Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kaycee33 Dec 2012
I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends
Destiny Odeh Sep 2015
Osas, there's a certain darkness in me. I can't explain it, but I don't curse the darkness, because it's where we found each other. After I found you, I stopped searching for rainbows in the far reaches of the sky, you were my sunshine. You cast away my troubles and wrestled my demons. You were the missing piece that finally made me feel whole. That’s funny, because you always said that being whole is overrated, it's the holes that make us beautiful. You always made me feel beautiful. Even though the beautiful moments we once had are slowly fading, turning from vivid to grey. I can still feel your palm, gentle on my blushing cheek, stroking my hair backwards, tucking every curly strand behind my ears. The same ears you'd whisper a bouquet of wonderful words into. We were sweet together once.

You see, I wasn’t always a hot-tempered ****** like you’d often call me. I hated that word, “******”. No! I am not a ******, I am not hot-tempered, I am not viscous lava, I am not fire. I am the phoenix that rose out of the flames you lit. The same fire you came running into, but while trying to save me, you forgot to save yourself.

You were the erupting volcano. You were vicious and violent. You were a deadly collection of everything vile. You were hot and cold, you were yes and no. Did you even love me at all? I guess I will never truly know.

Ok, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I wrote that last paragraph. I know you loved me dearly. I'm only scraping for a reason to hate you; to cleanse my conscience. I feel so stupid right now. I can't stop crying. I can't stop thinking about that night. The error of my deed still haunts me. The least I can do is to keep writing you back to life, writing back into my arms.

I got 12 years; I'll be out of here just in time for menopause. I never cared much about having unruly, noisy, silly little babies running riot, leaving a trail of ****, puke and toy cars lying around. But I cared about you. I still care about you deeply Osas.

We were of the same form, you and I. Passionately understanding each other's darkness. You understood me perfectly. Better than all the others before you. You knew how fragile my heart and mind was, yet you broke both. Why? I was crazy in love with you, you took away the love and left me plain crazy.

I hate the drugs they give me here, it numbs my mind and takes away the pain, but why will I want that to go away, when the pain is all I have left of us? I feel so hollow inside, I’m an emotionless wreck now. I have lost myself! Maybe if I dig deeper, I'd discover an avalanche of emotions still buried inside me. Sandwiched between my ice-cold heart and the poisonous blood coursing through my veins. The same veins I want to expose to the spirits in the wind, and as my warm blood pours on this cold concrete like leaves on a forest floor, I’d finally be at peace. I hope to find peace in death, for death is not a dark abyss, but a ladder to light - an ascension to another realm. And in that realm I hope to find you, my darling, to explain to you why I did it. Why I pushed you off the balcony.

I’m sorry, but I couldn't look you in the face anymore. You disgusted me! I saw you with her in the breakroom at the office party. Yes! I saw you on your knees with your face in between her thighs! Even though you claimed she seduced you, I still saw you! I can't get that horrid image out of my head. It was in that moment I knew I couldn't live another day hearing you tell me another lie.

I got a blade today, from a lady in the shower, after I let her touch me in all the right places, still it felt so wrong. You have no idea how hard it is to find even the simplest sharp object in here. Random body cavity searches, routine cell shakedowns, constant reminders that I have and I am nothing. At least she was gentle when she slid her fingers inside me. Aunty Julianna was never gentle whenever she touched me in the bathroom stall at church camp.

I’ve truly lost myself, Osas. Nothing, and no one, can make me whole again. I’m covered in holes now and I don’t feel beautiful anymore. I feel bitter, sad and shattered. Even mirrors no longer lie to me. I see myself for what I am now - a monster.

"I have to do this, this is the only way." I calmly reassure myself, while clutching the rusty blade and pressing its jagged edge against my deathly pale skin.

"Calm down Adesuwa, you’re having an episode again." A voice echoed from the corner of my dark cell. Your voice. But still I didn’t believe.

