Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
El Torpedo appeared out of thin air, moving at what could only be called -by any reasonable man, considerable velocity. She crashed into her soft down bed with a force that would've concerned even the most detached of onlookers, had there been any. 'Had there been any?' she wondered, as the recoil from the impact sent her flying into the air. The young girls arms and legs flailed in all directions; her body spinning wildly through the empty space of mid-flight, until finally -THUD!

“******* it, Ghost!” she groaned, holding the back of her head with her gloved hand.
“How can that still be funny!”
There was no reply, only a faint warm breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.
“This is no time for jokes, Ghost! I was this close to offing those *******. What the **** were you thinking letting them get away?”

For a few moments she continued on mumbling various obscenities and abuse at The Ghost, which we won't bother to detail here. El Torpedo removed herself from the floor and took a few seconds to dust off her omniverse attire.
Ghost Scarecrow replied, “I didn't let them get away.”
“Well, then where the **** are they? I don't see them anywhere!” El Torpedo spat back.
“Of course you don't. They're not within our current field of vision.”
“Very funny, you are such a ******* riot. Did they get away or not?”
“No. They did not get away.”
“Well, where are they, then?”
“Finally, you ask the right question!”
“I already asked you that!”
“Whatever. Let's go.”

At that moment, El Torpedo and the Ghost Scarecrow evaporated into the universe, their molecules became space, all of it...the entire thing all at once, allowing the duo the very useful ability to appear anywhere in the omniverse at anytime without warning. I know, it's hard to comprehend. But, as far as I can tell, and from what I've been told by those who would know, that's what happened. It was a rather difficult period for criminals like me. But that's a story for another time, back to the matter at hand.

Once their miracle of physical travel was complete, the duo found themselves floating approximately 40 feet above the Lacksdale River looking down on Tom's Bridge. Two small objects could be made out in the distance, appearing to hover just beneath.

“That's them?”
“What did you do, Ghost?”
“I was just practicing my justicing...”
“That's not justice, Ghost. That's ******.”
“No Torpedo, that is art.” His playful demeanor suddenly became somber and serious. “Let's have a closer look.”

The two floated closer. As they came within range, El Torpedo felt the cold, dark energy flowing straight through her soul; Ghost had had one of his moments again. The gruesome scene came into full view: Two men hung upside down from the bridge; the chains that Ghost Scarecrow had used to secure their ankles had already begun their slow and deliberate journey through the men's flesh.

Beneath the chains were crudely fashioned trash bags secured by duct tape around the victim's ankles. Ghost wasn't a detail oriented entity, he just sort of did things in a haphazard way and called it art. Even the casual observer could tell that the job was done in haste. The plastic covered the corpses from ankle to neck. The bags were bloated, filled with the blood of the doomed souls. A few tiny streams of the red liquid made it through the duct tape and ran down the faces of the men.

El Torpedo turned away for a moment and fixed her gaze on the Scarecrow, the smile on his face was quite sinister and chilled her to the bone. She wondered what he thought was so artistic about this brutality. Then she saw their faces. They were beautiful. It must have taken him hours to carve it all.

“How did you do that? It's..beautiful.”
“I didn't do that.”
“You didn't?”
“No. I'm currently compiling a list of possible suspects.”
“Ghost, you told me that you did it.”
“I did.”
“Well, either you did or you didn't. Which is it?”
“I killed them and hung them there. I didn't do the carving. You know I can't least not like that, and certainly not in this dimension.”
“Then who did?”
“I'm not sure.” The Ghost stuttered, beginning to feel a bit sick. “This looks like the work of...”
Together they finished the sentence, “The Artist!”

For a moment they stared at each other in stunned silence, both absorbing the gravity of the situation. El Torpedo broke the silence, “It can't be, we...I..., I killed The Artist myself. I stuck the barrel to her sweaty forehead; I saw the fear in her eyes when I cocked the hammer. I saw the explosion of blood and brain matter splash against the ceiling and walls after I squeezed the trigger. I wiped her blood from MY face. It's impossible!”
The Scarecrow replied, “It could be a copy cat. The Artist is dead, Torpedo. I was there; I saw what you did to her. No one could survive that -not even her.”

“You two don't know what you saw,” boomed the unmistakable voice of the one and only. “But, I do!” She continued, “You saw what I wanted you to see. Same as now.” She drew a heavy breath, her ample ***** grew fuller. She created the illusion of oxygen intake; she was a creator, and continued her verbal assault on the Scarecrow. “And you! Strawman, or whatever you call yourself these days. To even suggest a copycat after looking at my masterpiece...I'll **** you in eight dimensions a day for the next week! Ten, if I can manage it.” El Torpedo saw the fire of  The Artist's eye flickering in the cool blue darkness. “I think I'll start with the you in this dimension.”

At that very moment, The Ghost fired his (clever weapon name) straight through the heart of what we all, and any person worthy of being reasoned with would've thought was, The Artist. No such luck. The solid image became mist, evaporating before their eyes. I could still see her, safely tucked away. I see lots of things though; hard to keep it all straight, you know?

The Artist continued, “ think that would work. Good Christ, Strawman! You're dumber than your name implies!”

She reappeared, snuggled closely to the back of  The Ghost Scarecrow. Her knife at his throat, her lips at his ear, she whispered, “My Turn.” She proceeded to pull the blade across Ghost's neck. Before Torpedo could even begin to think about reacting, The Ghost's blood was spraying all over the place. I actually felt bad for her at that moment. It was kind of sad, actually. Blah, rambling again. Back to it!  

“What the **** was that?” El Torpedo uttered, apparently still in shock.
“That, My Dear, is what you can expect when you **** with The Artist!” The sound of her words reminded El Torpedo of the sound of an electric can opener near the end of it's days. “I am the only force in the omniverse that you need concern yourself with, that is all you need to know. Now, Good Night!”

Blinded, but very much alive and very much paralyzed, El Torpedo could feel her limp body sinking into the dark, cold waters of the Lacksdale River. She held her breath for as long as she could, until finally, she gave. The water filled her lungs, but she did not die. A chain appeared around her ankle, it descended deep into the abyss where, presumably, it was attached to something that would keep the girl secure. I'm not sure, I couldn't see that far.

