drops of blood, bile, and memory,
gathered at the danced-upon tiles.

Arthur, frozen in the now disco heat,
swung his face towards the stripped away ceiling,
a lava sky staring back at him, waiting to choose.
He said *******, He said Just ******* do it,
and, at first, he was to live, out of spite,
but the temptation of choosing death over life
was too great for the author.

Arthur's skin flew across the room,
in differing shapes and sizes,
clinging onto the lights, revealing
the God of Death: the reader,
the absentee father, the scarred brother,
the crooked teeth heart-breaker,
the author, himself.

The pearl girl woke up, next to the author,
in a place in a space in his head,
telling him that she had the strangest dream.
#poem #man #girl #god #death #writing #author #david #foster #wallace
Continue reading...
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
Write What You Know (but with Feeling!)(prose piece)
I am standing in front of another creative writing class, and from my mouth, the mouth of all English teachers, comes, “Write what you know,” and the carefully tied fly whips itself out onto the surface of the classroom and lies there, waiting for a nibble or a strike. My students, fresh from fields and country roads and long hours alone on the prairies, stare back like ancient trout, converged at this bend in the river. No one moves a pencil; no one rises to even tap the bait. Silence is broken by the sound of the motorized General Electric clock over my head as it marks the flow of time and water and life.

Whoever put a 15 inch clock on the wall above and behind the teacher, knew something about multi-dimensional sadism. Students mark their breathing in second hand sweeps, while I wait for that first hand to rise like a fish, foolishly deciding to catch one last fly for the evening…my fly, tied carefully to “invisible, mono-thread nylon leader” guaranteed to withstand the assault of five pound monster brown trout. Patiently, I stand by the edge of the stream, my feet just barely touching the water line.

“Mr. Simms? What if I don’t have anything to write about?” a querulous voice trembles. Shimmers of water-light ripple through the pond-room. I see the other trout-children moving ever so slightly, turning in the water thick air toward the question-tap.

“Patience,” I think…and clear my throat. “Good question,” I say. “What do you know that you would want to write about? What stories do you have to tell that others would like to hear?” I let the current move the fly a little deeper over the waiting trout.

And there I miss the first strike of the day.

“Nothing. I got nothing,” grumbles Charlie. “I don’t go nowhere. I don’t do nuthin’ but work and stay at home.”

“Yah. Pretty much says it all right there,” chimes in his best friend Tad. The other fish start to turn away from the prompt/bait. I can see they are thinking of going into deeper water.

Quickly, I change tactics. I turn and grab a broken piece of chalk…not much, but enough. I scratch out two words: ‘episodic memory.’ Turning to the class, I say quickly, “What do you remember about 9/11? Take a minute and think about 9/11. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? What time of day was it? What did you feel?”

The class is interested in the bait change up. I can see their trout bodies, speckled with brown dots, turning toward my new presentation. Gills are fanning in and out a little quicker than before.

A hand shoots up. Mary says, “I was on my way to school, and the bus driver yelled at us all to be quiet because something was going on with World Trade Center.”
A couple of her friends nod their heads, eyes looking up and back, into the past. Images were coming into focus.

Jose blurts out, “My mom was on the way to New York that morning. She was waiting at the airport. We were all worried about her.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, I tell myself. “So, Jose, can you remember exactly what you were doing when you first found out about the planes hitting the building? Where were you? What were you doing?”

“I had just eaten…Cheerios…yeah, it was Cheerios!” he says. “I was making sure my books were in my backpack, and the news came on over the Good Morning Show. I remember I stopped and just stood there like I was frozen. It was a couple of hours before we knew she was okay, but her plane was grounded so she couldn’t go to New York.”

The rest of the class murmurs. The beautiful fish begin to move as one toward the bait.

I nudge. “What did you see? What did you hear? What did you feel? What did you smell? Who were you with? Take a minute and write that down.”