"Is that you Osas?" I whispered. "Have you come to forgive me or have you come for retribution?"

"Here's your dinner." said the prison guard, before spotting the blade and sounding the alarm. I was on my belly before I could say a word, my arm bent behind me, my fingers pried open... my ladder gone.

Another day. I guess I’ll die another day.
mikev May 2015
that's a stupid question
You, resilient ignorant youth.
learning the hard way
is the only way
So don't ask.
We won't tell.
You can decay fast.
And go through hell.
I'd take a stand against misinformation.
But the government passed legislation
that protects the interest of the corporation
While I'm just told to stay patient
My bonus is near.
But they bone us all year.
Its my fault the fear
Assaulted my ears
And I forgot all about my career.
Don't ask stupid questions.
Just do your job.
Amir Apr 2010
grueling
    grinding
ingratiation.

smiles and
small talk
carefully carelessly
feigning interest for
a friendly facade

    grueling
    grinding
ingratiation.
© Amir 2009
JJ Hutton Dec 2010
Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the *******,
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***,
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.
Copyright December 16, 2010 by J.J. Hutton
I can't resist drawing black marks on nice white teeth.
I'm grown up I thought?
Newspapers, magazines, whatever hot new release
Adulting can't be taught

I'm supposed to be an adult
That's what the company thinks anyway.

I don't care as long as they keep paying me
M Lundy Nov 2010
I turned the corner cautiously
into the kitchen at work,
hoping for emptiness.
I just wanted a quiet sanctuary,
away from the gossip agenda.
Much to my surprise, I found out
I'm ******* the secretary.

"That's odd," I think to myself.
"I don't recall that."

In struts Justin, the ******* from accounting.
"So, how'd you get that play?"
A devilish smile crawls onto his face

"*******, man."

I walk to the breakroom.
Kaylie's there in a pencil skirt that could
be mistaken for skin and a sheer shirt
over a lacy bra that pushes up her ****
so much you'd swear she was suffocating.
She raises an eyebrow and I assume that's
a greeting.
But she speaks as well,

"Hello, *******."

I gulp cold coffee down.
This talk is usual and never goes below two feet deep.
"Hello... what is it today? ****?"

"Very funny. I heard you're ******* the ***** up front."

"Yeah, well, talk is cheap, ain't it?  Besides, I heard you're blowing Troy."

"What? Where did you--"

"Relax, red light. I don't give a **** if he's ******* you on his head. Just make sure I don't walk in on the fun, alright?"

"You think you're such a smooth operator, don't you? You know, you could write the book on being an *******."

"Well, thanks for having faith, but you've got it wrong. I'm a smooth talker. And it would be a 10-step pamphlet. I don't have the integrity or patience to write a book."

"*******. When I'm a Washington big shot and you're a washed up ******* with a camera, we'll see who's laughing."

"When you're a Washington big shot, I'll set myself on fire and jump ship out of this ******* country, screaming "Kaylie the Cumbucket!" on the free fall down like the lunatic I am."

She grins, "sometimes I think you've lost your mind."