“I've secured you between dimensions, Dear. No one will find you here. Enjoy your stay.” and with that The Artist was gone. But, she'd made one, possibly fatal, mistake. She'd left a witness, ME!
Kayla Snow Nov 2012
your ears were by far your best feature
they could deflect all my nervous trifles and absorb the jokes no one else got, the confessions I whispered through the phone, and the significance of being on the other end
(please remember)
I am not compiling a list of clichés with which to barricade the door when loneliness knocks
This is not a love song,
so please don’t use those ears to search for one

those ears were second only to your tongue
it possessed the unique ability to mold sound into exactly what I needed to believe
the confessions it sculpted
and glazed with calculated vulnerability fit so comfortably in my ear
that tongue was a love song and a mace rolled into one
(please remember)
not to use it to sing my praises, and I’ll grant you the same courtesy

your feet are so beautiful, too
the elegance with which they propelled you into someone else’s day dreams was inspired

with a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
the fumes choking me, I never got a chance to say
that coffee from the place you used to-
used to like
is bitter now
it tastes the way goodbye did as it rolled off my tongue and chased your retreating back
I add more sugar
but the clinking of the spoon echoes the “I love yous” whispered to someone else
the sound fits in her ear the way your hand used to fit in mine
the spaces between my fingers now resemble apartments whose tenants have been evicted
the landlord hardened by rejection wears a coat sewn from the time and wears a mustache curled into the shape of desire
these lonely flats are plagued with shadows
(that’s what happens when the sun is so **** close you can taste it, but there’s something else in the way)
(please remember)
this is not a love story

(please remember)
I don’t want you back
I want coffee that won’t stain my smile
I want my favorite songs not to be harmonized by the sound of your breathing
I want my posture not to sing a Taylor Swift song and
I desperately want not to be the girl writing you poetry
(the kind that you would never listen to anyway)