Pencils scratch on cheap paper. The sound of the clock hum recedes. Time slows as currents of thought push the humming motor down. The stream slows and the water surface becomes glassy.

Two minutes pass. No one says anything.

I break the silence. “This is episodic memory. When huge events take place in our lives…events that mean something very important to us, or that are swift and exciting, sometimes too wonderful or too terrible to understand or to survive…at that instant…those events are stored in our minds almost like living, high definition videos. We can remember these episodes with all five senses. We remember what we were doing, what we were eating, who was with us, where we were, sights, sounds, smells, feelings…they’re all there in our episodic memories.”

I have their attention. The hook is set. Some pencils even scratch “episodic memory” on paper. I push on.

“We all have collective episodic memory. 9/11 is a good example. You all have some collective memory of that day when terrorists flew two airplanes into the twin towers in New York City.”

I take a breath. “Now comes the reason for my teaching you about episodic memory. We all have personal events stored in episodic memory as well. Each of us has his or her personal memories, forever burned into the hard drives of our minds. When we pull up these memories, they are there in true color, full sound, and clear vision. We can see, taste, touch, hear and smell those memories clearly. That’s what I mean when I say, ‘write what you know.’

It’s illegal to fly fish with multiple baits on one line in Montana, not that I am coordinated enough to keep 15 grey wolf flies separate and in the air on the end of 30 feet of fly line anyway. In my mind, I imagine those flies stinging the water and 15 fish leaping to snag them. The class is moving mentally toward episodic events.

The fly fisherman lives for that leaping catch, when the world explodes with the splashing surge of trout beauty and fierce battle. The teacher lives and breathes the exhalations of “AHA!” as students capture concepts and come to life.

Fifteen memories, brilliant as shattering crystal catching sunlight, explode in fifteen minds…and then the trouble comes. I have been here before, and move quickly to head off a possible flight to deep waters.

“Class! I need you to hold your thoughts for just a minute.”

“Some of us in this room just experienced memories of wonderful events: winning shots at ball games, good news of brothers or sisters coming home from war, first kisses … and some of us are experiencing terrible events, reliving them over right here in this room. I know that happens. It happens to me. The problem is…not all episodic memories should be shared with everyone.”

The class is silent. A couple of eyes are red and I can see where tears are beginning to form. Someone is recalling a fumbled tackle and the agony of sounding jeers. Another is re-living the scratchy beard and beer-sour breath of a father as he crosses all lines of decency and honor with a child. I can almost hear the sounds of skidding tires and feel exploding airbags as three minds simultaneously re-experience crashes…. The silent sounds of slaps and screams, of joyous and sarcastic laughter, of shouts of tearful farewells and exuberant reunions fill the air, bubbles releasing in the moving water of the classroom.

And then, the bell rings. “Take your ideas with you and write about what you know! I’ll see you Wednesday,” I yell.