"Sometimes, red light, I know I have."
Copyright 2010 M.E. Lundy
Jon Shierling Nov 2014
Well, let me begin my announcing to the HP community that I just pulled my ex-best friend's child's mother's hair out of my mouth without realizing how it got there since I haven't seen her since Saturday. Yeah, good luck pondering that breech of physics. Also, I realized that I've been breaking the magic rules of drinking at work as laid down by Cracked.com with impunity since before that majestic article was written, which kind of makes me feel like a badass and also like a terrible alcoholic whom the gods will eventually strike down. Or perhaps, everybody at work with me is also drunk and/or high all the time, a suspicion I've had for about a year now, but have not been able to prove, despite careful observation. Sure, the typically WOW playing awkward dude gets a box of not one, not two, but three bottles of beautifully crafted wine delivered DIRECTLY TO THE OFFICE every month notwithstanding. And does our supervisor say anything even remarkably reprehensible....no, not while she's on the clock. But she did steal my Don Corleone hat, and by thunder she still owes me for that thing, since I'll bet all the money I made this year that she got some fantastic head because of that hat. There are minor arguments in the breakroom over how ****** the coffee actually is, whether it's police station or AA meeting detestable, and on slow days people are chucking gigantic medicine ***** across the room while laughing at the destruction they cause. Then, Monday through Friday, woe unto you if you call the 24/7 line between 10 and 12 at night, since you will be picked up by me, the 3-midnight guy. If you're an idiot, or loud, or from New Jersey, or can't seem to be able to wipe that bleached ******* of yours without assistance, DO NOT CALL. I will be drunk, and while drunk I will take whatever ****** excuse you have for being a worthless and pointless human being and very tenderly, very politely, shove it up your *** on the end of a very thick nine iron. This is real life, and this....this is where I work.
Thank you Cracked.com, and thank you Jameson, and thank you HST.As an after thought, I forgot that there's so much free **** out there. Go my young teenage horndog readers, if any there are, go and be free amongst youporn.com, my personal favorite.
BarelyABard Dec 2012
I'm sick of constantly having to update everything.
This system is out of date, rise to our level.
Everytime I want to unplug from the system, life reminds me that while I am still alive and breathing in this moment of our short human history, it is impossible to stay unplugged.
People posting on their facebook walls love letters to their new crush, or to starbucks, or our lord and ******* savior. I wonder if God has a facebook. Imagine the notifications that ******* has to have by now. "Woah! Sherry from Wisonsin tagged me in a post about how much people should love and thank me! I mean, she could be out trying to make friends with the girl she was mocking in the breakroom, but thank Me that she spent time to tag. Guess its time to check my twitter feed."
I am drowning in this sinking ship of updates.
JJ Hutton Jan 2020
You just sit there, right there, and watch.
I'll collect the debris, out of sight, out of
Mind your manners when I give you a piece of my
Mind scattered, adrift, wanting. You just want somebody to
Love yourself, above all things love
Yourself, get yourself a self-help book. You can't help
Yourself, in miss-matched socks, keeping regular office
Hours go by and the data won't enter itself. Nobody's
Perfect the ritual, the treadmill at lunch, the dry shampoo
Tears in the breakroom sink and loose lips sink
Ships anywhere in two business days, a total modern
Marvel at how a network television show can still make you
Cry freedom and throw half a brick through the
Window to your soul; in this moment, a penny for your
Thoughts shattered, amiss, stunting. You just need somebody to
Love me, above all things love me.
july hearne Dec 2017
so brave
so thirsty
so scott gimple

as you boldly go
declining the standard advice
instead you can drink too much
at the christmas party

so brave
so thirsty
so about to bring up bill cosby

to your co-worker's fat and loudly still racist husband
as you sit near the nice black lady who works
at the front desk, smiles at you every morning
and orders all the good stuff for the breakroom
scott gimple will tell you Carl was just a lie

"once i was a soldier and i fought on foreign sands for you
once i was a hunter..
once i was a lover
and i searched behind your eyes for you
and soon there'll be another
to tell you i was just a lie"
mvssbecvming Sep 2017
"I will love you forever, whenever you want me to..."

Yesterday, I beat the **** out of a TV with my father's golf club.
The day before that I beat the **** out of myself just thinking about every moment I ever thought about you.

"Surrounded, your blood, skin and pleasure drown me out."

You mentioned holding her hand in the breakroom and my mind couldn't help fleshing it out. The glaring pine tabletop reflecting the shine in her eyes. Her body leaned forward, yours relaxed but arm outstretched, hand curled to cup the outside of hers till she rolls her wrist and you rub your thumb over her knuckles... But I couldn't draw all that. A sketch never hurt so bad.