your ears were by far your best feature
everything else is blurry to me now
I can’t picture your edges anymore, or differentiate where they separate from mine
Your ears were second only to your tongue
Your feet are so beautiful, too
With a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
In the farthest reaches of known space, a single starship lay juxtaposed against the stars. The ship was named Destiny. The cold metallic shell hummed with energy as it sat motionless. There were large chunks of wreckage and shrapnel surrounding the Destiny, the last bits of oxygen burning away.
The Destiny was a silver and blue X-Class, a state-of-the-art high speed ship, currently the fastest in the Nine Galaxies. It's pilot was a female Extro-sapien named Jade. Her species was descendant from ****-sapiens, a long forgotten species from the Third galaxy. Extro-sapiens were humanoid, though taller than their descendants. They prided themselves on their indestructible immune system and immunity to all known poisons.That, coupled with the fact that their skin was strong enough to repel most blades with ease, made them extremely hard to ****. Extro-sapiens were nimble hunters, naturally armed with razor sharp fangs and claws. Jade was a bounty hunter, taking contracts to hunt down criminals or to escort VIPs in hostile areas for generous sums of currency. Her target's ship now lay in ruins, it's now-dead pilot floating in the void of space.
Jade walked from the cargo bay of her ship to the cockpit, stripping away her suit and clothes, tossing them in their respective rooms before sitting at her throne, not a stitch of clothing to be seen. It was relieving to be free once more.
She glanced over the various screens before her, some with pictures of her target either on a wanted poster or in the sealed container aboard her ship. She swiped the images to her left, compiling them into a message for her client before sending them. Almost immediately there was a soft chime as her client started a video uplink. Jade quickly grabbed the large headset from the floor and placed it over her pointed ears. She swiped her finger over the right earpiece and it clicked to life.
Jade growled and crossed a hand over her chest just before the screen shifted. An image of her client appeared before her, a reptilian humamoid adorned with gold rings on his short horns. Jade heard him hiss in surprise.
"Bounty hunter, if I had known you'd be so stunning, I'd have met you in person."
Jade's dual vocal cords echoed faintly in the cockpit. The sound of two angelic voices rolled off her forked tongue. "Flattery will get you nowhere. Besides, a night with me would cost you a fortune."
The man laughed, "Worth it, in my opinion."
Jade growled, "You have your proof of death, Silva, I expect you've wired the credits to my account?"
"Of course, of course! Though I could add a little extra if you simply move your hand."
Jade narrowed her eyes. "A show like that would cost you at least a million. Because I'm worth it."
She heard him chuckle, "Indeed you are." There was a pause and then he smiled, "Feel free to move your hand now."
Jade flashed her fangs, "Of course, you don't mind if I check first, right?"
Silva shrugged and Jade used her free hand to pull up her bank account. Sure enough, her initial payment had been received, along with the extra. She grinned and lifted her hand away from her chest. "Feast your eyes, perv."
She grinned as the reptilian choked. "Now that is worth a million!" He grinned from horn to horn, "I'll let you know when the next contract opens."
Jade returned her hand to her chest and growled, "This stays between us. Remember, I know where you live."
Silva's expression didn't change but she could tell that he flinched. "Of course. Until next time, gorgeous."
The video screen faded away and Jade quickly began to transfer her payment to other accounts. She sighed and turned to her right, seeing a map of the nearby systems. She spotted a contract pinned on a planet a few hundred lightyears away, and she gawked at the price tag.
"Ten billion units?" She whispered, "I could retire early with a payday like that."
She furiously began to type in calculators and coordinates. Her computer's voice echoed I'm the cockpit, "ERROR, PLEASE RECALCULATE TRAGECTORY."
Jade bared her teeth in anger as the holographic screen projected a diagnostic of her ship. One single line of text blinked slowly, enveloping her attention.
She swore under her breath, growling deep in her throat. She adjusted the microphone on her headset and cleared her throat. Her dual vocal cords echoed faintly in the cockpit. "Destiny, lock in coordinates to the nearest space station. Lock down cargo and prepare to engage hyperdrive."
The hologram buzzed to life as the various systems reacted to the sound of her voice. As Jade waited she shut her eyes, gently running her fingers over her bare chest. Jade's was proud of her body, hating to cover such beauty with clothes. Her arms, legs, and back were covered in ornate tribal tattoos. Jade had spent three continuous days enduring the hand poked tattoo, and she felt very proud in displaying the art whenever she could. She let her hands wander about her curves for a moment before stopping. Jade blinked a few times and shook her head. The bells at he tips of her long silver braids jingled. Jade whispered to herself, "There's time for that during lightspeed." Since she worked alone, she took every opportunity she could to relieve her tensions, as it allowed her to focus on her work without distraction. Companionship meant liability in her line of work.
She waited patiently for the computer, leaning back in her fur lined throne. Once all systems had finished their tasks, a soft voice echoed, "Hyperdrive on standby."
Jade took a soft breath. "Engage."
The starship lurched forward, the engines roaring ferociously behind her for a moment before the sound dampening system kicked in. She heard a familiar beeping and glanced up at the hologram, seeing the countdown from ten seconds. She felt the comforting shiver of excitement she always felt before launch, smiling softly to herself.
She braced herself in the chair and said, "Open view port, engage shield."
The large metal screen in front of her pulled away, revealing the grand masses of stars and planets before her. Jade took a deep breath and counted down, "Five. Four. Three. Two. One."
The ship screamed forward, and the starlight formed a beautiful tunnel around the Destiny as it traveled through hyperspace. Jade slumped back into her chair and closed her eyes. "Destiny, Disengage interior gravity field."
Jade felt herself lifting off of her chair, becoming weightless. Her braids jingled softly as they spread around her like a lionfish.
Jade pulled off her headset, letting it float in front of her as she stretched, running her hands along her body again and she shivered again. She twisted in midair, turning to the sealed door behind her. She touched the panel next to the door, feeling the familiar cold screen. The door opened and Jade floated into the corridor. She turned left towards her quarters and entered through another door. The walls were decorated with digital posters of various terrains she had visited during her travels. She drifted toward her bed, covered with a fur blanket and pillow. Jade wandered to the storage locker next to the bed, opening it delicately. Inside were a few personal mementos and data logs, and a small decorative box on the top shelf. She shivered as she thought about its contents. "Later. I think I need to sleep for now." She gripped the stability handle above her bed and lay down on the warm gel bed, covering herself with the fur. Jade breathed a sigh of relief as she relaxed, closing her eyes. It was at that moment that she felt how tired she really was, her muscles ached and groaned as she pressed a button on the side of the bed, changing the density of the gel to allow her to sink. The warm gel creeped over her legs and belly, then her chest and shoulders.
Jade groaned as the gel encapsulated her, covering every possible inch of her. Her mind wandered as her hand hovered over the other controls. "Massage or no?"
She bit her lip and pressed the button once, feeling the gel start to pulsate around her body.
Jade shivered and said to no one, "Who needs a man when you have tech like this?"
She spent the next few hours in the massage bed, finding her way into the decorative box partway through. Once Jade had thoroughly massaged her desires away, she climbed out of the gel, thankful for the weightlessness. She was no longer confident in the use of her legs. She pressed the first button twice and the gel began its cleaning process.
Jade retrieved her toys and placed them back in the box, pressing a button similar to the one on the bed, closing it and placing it back into the storage locker to clean.
Jade stretched again, invigorated. She floated back to the cockpit, checking the projected time of arrival. "Ten more hours. Plenty of time to get my gear ready."
Jade floated back into the corridor, this time twisting to the right towards her workbenches. The room was dark, save for a few blue work lights. As Jade hovered in the doorway, the overhead lights snapped on, casting a soft white glow around the room. She floated towards the first bench, where her gun hovered in a stasis field. It was almost four feet long, with three rotating barrels. Most bounty hunters favored energy weapons and plasma rifles, but not Jade. She preferred metal bullets that could shred flesh and punch through doors with ease. Her weapons would not fail her in case of electro-magnetic pulses either.
Jade floated to the next table, where her boots and mask hovered in another stasis field. Her boots were strong, heat and frost proof, and had a strong magnetic field to allow her to walk in zero gravity or even upside down. She had recently installed a pair of thrusters to them, which would allow her to fly for a short period of time, enough to get her out of harm's way or to a better vantage point.
Jade's mask was armor plated, angled to deflect any incoming rounds with ease. Two tubes connected the mask to an air reservoir that sat at the base of Jade's neck, underneath her braids. The eyepieces doubled as eye protection and target analysis. One of the lenses was cracked beyond repair and Jade swore. She hovered over the table and delicately disassembled the mask, letting the broken lens float freely away while she installed its replacement. She reassembled the mask and slid it onto her face. There was nothing at first, then the internal computers activated and she saw clearly through the mask. She glanced over the diagnostic data and nodded once she was satisfied. She took off the mask and set it back in its stasis field.
She turned to the final bench. Where her bodysuit lay in a crumpled heap of woven uranium and steel fiber. The bodysuit fit her like a second skin, adhering to every curve she possessed. The uranium fibers acted as an energy source, powering all of her necessities. The black suit shimmered as she touched it, reacting to her skin, begging to be worn. She smiled softly and patted the heavy fabric. "Soon, darling."
Jade glided to the door, leaving her gear behind as she returned to her living quarters. She hovered in front of the full length mirror, looking over her body. She smirked and purred, "Gorgeous as always."
Jade went to the storage locker and retrieved a large metal crate from the base. She took it to the mirror and opened the crate, revealing thirty blue feathers, each roughly a foot long. She had collected one for each of her braids, and she began to tightly weave the feathers into the tips of the braids. In the middle of each of her braids was a strong electro-magnetic core that, once activated, spread her braids like a lionfish. They would act as a distraction, allowing her the element of surprise. The magnetic field they created also acted as a strong shield.
Once the last feather had been woven into her hair, she then wrapped each braid in strips of the same uranium-steel fibers as her suit.
As the last of the fibers had been tucked into place, Jade grinned. The powerful fibers would amplify the effects of the electro-magnetic cores. Jade smiled at their resemblance to whips. She wanted to test them, see if they would crack like an actual whip.
Jade returned to her workshop, donning the bodysuit and her control gloves. She floated into the main corridor, which was wide enough that she wouldnt hit the walls once her braids were fully extended.
She took a deep breath and touched the her thumb and forefinger together twice, activating the electro-magnetic cores.
The sound was deafening, forcing Jade to scream involuntarily and clutch her ears in pain. She was shaking, her vision blurring. Her ears were ringing as she was finally able to hear again.
Jade reached up and felt her fully extended braids, marveling at their rigidity.
Once her hearing had completely recovered, she tapped her fingers together, deactivating the cores. Her braids floated limply in the air and Jade curiously went to the cockpit, sitting in her throne.
"Destiny, analyze decibel range of sound from main corridor."
After a moment, the ship's voice echoed, "Decibel range of one hundred ninety."
Jade shuddered, she was surprised she hadn't been deafened by the sound. She shook her head softly and looked at the projected time of arrival. "Seven hours."
She yawned, "Time to sleep then. Destiny, wake me up thirty minutes before we reach the station."
Jade lifted herself over the chair and ventured into her room. The gel bed had finished cleansing and she pushed herself onto it, feeling the familiar warmth. She focused on slowing her breathing and she closed her eyes, passing quickly into deep sleep.