Fifty minutes. The fishing is good. I reel in the fly, check the hook, and wait for the next fish to come upstream.
This came from 30 years' trying to figure out how to start that genius within my students' writing minds....
Continue reading...
Michael W Noland Dec 2012
Half Asleep
The automaton
Encrypting a nation
Heaven
Hell
Gods
And devils
A bio-mechanical equation
Living in circuits
Under pavement
Enslavement
In eternity
We
Are the angels
The demons
The adamant
The legion
Cursing from bended knee
In the triviality
Of truth
Are we
Not to be
Anything
But seen
Between the seams
Of perceived reality
Feeding
Off children's dreams
Breeding the themes
Into memes
And scattering
the practicality
Amongst
The capacitors
Magnifying
our hurt
Synthesizing
The whispers
Into blurts
For the world to hear
Not my words
My word
Wordless in itself
Silent as the film
Serenading
The filth
With the music of my youth
Leaking doubt
from the roof
Rerouting the abuse
Rescinding the ruse
And rebooting
With the other
7 billion fools
Aloof
As toothless mutes
Sparking mutiny
Amongst troops
Pursued by armadas
Of savage sonatas
Of cleaners
Meaning to
demean us
In the cleavers
That be-heave us
Or our humanity
Self created
In the slated
Boxes to think in
To tinker
Is sin
Repeat
and again
Condemn
The denser
To death
In breathless
Conviction
To the addiction
Onset
In step
To rest
My head
On the *******
Of your disbelief
I'm still asleep
Counting the sheep
Counting the creeps
My sub routines
Obsolete
In a sea of snakes
Continue reading...
Facia Overkill Sep 2018
im bad with words and explaining my feelings but you are the feeling inside of me part 1
asleep on the walnut sofa bed, my body sprawled over yours, clinging maternally. with your mouth slightly open and your eyelids cracked, your skin tight and your hair- still short, intwined with my fingers, you pull me towards you, still half asleep. your lips touch my forehead gently, my hand now resting on your neck and my thumb on your jaw, doused in the feeling of safety, as you lightly whisper good morning. of course i say it back and you kiss me so blissfully, and you feel like the relief of finally coming home. me, still in yesterday’s t-shirt of yours, now watches you hand roll us both a cigarette- your red nails going back and forth with the cigarette paper with ease. we go in to the back garden and sit opposite each other on the small glass table by the corner and we share a lighter again. again, i watch you inhale and exhale as we drink our tea as the rain begins to fall lightly. strangely, you finish your cigarette first, and begin clearing the table for me. im still overwhelmed by everything and all of my thoughts are in my tangled mind and the words i speak do not compare to the things i think, you are exceptional and any synonym of that word also, you are rare and you are beautiful and something that can not so simply be but into words. as you get up to go back into the house, leaving me to smoke your cigarette until the filter, you kiss me and tell me you love me. i- frozen at the thought of this and overwhelmed by this, my heart races and my mind panics and my mouth blurts out a empty-headed “What?”. you dismiss it as nothing and apologise for the accident, you didn’t mean it. my heart is singing for you. i am in love with you.
Continue reading...
Anais Vionet Jun 2022
travel week
It’s a “travel week” here in Georgia. I’m writing this on June 1st at the Atlanta airport. This morning Sunny’s flying in from Nebraska, Sophy from California, Lisa from New York and Anna from Oregon - all around noon. Charles put a hard-shell luggage carrier on the roof of the Navigator because he didn’t trust it to hold the luggage 4 girls could bring.

My parents left last Saturday for Warsaw to join “Doctors Without Borders.” Charles, Leong and I drove them to the airport and then we took Leong to “The Mad Italian” for the best steak & cheese sandwiches on this side of andromeda.

Sunday was a typical lake day. We tied off in our favorite cove and were quickly joined by everyone who could get on a boat. Imagine that Dunkirk movie - except this was a get together - with motorboats, sailboats, skiffs, pontoon boats and canoes all crowding the little bay.

Leong’s an avril lavigne - who knew? On Monday, I surprised her with something green - a trip to “Fun Galaxy” roller-skating rink. I made reservations for a “birthday party” and a group of 15 of us had the rink to ourselves all morning (and cake). I thought I was a skater but Leong’s legit. She says that in Macau you either skate on the street (rough terrain and dangerously between cars) or at one of several huge multisport pavilions where the rinks are cement and resemble our skateboard courses.

She’d never seen an air-conditioned, basketball-court-smooth-hardwood, disco-lit, rock concert sounding, American roller rink. It was love at first sight. She spins, does double lutzes, skates faster backwards than I can forwards, and the manager threatened to pull her off the floor for doing backflips (“There are liability issues,” he insisted.) She was also amazed because there was a built-in diner. At home, she said, you have to bring your own water and sometimes your own toilet paper (toilets are completely different in Asia - don’t get me started on THAT).