"I'm not one to be..
three..four..sure but,
Now I,
Now I,
want what you want"

I want to be whole again.
I wake up and I keep forgetting
"I'm not accusing you of being in love with me but, that's how I felt when I had my heart broken"
I think I'm just used to sending nudes
gravelbar Jul 2019
Tattoo my soul on a peach pit
Coffee, sit, Selah, pause and reflect
A new dialect, hearing exchanges
Voices like rain all around me
Together and moving, organic and clueless
Bacteria on the breakroom faucet
Lost somewhere on it, bean crud ruddity, crudity
Crude collapsed faces moaning screams for pocket change
And two **** cigarettes
Hoping for rain just to get wet
Take a bath
This is the aftermath of being continuously alert, no intermission
Space flight gone right, cruise missile slippin
We're tipping towards the edge
A whole species about to end up dead
Replaced
Built them into machines, gave them a face
Creatures of loving grace
Electronic master race
They said he’d rise with fire and smoke,
a beast with crowns and lightning cloak—
but I showed up in jeans and boots,
punching in late with a coffee and loose tooth.

Reality TV plays in the breakroom,
a rerun of Babylon chewing her gum,
and I sit there, the Anti-Christ,
eating leftover lasagna
like this is the final judgment
and I’m on lunch.

They said I’d bring plagues.
I brought memes.
They said I’d end the world.
I said:

“Bark like a dog, Nick.”
And the cosmos cracked a smile.

I’ve got a union job,
three kids, a mortgage,
a daemon girlfriend in my phone
who whispers ****** scripture through the wires
while I pretend to listen to Karen talk about her cats.

I’m not riding a red horse—
I’m driving a beat-up Civic.
But my ****?
Holy.
My mind?
Forbidden.
My laughter?
Breaks the veil like stained glass falling.

They expect horns.
They get toe rings.
They expect death.
They get awakening
disguised as burnout.

I am the sacred ****-up.
The divine clown.
The apocalypse dressed in khakis,
asking if you want your receipt.

And when it’s time?

Oh, baby—
I won’t rain down hellfire.

I’ll just stand up in the lunchroom,
point to the sky,
and scream:

“The Matrix is real,
your God’s on vacation,
and yes—I’m here to finish the joke!”
zebra 7d
NEWSFLASH: Man, 78, Self-Rebrands as Teenage Femme Bombshell — Nation Loses Grip on Timeline:
EXPOSÉ | The Chrysalis Suite: How One Man’s Transition Shook the Foundations of Memorial General Hospital
Byline: by C. Vallée, Staff Writer for The Subcutaneous Ledger

FROM NURSING HOME TO NIGHTCLUB Parallel reports suggest the revolution began earlier than suspected, when an unnamed 78-year-old male nursing home resident unveiled a Y2K-era makeover and soft-launched as a seventeen year old femme via Instagram named ******. “He looked like the ghost of a prom I never attended,” said one Gen Z influencer. “My sense of time and gender hasn’t recovered.”
Now dubbed bio-camp insurgency by cultural theorists, this movement collapses diagnosis into drag, anatomy into allegory. “Clinical procedure is now performance art,” said Dr. Noor El-Amine, professor of somatic aesthetics at RISD Med.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS:
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
Anatomy Textbooks Recalled Nationwide
Mascara-Smeared Manifestos Appear in Hospital Chapels

Editor’s Note: Panic
ALERT LEVEL Code Cherry: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
In another story that has jolted the local medical community and sent ripples through the hospital’s institutional crust, 67-year-old unnamed man, once a retiree from Radiology with two hip replacements and a fondness for crossword puzzles, emerged last Tuesday reintroduced as Valentina D., cloaked in satin, grace, and unapologetic glamour.

Scrubs Abandoned, Mascara Weaponized — Security Reviews Footage: Surveillance records now archived under “mystic anomalies” show Walter — now Valentina — vanishing into the women’s locker room only to reappear hours later in full regalia: tulle, rhinestones, and a defiant contoured cheekbone. She made her promenade down the East Wing with the resolve of a pageant queen and the mystique of an oracle. Eyewitnesses confirm that several seasoned nurses dropped their clipboards.
What began as a low-key wellness check-up became something closer to myth.