In her dream, Jade stood on a slightly raised metal platform in the middle of a desert. The platform was massive, with sand covering the edges. Jade looked around, seeing nothing around her. She looked up into the sky and saw a single massive sun orbited by twelve planets and a ring of stars. Jade looked around her again and saw a massive wall of water closing in on her from all sides. She shut her eyes tight as she heard the water rushing around her.
Jade felt herself being carried away by the current. When she opened her eyes, she was back in her bed.
Jade blinked and sat up, unsure of herself.
She thought she could still hear the water rushing past her ears.
Jade shook her head and the bells brought her back to her senses. She could hear Destiny's alarm ringing within the bed and she pushed the third button, silencing the alarm. "Destiny, restore gravity.
Jade felt heavy for a moment, then the gravity stabilized and she rolled her shoulders. The countdown was now at thirty minutes.
Jade retrieved the headset from the floor and slid them over her ears. The screen in front of her had brought up a diagnostic of the space station. A light flashed on the instrument panel and Jade pushed it gingerly. An alien voice came over her headset, "X-Class starship, please respond."
Jade positioned the microphone in front of her mouth, "This is X-Class, go ahead."
There was a pause, then, "This is the Space Station Ender, please state your business and expected stay."
Jade hesitated, then said calmly, "Refuel and resupply. Expected stay no longer than forty-eight hours."
A minute passed, then another. Finally a response came, "X-Class you are cleared to engage docking procedures upon arrival."
Jade smirked, "Affirmative. ETA twenty-five minutes."
There was an audible click as the call ended. Jade sighed and pondered the contents of her cargo hold. She stood and turned to the back of her ship, going to the very end of the corridor to a locked panel.
Jade typed in an eight digit combination and the door swiftly slid open. The walls were lined with large storage compartments, though Jade wasn't worried about those. She counted her paces and stopped four paces from the door and she sidestepped right twice, touching her gloved fingers to the floor. The sound of gears and hydraulic pistons echoed throughout the room as a six foot by ten foot container lifted from the floor. Jade ran her fingers along the side of the container, opening the multitude of doors. As each door swung open, stacks of weapons and explosive devices became visible. This was the cargo that her target had been carrying. Since it no longer had an owner, it was worth a lot of money. Jade couldn't resist the possible fortune, bu
Bryce Jul 2018
Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Completely snuffed
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.

Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless

To give a place
To the missed

That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.

Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of

These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Spring is going to back
Silently dropping  the purple petals  
Bored noon,  
The melancholy flute's of Shepherd
Seeking the missing spring

Roll up,
Roll around the idle noon
Random impulsive air
Bunch of dark clouds at the sky
Seem illusion of that known
Pied crested Cuckoo

Beyond the horizon,  
The eyes looking for
Sounds (Tip Tip) of the sudden drops of rain,
On the leaves of Quail,
Differentiation of mind

On the leaves of Arum,
Ever Keeps as the containers
Compiling of soul 

Weird one wrapped in mystery

Coming up the lyrics of rain
Fusion with thy mystic music
Afternoon has grown heavier  
How my mind moves!

Chased away birds returning home
The heart is rapidly expanded
Rain continues to move around
Nature demands a new ground

Looping, hearing of the same song
Shadows filling with the feelings
Perhaps this change of thy
Bound to sketch
A new face of impression
*weird one wrapped in mystery*

*if like please put your comments/share*
jonchius Sep 2015
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
second week of September 2015
Michael W Noland Feb 2013
Lets look on upon unpopular stars when we are apart, and wish our hearts were heads, forgetting we ever met, as if meant to be, compiling our indoctrination unto ****** scent, and cold coffee, stale smoke, and years of therapy.
J Arturo Nov 2013
it's been a while since I wrote "a day in the life" or even
those little diatribes about the girls I like
but tonight the keys on my keyboard feel shorter, somehow
more eager to go down
and I'm tired
but it's good to write.

I'll start with monday I guess because that's when today started
I don't know how I keep this up and survive, but
I'm pretty sure I've been sleeping three nights a week for
months now.
it's like... haha... a year after polyphasing I need to make up for lost time.
Monday was Dana's parents ("parental") anniversary, it says in
the pink striped box, on the week view, of my calendar
I don't remember getting up but I started the clock at 10am sharp with
"remove sets and 5 easy steps from current"
no, never mind, I remember it now
(I checked my texts)
Damian invited me to breakfast, Tuneup, I said 8:45
he said he'd be there earlier. I got there at 8:30, before him
and sat in the back room. read the cached news items on my iPad. ate
a breakfast burrito with bacon, smothered, green
because I didn't want him to see me eating, again,
a burrito with the chili inside.
but he sat in the other room with… someone I can't remember
(I heard them, grabbed my coffee and switched seats)
he had kids, though. so we talked about kids. and they talked about kids
I don't really care about describing work any more.

Dana's mad at me, now, definitely– if it's 10am on Monday
It may have started last night… I don't know. She's mad because I work all day
and she has off
not that I know what we'd do to celebrate.
I went to Northern New Mexico College… impressed Sandy... Sandy something.
Impressed Damian by impressing Sandy, and as we drive back from Española
I realize that he's somehow grown into a larger part of my life than I thought would happen
and I'm almost wondering now if
when we leave from here
Dana will be enough to fill it.

It had snowed over the weekend, the mountains above Santa Fe were red with blood and the
valley spread out beneath us was white like… "white people", and it was (I think, should have been)
dark by the time I got home.