Yesterday, Leong, Kim and I were waiting for a Facetime call, to coordinate today’s arrivals.
Before that though, at my behest, Kim helped me ferret-out - Holmes & Watson like - the dire skinny on something, and we, as long time besties and co-conspirators, had a plan.
“Did you know Rob Chen was class valedictorian this year?” Kim asked the room.
“No!, congratulations Rob,” I said.
“Yea, Rob,” Leong echoed nonchalantly.
“We’re so proud of Rob.” Kim continues.
“But, you know,” I said seriously, “there are Rob haters out there. I understand it - he’s hateable,” I expand.
“ek,” Kim blurted, like a little bird, at Leong’s reaction as Leong gasps, “What.. Why?”
“Because he dresses ugly!” I explained.
Kim, unable to curb her excitement, squeaks out loud.
Leong looked at Kim, shocked, Kim was looking down and rocking with the effort of silence.
“That’s not enough REASON,” Leong blurts, “to hate someone!
Again, Leong looked to Kim for agreement and got none.
“I don’t hate YOU,” Leong says, turning on me.

There’s a moment of shocked silence.

“WOW.. wow,” I say, as Kim nervously snickered with glee.
“First of all,” I begin, between my own chuckles, a defense:
“I’m wearing a very **** black ensemble but not exactly dressed to go OUT, (Kim laugh-coughed) and SECOND,” I pause for drama-queen effect.
“YOU,” I say, turning my head significantly and accusingly, towards Leong, slightly askew for a better view, “seem to have quite a few hickies on your neck this morning.”
Kim can't stand it any more and squeals, full out, with delight.
“You, need,” Leong said, pausing just before she lunges at me playfully, to put her hand over my mouth, “to cut off THAT line,”
“I knew it.. I KNEW it!” I say, bobbing and turning my head away as Leong pins me with her body while still trying to mug me and we’re all howling with laughter now.
“Those are Rob Chen hickies! - I. KNEW. IT.”

The facetime ring interrupts us and Leong reluctantly lets me go to answer it.
We all sober as she moves to press “Accept.”
“Let me just loop-back to say,” I looked at Kim with elementary-dear-Watson satisfaction, and said to Leong, “you didn’t deny it,”
Leong blushes crimson as the call begins.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: behest: an authoritative and urgent prompting.

Slang
Green = something new
avril lavigne = a girl that skates (roller, ice or skateboards) a Sk8ter-girl
dire skinny = critical information.
Legit = real, authentic
#friends #travel #hickies #gatherings #teens #humor
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K Mae Apr 2013
rise to cheek
honesty
                                    unfiltered blurts
we clamp down
                                       afraid it hurts
raw expression
                                      may be rude
as fresh awakening
                                       attitude
home in darkness
                                       slither meek
trust the truth
                                         and rise to cheek
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Raj Arumugam Jun 2013
formal language and little Tommy
1
Tommy’s little, sure, but he’s
getting to that age
when he understands a little more
picking up things as his parents
take him shopping;
and hearing and seeing things
at home, in the backyard
and in the streets

2
but today poor Tommy
is caught in class
he’s about to explode
and he’s controlled it the last hour

“Please, miss,” he has the *****
to say it after all
“I need go ****!”

“You’re not going,”
says the pedantic Miss,
“until you use in a complete sentence
the proper English word
for your urge:
URINATE”

Poor Tommy –
he’s got the *****, but does
he have the brains?

Tommy thinks hard for a while -
one hand on his head
one hand on his pants
and then he blurts out:
*“YOU ARE AN EIGHT
and Mrs Smith next door
who sunbathes naked in her courtyard
LOOKS LIKE A TEN. Now, can I go?”
*...another joke from online, transformed into verse...
*listen-watch this poem read by me on youtube  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=**-ZhOSQIsE       ...
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Francis Scudellari Oct 2010
Cold Seeps
I would have posited longings ago
this short-shrift to-do over such a curt list undone
was inconceivable
outside
the pages of deceptively practiced perceptions
published in a pop-up book smirk,
or beyond
the canary-yellow frames of a cartoonish
distortion relishing its mired but spongy giggles