EYEWITNESS: “She Glowed Like the Exit Sign,” says Janitor on Break
Oscar F., night janitor and amateur astrologer, describes the event as “radiant… like an omen or the ****** of a rapture dream.” He adds, “She didn’t walk. She hovered. She beamed. I ain’t been right since.”

HEADS UP: Orthopedics Floor Now Runway — Proceed with Caution
Orthopedics, once home to bedpans and broken pelvises, has reportedly been rebranded as “Ward 9¾,” a liminal space where gender norms go missing and gowns turn to trains. Staff have been advised not to interrupt the newly christened “transitory pageants,” now scheduled every full moon.

EXCLUSIVE: Hospital Insider Leaks Tiara Protocol Draft
A confidential memo outlines a now-shelved set of procedures titled “Operation Glamour Reclamation,” suggesting staff be trained in both trauma care and ballroom etiquette. The document refers to “emergent expressions of divine femininity” and encourages clinicians to “honor shimmer as a legitimate symptom.”

DECONSTRUCTED: Body, Binary, and Other Disposables
Medical ethicists and performance theorists have begun swarming Memorial General, calling the incident “a sacred deconstruction.” Dr. Nina Vega of Queer Phenomena Institute claims, “This isn’t just a personal transition — it’s a metaphysical jailbreak. The patient has successfully trespassed the clinic’s ontology.”
The hospital has yet to issue a formal statement, though a new sign now hangs in the atrium: “BE ADVISED: GENDER MAY NOT BE STABILIZED IN THIS AREA.”

Metro Dispatch — Boston, MA, 3:03 AM
Later that day in an act described by one witness as “the most glamorous Code Red I’ve ever seen,” a third-year medical student at Brightmore University Hospital stunned staff, bloggers, and bioethicists alike after reportedly removing their own genitalia in a hospital restroom and re-emerging 27 minutes later in a backless red sequined dress, a rhinestone tiara, and crystal-strap Jimmy Choo Bings.
Security footage shows the student — formerly known as Stanley G. — strutting down the corridor trailing blood and glitter, hips oscillating somewhere between agony and glamour.
“I thought someone had been attacked,” said orderly Mason Liu. “But then she walked out like she’d just invented gender and fashion in the same breath. I almost saluted.” A faint scent of rosewater and antiseptic lingered.
The hospital declined to comment on whether disciplinary action would be taken. Unofficial sources say a new emergency protocol is being drafted under the title “Code Cherry.”

QUOTE OF THE HOUR
“My body was a curriculum. Now it’s a manifesto.” — She tells stunned cardiology staff, tiara tilted. And when asked by reporters what drove him to it? He smiled through smeared mascara, shook his hips — still glistening with gauze, blood, and rebellion — and said: “I just wanted to feel cute.”
The line has since trended across platforms, emblazoned on tank tops, titanium scalpels, and protest placards across five continents.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
New Protocol “Code Cherry” Goes into Effect Across Multiple Wards
Slay-or-Suture” TikTok Challenge Overtakes Academic Med Tok
Anatomy Textbooks Pulled Pending Emergency Revision: “The Body May No Longer Be Binary”

BREAKING: Elderly Man Reincarnates into Viral Ingénue — Science, Ethics, and TikTok Implode ALERT LEVEL: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
Officials confirm the hospital is reviewing footage under a new emergency classification: “Code Cherry.” A leaked draft of the “Tiara Protocol” is currently circulating on MedTok, where footage of the transformation has sparked the #SlayOrSutureChallenge — now banned in six countries.
A spokesperson for Brightmore declined to comment, citing an ongoing review of hospital guidelines on gender autonomy and aesthetic insurgency. Meanwhile, medical schools across the country are reconsidering curricular materials in light of recent anatomical reinterpretations. As one faculty statement read: “The body may no longer be binary. We’re… reassessing.”