Dana had cleaned everything… and she never cleans everything, but she was so mad
and I was mad. hell. I was mad. because I don't want to be this person either
I mean, of course I do
can we ever be anyone, but who we want to be?
but more than this person I wanted to be somebody who suffers, and suffers for something good
and I knew that I could righteously suffer for this trip and for Damian and not have to suffer
for whatever person I might be afraid of becoming.

So when I told her I was going to work all night, she was even more upset and then we were
leaving for her christmas party but I realized that I have no interest in Starbucks or
the people she works with and she had no interest in me right then so I told her I would stay and
I guess at least she only texted me three or four times furiously.

and I… worked. I could tell you how. but I don't care.
and she came home. mad.
but Jones and Katy came over later, it was my idea
and I tried to install my new electronic sensor gadget while they three
sat on the bed and read poetry
(Katy and Jones had broken up earlier that day)

and after they left… at maybe three, Dana was being nicer to me
and I held her some, and we made out, but I
but maybe, this time, it was a little more ok.

I went to breakfast, again
went to Patricia's, felt sad.
Came home, again. drove Dana to work, again.
Checked Ryan's mail box to see if I'd missed our delivery.
spent an hour and a half on Skype with Jeff, Connor listened...
I want to say admiringly

and then we took more adderall and started writing code and things got
a little fadey for a few hours, but I was ok because I am always ok and Connor
is really good at this, really– I mean. Connor is really good. and I want him to be happy.
and to try and tell him this I bought him burgers at five star (in Devargas, where we saw Todd)
and offered to give him my car.
we dropped off Katy's phone at Connor's house and came back here, took more drugs and tried to write but
it's getting over our heads now, and I'm feeling soft and strange
but soon Dana is off work and she seems, even, happy now
as we drive to Ben Sobol's birthday, where I gave him a book
and allowed myself to entertain, for a few minutes, the thought that Ryan might come to Lima. but we had to
come home

because I know I might be tired by now, know I was once before.

and tomorrow there is so much to do.

but sleep wouldn't come and I started writing my thoughts out, about instagram and privacy
and, to Damian, about whether compiling .less was worth it in the long run
and, thinking, who will argue with me like this when santa fe is done?
and then Dana and I had *** and now is the part where I sleep so hard it hurts but I keep thinking and it feels nice instead.
and so it's four am now, and I write.

and write. caught up on time.

still trying to catch my breath, from the ***– I've had a whole pack of cigarettes today, haha, maybe I'm
suffering myself to death
but mostly it doesn't even hurt, I just can't breathe, and my heart races to break free of my chest
(to go where it will be better kept).

so I wrote this because I looked down at my feet on the berber carpet lit by the rope light under our bed and I was afraid
that I might never again know what it was like to look down at something like that,
soft, orange, warm. home.
and with Dana, falling asleep to my left.

we leave for lima two weeks from today.
I told Ryan last night that it's because it's too easy here, because everything's been done
but it's a cruel thing to say… I think… when no one has it easy here, nobody has what they want
in fact it seems like almost everyone, not just here, spends most of life trying to get this
while we see our satisfaction only as an imperative to throw it away.
hey. I guess I said I'd
like to die a poet
and now it's looking that way.

and I guess the reason I keep standing outside, the reason I texted Rachel from Danny's porch is that I've always
left every place with a plan to come back to
all those Rachel's fire escapes.
but I've never yet looked back, and certainly never gone home.
so the question, as I see it now is:
am I always going forward because I've always been running away?
or is it just impossible to go back to where you came?

because I am happy here. and this, for the first time, does not feel like an escape
so I'm scared it will turn out like one anyway.
From almost a year ago today
DH Oct 2013
clicking teeth
rattling breath
veins too small and cramped lungs
spindly ribs and spiderweb lips

you wake up
sunshine on your face
lazy smile lazy voice eyes squinted
why can't I be happy like you?

you taste like ozone and i have traced the knots on your ankles
and the hole in your chest
for hours
revising calculations
compiling a chart
mapping your unknown spaces to find the real distance from you to me
not in the light years from your mouth to mine
but thoughts
four thousand six hundred fourty four instances without me
that void is infinite

your mouth is full of flies
your brain is a quasar with no light on the horizon
there is nothing left of you but bones
and a nest of veins and arteries with your heart stuck in the center like an egg

your wings are melting
you've flown too close to the sun again
wax tattoos you poppy red in drip

how could i forget you?
your parabolas
your rosy cheeks
and the weight of you
how could i forget?
you have no solution
     (i could help you find one)
Marshal Gebbie Dec 2012
Strip into segments the colours of life
At the birth of my sons, loving my wife,
Like the moment of truth when, whilst shivering clear,
I went eyeball to eyeball with that, which I fear.
Like the time when the engine went dead in the plane
And I ditched in the pines to confirm the insane.
When my Father collapsed and died in my arms
And childhood departed with God and his Psalms.
When I first kissed a girl’s soft velvety lips
And felt, with wild rapture, my hands on her hips.
Discovered ripe apricots fresh from the tree
Taste sweeter than nectar collected by bee.
Felt the presence of death compellingly near
Though the body was wracked, the thinking was fear.
Climbed impossible peaks that I dreamt I perceived
To weep the hot tears in a life’s goal achieved.
Laughed loud and long with the wind in my hair
Yet cried when an enemy lost to despair.
Pondered the mystery of what’s round the bend
Concluded beginnings are part of the end.
Compiling the rules to maintain my space
Lie in keeping the oddballs out of my face.
Clasping friends, so few, to my breast
Embracing the true and to hell with the rest.
Committing my time to my one darling wife
And thanking the Gods for this colourful life!*

Sitting in the long summer grasses
3 Decemeber 2012
Danielle Shorr Aug 2015
there are just some things
you don't forget.