A
Been-here-all-along,
you’ve-never-bothered-to-look­
lake sleeps implacably
at the bottom of an irascible ocean

Be
Whatever it may,
you can’t deny the wantonly
watted life teeming pretty as it pleases,
untroubled by a hollow-core belief
or the extremest demands of our foul temper

See
How I could have,
if I’d only swallowed
those bubbled-up blurts
ring-wronging the tip of my wriggling tongue,
never been audibly
landed by one alluringly barbed certainty

There are supine bodies—
stagnant, quicksilver pure—
no material ship navigates
and no intentional intruder can swim
without
emerging atypically
unsettled by the caustic exposure

Tread lithely
when you go;
this shoreline bites.
Its clustered rocks will snap shut around you
after digging in below you with a protruding toe,
and its carmine stalks will sting you
as they writhe past you
to mime a part-less goodbye

Here be where
the monstrous cold seeps
and a hellish hot vents
in compliance with this centuries-old complaint:
too-short was the time we wept
for those wiggly wonders
we could have kept
if we’d only octopus-arm embraced
the inevitability of their bandy-legged escape
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Continue reading...
Morgan Alexander Sep 2019
He Said "She Said"
"So, we were having this conversation, and all of the sudden...well I couldn’t believe it...

"Oh, she went on and on about fields of daisies or something like that... She talked forever!

"Ok, ok...but first I have to build it up, so you know, you can appreciate the fullness of the moment.

"So we’re sitting there, having this conversation, and she just perks up...

"Yeah, she like...sat up in her seat, eyes bright as a light bulb, and she looks at me in this weird kinda way...

"I don’t know what way exactly, it was just weird. Like I was Brad Pitt or somebody like that.

"...Or someone like that, God! Are you gonna let me tell you or not?

"Anyway, she looks at me and just blurts it all out.  I mean she talked about it nonstop for an hour. I was thinking, Hell...we’re wasting time talking...

"No, I’m serious. It was an hour at least! After she finished I asked if she was serious.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure. Then she gets this ******* look and I thought she was going to slap me or something. It was like my asking her totally ruined the moment. It was a little freaky. I thought for sure she was just going to get up and leave like I blew my chance.

"Yeah, well...it might have been better if she did. She just looked at me, not like earlier when she thought I was Brad Pitt though. Now she was just dumbfounded or something.

"You know like...she couldn’t believe I even had to ask after what she had just asked me.

"Yeah, you’re probably right, I am. But look I can’t just...you know, after Jennifer and all, I can’t just leap out there without looking. I’ve got responsibilities to think about.

"Oh, whatever! I am not. It’s not wrong for guys to think about that.

"I don’t even know why I’m talking to you!

"Well...of course, I said yes, what do you think I’m a total *****? She’s way too pretty say no too."
I remember sitting in the living room as a kid. My mother insisted we get a wall-mounted rotary phone with "an extra-long cord" it stretched from kitchen to living room couch where I overheard many' a conversation about everything.
#hesaidshesaid #daisys #conversation #lightbulb #bradpitt #god #she #jennifer #pissedoff #pretty
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Terry Collett Jun 2015
BREAKING SILENCE 1957.
Enid waits for me
at the school gates
after school-
she'd not spoken to me

during playtime recess-
she looks at me
through her
thick lens spectacles  

and I see her lips
are till slightly swollen
sorry about last night
my mum was too

frightened to let me out
to play as my dad
was in one of his moods
she says

how comes you
didn't speak to me
at recess?
I ask

because he'll ask me
when he gets home
if I've been speaking
to you at school today

she says
how will he know
if you speak to me or not?
because he knows

I can't lie to him
he peers at me
and the truth
blurts out of me

I'm too simple to lie
he says
Enid says
what about now

won't he say today
and not mention school?
she bites her lower lip
never thought of that

we walk on together
anyway he won't know
just tell him
a created truth

I say
she looks puzzled
how do I do that?
she asks

just focus
on a bit of truth
and make it
the whole truth

just tell him
no I haven't
spoken to Benny
at school today

I'm not sure I can
she says
it's either that
or another

thumping from him
I say
we go through
to London Road

as I want to show her
the man
in the pie and eel shop
chopping off

the heads of eels
and chopping them
up into small pieces
when we get there

and watch the man
she says
how awful
how can he?