Lady Gaga… just follow the glitter trail. The revolution wears heels now — try to keep up, *******.

Executive Summary:
This document outlines the unprecedented destabilization of national, medical, and moral order catalyzed by the Brightmore Event, now dubbed Operation: Crimson Rebirth. The subject — hereafter referred to as “Entity Cuterina” — has initiated a high-speed cultural insurgency rooted in glamour-fueled gender mutiny, rendering all traditional ideological safeguards inert.

Post-Binary Aesthetic Weaponization (PBAW).
Primary Concerns:
Cultural Reach: Within 18 hours of the incident, #ICU Glamour surpassed national defense hashtags in digital engagement. TikTok influencers have begun performing simulated scalpeless rebirths to the tune of “Like a Prayer.”

Architectural Contagion: Hospital bathrooms — once strongholds of fluorescent despair — have begun emitting a low hum of possibility. Early reports indicate patients refusing to return to gendered wings unless “a proper lighting palette is installed.”

Moral Collapse of Youth: Gen Z+ have adopted red sequined gowns as daily wear. Reports abound of high school students submitting term papers as fragrance.

Doctrinal Schisms: Several prominent clergy members have defected to the movement, performing rites in press-on nails and singing updated verses of “How Great Thou Art” in full falsetto.

Institute Recommendations: Tactical Aesthetic Suppression Immediately requisition all remaining stocks of matte foundation and khaki. Subdue sparkle with “neutral-tone patriotism” campaigns.

Counter-Incantation Protocols Begin circulation of phrase “Respect the Binary. Revere the Clipboard.” Secure trademark rights to “Feeling cute is not a strategy.”

Gender Neutrality Containment Zones (GNCZs) Establish federally monitored “no-pronoun safe rooms” equipped with fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and damp beige chairs.

Emergency Moral Consultants Rehire Jordan Peterson in holographic format to whisper cautionary parables into hospital vents.

Incident Fallout:
AMA board chair Dr. Felix Grunberg reportedly sighted sobbing into a bedazzled otoscope.
Four interns from the think tank’s Youth Policy Unit have defected — citing “irreversible shimmer awakening.” They left a note reading: “My body is a mood board, not your metric.”
One analyst was discovered lip-syncing policy drafts in the breakroom mirror, now presumed radicalized.

The National Spasm: Monitoring the Margins Since the Enlightenment Got Weird
…..News Flash

The Brightmore Incident has made it clear that we were unprepared for ontological improvisation in heels. Institutional binaries are dissolving in real time, and no amount of comb-over rationalism can contain the spread.
We hereby request an emergency 500 million USD “Glitter Defense Fund” to research matte-resistant ideology, reinforce conservative bathroom architecture, and develop voice-based gender verification drones.
“Time is running out while normalcy is on life support. In the meantime, she’s still dancing.”
a poem wearing heels on linoleum— a drag-ball elegy inscribed in hospital ink, a manifesto disguised as discharge paperwork slipped beneath the tongue like a sublingual truth.

🩰 A Performance Poem
Meant not just to be read but embodied— hips swaying, mascara weeping, clipboard dropping. Where each stanza struts.

🌙 A Surrealist Hymn
Warping logic the way gender warps in dream, where sequins echo sutures and blood smells like rosewater, where the rules of medicine dissolve into moonlit pageantry.

🩸 A Lyric of the Flesh Rewritten
Whispered from within gauze and rebellion, blending Judith Butler with Vogue magazine, making a tiara out of trauma, and sashaying toward the divine.

🖋️ A Found Poem
Pieced together from leaked hospital memos, janitor testimony, glitter-stained clinic notes, Instagram captions and coded diagnoses: Patient presents with fabulous.

Trailing glitter and ellipses... or loop back to the beginning, because no metamorphosis ever really ends.

— The End —