the time you get stitches on your chin when
you are four and the amount is double that
a result of your careless brother sitting your back and
your face meeting the ground with too much force
you aren't afraid though
you lay quiet as a doctor sews you back to one piece
this is bravery at its finest

the boy with the angry voice and heavy hands
teaches you to cower

the first panic attack with the salted swelling of your breath, the invisible hands wringing your neck into a knot you cannot untie,
the drenched palms and the pinching of your skin to bring you back down to earth
you think you are dying,
you aren't
you wonder if this will happen again,
it will

the dark of your uncle's funeral
your family's tears compiling next to the plate of poppyseed bagels that nobody eats
there is a silence that everybody seems to avoid and the sound of your unexplainable innapropriate laughter accompanying grief

your first kiss in someone's back bedroom and your body turning on vibrate mode
ringing with excitement, a smile numb from it's inability to escape

making out on the top of the movie theatre stairs at the mall on Fridays

the time you sneak out to meet up with older boys, the thrill coming from the risk
you trade tongues at 1 am and make it back in bed before mom and dad notice

the blacked out memory of your first time, in between his cartoon printed childhood sheets
you are fifteen and the **** and alcohol in your system make it harder to remember clearly
it is less of an event and more just a blurry moment

the nights with cough medicine and a handful of crushed pills up your nose and how it easily could have been too much

the halloween party with the dimmed lights and the red cups
the hammock in the back and the black basement couch and
her wrists the week after everyone found out what had happened on it
the word **** tied on to the back of her jeans for the rest of high school along with her self-destruction

the kid who threw himself in front of the train we all took to get to the city

the quiet in the school hallways the week after the drive-by

swallowing the word cancer and feeling every wall of your stomach turn ash

watching your father lose his hair like little pieces of the future

cursing out your chemistry teacher 6th period and being sent to the principals office
then loudly cracking your knuckles during saturday detention

eating ice cream in Haley's bed after finding out he cheated on her
telling her it will be okay and believing it

laying in bed for three days straight and ignoring any words of reassurance
depression settling comfortably inside your bone marrow

the comfort in his eyes and a sense of understanding nobody else had

your purple bedroom walls and
your purple bedding and
your purple curtains and
the pile of innocence disguised as stuffed animals sitting in
the corner of your room

every book you've ever loved

every song that's made your heart lunge

every human you ever thought of as you were falling asleep

every night you spent awake counting

every day you wasted spent waiting

every time you thought you wouldn't make it

every time you did.
arubybluebird Mar 2018
About you
Inspired by you
You've never read them
I've considered compiling them
Hand-written, blue-lined notebook paper
Slipping them in manila folder
Handing it to you
On our last encounter

Yes, I wrote poems for you
And you broke my heart

Perhaps I wrote poems for you
Because I knew you'd be the one
To break my heart

And here you are
As you started
As you'd end with me
Tangled in love and ache and poetry
ioan pearce Mar 2010
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on  about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one, you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.  
‘You’ve come to the end, it’s sad, my friend
But there’s nothing more we can do,
Your kidneys have malfunctioned, and
You’re at the end of the queue.
You’d best be making your Will out now
Or you may run out of time,
There’s just a question of fifteen thou’
You owe for our work, just sign!’

‘I’ll not be signing my life away
Just now, though it’s almost done,
I may be taking a walk someday
But not ‘til I’ve had some fun.
You say I’ve only a week or two
To spend, and that’s at the best,
I’ll cram the rest of my living in
With the help of a Prescient Vest.’

The Prescient Vest, the brainchild of
A Silicone Valley clone,
It calculated the path of life
From the life already known,
It fed its images through a brain
That would never live to see
The normal span of the life of man
Through some abnormality.

So Kevin fronted the Institute
And was strapped into a chair,
Fitted with Vest and Headpiece
And was virtually aware,
It drained the memories of his life
That flashed on past his sight,
And stored them into a tiny file
Just less than a Gigabyte.

And then it started to calculate
Beginning with his wife,
It showed her having a sweet affair
With the boarder, Stanley Smythe,
They both attended his funeral
And she leant upon his arm,
And held the wake with a Currant cake
At Stanley’s father’s farm.

Then Kevin struggled within his bonds
And tried to say, ‘Not true!’
But then his favourite daughter came
Quite suddenly into view,
She stole the funeral money he’d
Been keeping in a jar,
Then jumped on into his Thunderbird
And drove off with his car.

She let her idiot boyfriend in
To sit behind the wheel,
But all he could see were dollar signs
And a car he’d like to steal,
He dropped her off at a candy shop
Drove off and left his Pam,
While only a half a mile away
He ended under a tram.

Kevin suffered a minor fit
At the wreck of his pride and joy,
But didn’t suffer a single qualm
At the death of the stupid boy,
His job had gone to a minor clerk,
Dumped records in the bin,
The careful working of twenty years
That he’d spent compiling them.

Then Stanley got at his savings and
He frittered them away,
His wife was clueless, she let him sell
The house he’d slaved to pay,
The future, once he had gone was not
The thing he’d visualised,
He strained and screamed at the Techs,
‘Just get this thing from off my eyes!’

He staggered home in a mood and took
Some gas from out the car,
Splashed it around the house, and took
The cash from the funeral jar,
He threw a match and it all went up
Though he didn’t know or care,
That his wife and Stan were up above
When the flames went up the stair.

He jumped on into the Thunderbird
And went for a long, last ride,
Along the Beachside Boulevard,
And once he had stopped, he died!
They’ve banned the use of the Prescient Vest
With a raft of bills and laws,
‘The future needs to be locked,’ they said,
‘For the damage it might cause!’

David Lewis Paget
JW Apr 2020
a story with a beginning so
we weren't lucky enough to be written a worthy end

i wish we had something to blame for what is missing
but we have always taken the road less traveled

compiling to an unfinished tale violently bursting with
               ­   maybe-somedays
i will recite the idea of you until your finger prints vanish from my brain

you read me everything yet left me begging in vain for
i wonder what beauty we could have created
Daisy Daydream Jul 2012
He could write only perhaps a page at a time so scarred was he of losing the brilliance that he had somehow found again. After a few minutes of writing he was haunted by introspection reading back on what he had just written he couldn't escape the notion his words had been penned by some greater man and if he were to continue, to add to it, he would only be lessening a beautiful portrait. The effect was that each page he wrote looked like a biography with each chapter recorded by a different writer giving his work the disjointed feeling of having many contributors all compiling their experiences to tell this one story. He had never bothered to understand Durkheim's theory of alienation, but he imagined it was something close to this – not recognising himself in every story he wrote, only knowing that it was somehow someone different each time and that they were all trapped somewhere deep inside him.
Jay Bryant Mar 2013
With every utterance that leaves my lips
Exist a thousand more my tongue have missed
Frustration causes problems compiling my statements
I try to recapitulate my day, but failure hides in my shadow
My mind leads me and I follow
Complex formulas and conundrums are riddle across my brain
Monday through Sunday overthinking regulates my plane
I soar through the sky in thought,
Though in reality I haven’t left yet
Though I consciously monitor my next step
Because I’m on plan E and I think F’s next
Entrapped by the scent of,
The woman that lies beside me
My soul watches her as she sleep
I lay awake thinking of the rising sun
The things to come with the next day
I’ve learned a lot mainly that patience pays
That vexation puts me in my place, kicks sand in my face
Obscures my way, to humble my spirit
Arrogance ravages my actions
But frustration deflates my ego
With every utterance that leaves my lips
Exist a thousand more my tongue have missed
solEmn oaSis Jan 2016