that's his job
I expect he's
used to it now
we walk on

and she says
I'll try and do
as you say
about telling the truth

but he looks
at me so
I feel frightened
and he knows

if I'm telling lies
we go down
the subway
and she is silent

and I feel sorry for her
and the life she has
I'll call for you
after school

and we can go out
I say
no no
she says

don't come around
or Dad'll go mad
I was only joking
I say

of course I wouldn't
least not
while he's there
she looks at me

uncertain
I'll just wait
and if you can
come out

then knock
on my door
and then
we can go out

she nods
and we walk on
and up out
of the subway

and along the New Kent Road
passing the cinema
then home
which isn't far.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1957.
#truth #fear #girl #father #boy #kids #1957
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Hal Loyd Denton Aug 2012
Bsdazzled Dreamer
Bedazzled Dreamer

Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are sound
Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how crazy we would
Be without it
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Francis Scudellari Aug 2010
Oranges for three loves
I.

To steal away three oranges for love he was
instructed by long-ago’s cackling voices, but over time
words once sharply plucked and sealed in the wide mouth
of his boyish memory have grown up vague and bushy.

So, this night he picks to stalk the storybook rows
of stubby trees that squat smack in the middle of a maze
unknown but tender hands have pulled straight to hide
riddles in their patchwork of endlessly seamed sameness.

Aided by a sickle moon’s pointed glances, he hastily
harvests the wages of three waxy fruit and plops
his juicy hopes sweetly into a leather pouch, as loosed
the feather-leafed branches snap back skyward.

II.

Home on the next morning’s edge, first love he sights.
She has a narrow white face and blush-dabbed features
below a tall swab of swirled scarlet hair that wags
a bobbed tongue’s tale as she comes bouncing into view.

Striped dawn glows, and tickled he, perhaps too eagerly,
reaches into his bag with the lust of hurried hands.
An orange, yet under-ripe and unready, he blurts out to her
as a wholly careless, green-topped, and unpeeled gift.

She takes it and rolls it through her nest of slender tips.
The thumbs inspecting its sadly misshaped bits find
the bumps and crevices around a knobby stem are proof
of a worthless fruit. Dropping it, she walks on, nose up-turned.
III.

Twelve days left to his less-than-virtuous devices,
he fusses over the second orange. His nails dig in
to *****-cut peel its thick rind. He picks off odd
pieces of pith and smooths its newly gleaming surface.

These would-be idol hours spent preening could
pay off when another amour falls as an acid-yellow
figment. She floats down to him from the distant hilltops
with a floppy mop of golden curls and a broad pink brow.

Pristine fruit on palm extended, he waits his worth,
while the citrusy flesh, exposed to a mid-day sun,
shrivels brown and collapses into a pulpy mess. When
she passes, it draws a mere wave and topples easily.

IV.

As the shadows of a jagged-tooth fencepost lengthen
a sudden and thoughtless appetite grows in him.
He grabs the third orange and gobbles it all down
but a lone slick seed that sticks in his deflated cheek.

Bewitched from the seemed break in magic’s promise,
he makes this kernel an offering to devouring soils
and lays his hard head upon the single-seeded bed
where he’ll drowse rocked by soft-chirped serenades.

Then, a quake and a tree sprout. Spreading branches
lift him up among the strangely branded fruit
that an orange-tongued fairy nibbles as she tosses
green locks and smiles at him with her hazelly gaze.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
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— The End —