Worldeater Dec 2015
So frivolous that this exists within a
Lack of being,
The ebb and flow of Death influx,
The cause of void in pulse, but,
Life hosts in essence, in absence,
In ephemeral disguises compiling like
Waves in the ocean,
Like pomegranate seeds in hands,
Like the letter C in the mind,
[A comedy]


And yet we are,
And yet I am,
And yet you is,
[A complex]
The "primordial" surrogate of truth:
The sun in a raisin,
Shriveled and compacted because
The grape was in the son of
Woman and man
[A tragedy]

But still, with her eyes on horizons,
The blue woman remains in essence  
While the red man remains in absence:
Lack of sunrises
Lack of sunsets
Lack of quiet nights

But the ebb and flow
as parables
as memoirs
Appease the quiet war between the
Quiet soul's erosion and the
Ancestral swig of heresy, tonics that
Drip sporadic hesitation,
An emotion
[A concoction]


This is my body

Information becomes info

This is my blood

Influence the chaos

With ripened moons and fluorescent suns
The poetry as Mother Tongue
As Mother Nature
As existence
As a lack of dark meaning
[A feeling]

["Give them what they lacked"]

The songs of ecclesiastics
Everything is meaningless

My hands
My hands
My hands

Reincarnated within the Auroras of Autumn,
Within the auras of Winter,
The Ebb and Flow of Death bearing the new.

[A time][A place]
Father's Time
Father's End
As anecdotes
As joyful mysteries
Suppose the mirror reflects it all
As found and "uncharred"
Maybe this means something. I dunno.
Michelle E Alba Aug 2010
Feeling like a waste of human life
seems to be disgustingly more and more
familiar to me each day.
With every breath I take,
I can’t help but to feel it is misplaced.

I feel like drowning,-
just compiling all this hate,
all my fears, my repressed anger,
my feelings of loss, and self loathing,
and taking them-
and letting em' eat away at my pores-  
letting em' impregnate my lungs-
as I wither,
until nothing more but a hollow shell remains.

I feel like setting fire to this face.
Taking that cheap molten metal,
and instead of to my wrist,
applying it to my brain;
letting it simmer and burn until there is no more pain.
I choose to wallow, dwell, and hold onto this rage
for reasons we call,

I constantly, consistently,
no matter the consequence,
or the grief I may bring,
sabotage anything I could possibly EVER have going for me.
I am my own worst enemy.
I feel like I am screaming.
Like every fight we ever had,
I was blatantly clear of what it is I fear,
but I am wrong,
I didn’t tell you once what was REALLY going on.

Not once did I say I just feel useless today.
I miss my brother and his familiar face.
I think about him with every heart beat,
living in a tent, fighting this war of greed,
just counting down until he can finally be-
returned home to his loving new family.
I hold him very close to my heart,
and his absence is quite frankly,
TEARING me apart.

I wish He could have been here for our Father in his time of need.
I know Dad wishes that too.
I wish I knew how to deal with loss better.
I only feel guilt, and bitterness.
I feel like in the years I have been alive,
that I should have DONE MORE!
I should have gotten to know my grandfather before-
it was too late.
What a selfish, putrid being
I have grown to be.

I wish my brother could see
our beautiful Mother finally
get the wedding she always dreamed.
He will only see pictures.
He will only be with us in our hearts,
and on paper,
and on Anthony’s tux.
I hope Momma takes it well.
It will be an ever bittersweet memory.
What irony.

I have been thinking about using again.
As often as I blink,
I fight this demon inside of me,
just pleading to be set free,
yet instead,
I allow it to consume me.

Falling, flitting, failing, quitting.
A ****** battle that I just can’t seem to win,
silent, yet shrieking
from this prison we call-
Chase Graham Dec 2014
With small colonies
Of rain water
When brushed form together
And make a fountain
When hung from the neck
On wooden coat racks
Wobbling from the storm
Outiside, compiling a lake
On the white **** rug
Hopefully your aunt doesn't mind
The newfound guests of water
And mud
And myself, quiet as this farmhouse
And the land it shepherds
Let the raincoats stack
One on top of the other
And let the puddle grow into
A sea of collective belonging
Because behind these walls
And a way from the thunder
Our family can stay soggy
Together, despite being
A funeral for uncle earl
We're just droplets.
Julianna Eisner Apr 2014
Uh! Why, thank you!
You may know by now
I am weightless so
I'll help you
levitate, too, okay? and
(and I'll kiss you like so, too)
Boy and girl paper dolls in

I can't point to which ears
heard which stampeding rumbles
from minimal eye gazes,
my vigilantly mind plotting on a chess board,
six moves ahead,
rooks to rookies,
overtly naive to trump
Freudian slips
(here's where Forer will see his effect),
a density practiced since
crushin' La Rosa,
an unfurling heroine,
compiling names to
ever-growing lists,
I pushed it to the test,
immersed in
and passed in
supernova bursts of
spiralling colours!

Mr. Movie sends his waves asking,
Alice killed the Jabberwock with a purple sword, didn't she?
And making his request,
Make sure the hyenas get rid of Scar so that he Never! Comes!...Back!
As well as his warnings,
(Captain Gutt will threaten)
I will destroy him and everything he LO-OVES!
You destroyed everything I had!
I'm just returning the favour!
No, he won't.
Uh uh.*

But I wouldn't know anything about that.
I live in the post-post-postmodern age.
Sid the Sloth is speaking again,
And we're having apple dumplings for dinner!
Faan Oct 2017
Your opinions doesn't matter, no matter the argument,
you could be right, you could be wrong, but we don't really care.
you're but one person out of the many, and your voice cannot be heard.
You are not a politition, nor a lawyer, nor in the government,
you can fight and rally all you wish,  but you'll always end up in disappointment.
because your opinions doesn't matter.
You are not some prodigy that can rally a whole nation behind his back,
nor are you some great speechman that can touch another's heart.
You are but a common man, speaking out his own thought,
entertaining your own imagination, fighting other people,
debating over things you can't change, but anger you have brought.
but in the end that thought no one actually cares,
your opinions doesn't matter.
The world is not fully black or white, so why are you the judge?
is it prejudice, or sympathy, no ones really interested.
no matter how compiling your argument, there'll always be something you're missing,
there'll always be contradictions within your words, and someone will always find it.
but in the end it doesn't matter,
because your opinions doesn't matter.
But nor does mine, nor anyones, we're all just pieces of pawns,
controlled by the government, society, and big corporations.
it's best to  sit back, enjoy your life, and sip a cup of water,
block out anything that does not concern you,
and live a happy life.
inside your happy little bubble, you'll always be the king,
because no one's opinion ever matters.
Jon Shierling Jul 2014
I once thought that the world was divided between the gifted and the non-gifted. I obviously count myself among the gifted, and why should I not? Do I not possess a superior IQ of 176 and a body worthy of Tier 1 reproduction status? Being born into wealth and position made it only a matter of course that I attended only the most superior of educational facilities, where my vocation as a State Psychiatrist was determined by the Board of Selection at 14. My adolescence was exceptional only in the fact of our Noble Republic's crushing victory when I was 16. I knew little of our Great Enemy's designs or dogma, imbued rather with the glorious teachings of the Ministry of Education and the need for constant vigilance against the corrupting influence of those deemed non-gifted. My blissful ignorance of the Enemy would soon change however, at my first official posting in our province's Mental and Behavioral Correction Compound. My duties for the duration of the year long post consisted or interviewing certain Counter-Revolutionaries, deemed necessary for posterity of course, and for the good of the unborn children of our State's Glorious Future. The twelve undesirables under my charge, six male, four female, and one pre-pubescent child of each gender, were to be disposed of as a matter of precaution upon the conclusion of my study. The preliminary timetable of cataloguing was ten months from inception to disposal with another two for editing and compiling the data. I cannot honestly say I welcomed the assignment, seeing it only as a test, my inception into the apparatus of the State, a mere stepping stone at best. My subjects did not even exist as people like you or me, rather effigies of a decadent past. Subjects had no names, simply numbers and faces. How can I be blamed for what transpired, for my ignorance, when all of them had ceased to be human, even to themselves?

Day 1 - Preliminary with No. 613774-1

Begin Transcript:

"Hello No. 613774-1, my name is Dr. Williams. I will be conducting a study of you and your fellow subjects over the next ten months at the behest of our Noble Republic. It is in your best interests to answer my questions fully and without reservation. This is being recorded for our State's benefit and that of Holy Father Science, so do please be polite. Shall we proceed?"


"I asked you a question No. 613774-1, it would behoove you to respond in a timely fashion."

"I have a name Herr Doctor. I would like to be addressed by it."

"You will not be disrespectful during these sessions No. 613774-1, it is inappropriate. Nor do I enjoyed having my title abused."

"I am being respectful, possibly even polite. The term Herr is one of respect in a language known as German, and since this entire setting is so very Kafka-esque, I find it quite applicable to you, Herr Doctor. And ironic, as Kafka isn't known to you. "

"Regardless, I must insist that you address me as Doctor or Dr. Williams."

"And I insist that I be addressed by my real name rather than a number assigned to me. Until then I fear I must continue to address you as such, Herr Doctor."

(Door opening)

"Guard, bring No. 613774-2. This session is concluded."
"Yes Sir."

"Good day Herr Doctor. I enjoyed our chat. Do be nice to No. 613774-2 please. She is my wife."

(Scuffling, a thump, door slamming)

End Transcript
Entry #1
Helpful Anon Feb 2011
Those few calming songs,
Running in the background of your deepest thoughts,
Realizing you've become happier,
Something you thought you had forgot,

You roam in your thoughts,
Keeping in mind what keeps you smiling,
Keeping in mind what makes you smile,
Every little thought you had compiling,

Smile, live life,
Enjoy all the little things,
You won't regret what you've done,
Even if those thoughts sting,

Definite happiness,
It's finally here,
And you better believe,
It's nothing to fear.
Where do we go from here?
When I've said all that has to be said?
When I've done all that can be done?

I didn't see what was so obvious,
and perhaps that hurts the most.
But it's just another disappointment,
added to the long list of mine
that keeps compiling
and over
and over again.

Maybe I won't be able to wake up suddenly
as cheerful as the sun on a clear day;
maybe I won't be able to act like
everything is okay
even though I told you it would be.

Maybe I won't be okay; maybe I'm not okay.
But you don't know and you'll never know
and I don't know if you think about
me more now that you understand
what I am and who I am
and who you are to me.

Time will tell, when the bell strikes midnight,
when the nights engulf your mind,
when you're alone in your room
and you have the whole universe to dream of --
you then have to look at yourself to know
if you're truly at heartbreak; because I am.
Lucas Keith Jul 2014
In my dreams, I run through the forest. A forest full of trees disguised as knife-
wielding sycophants, only appearing as such, however, after you pass them.  Yet even
though I can pierce through their veil by turning my head, I face forward knowing they
crave to chase me. Looking back would only slow me down, and I aspire to keep my
back absent of holes, as their blades aren't just jagged steel, but the focal point of their
deep-seated hatred for the unrooted.
A thought caresses the edge of my mind, throwing me into a stumbling wild caper
of surreal colors,
'Perhaps they have no desire to **** me. Maybe their only ache is to wound me
enough to fill me with their blades, their hatred.'
Still reeling through the chaotic palette of my imagination, I realize there is an
edge, a drop-off, not to far from me.  Their whistling whispers begin faint like a breeze,
yet build exponentially towards a gale, so out of desperation I lurch and throw myself
over the cliff.
A shallow drop finds me stranded on a sidewalk far from the forest, yet the fear
has not settled. A rhythmic tapping faintly grows closer; footsteps on pavement.  I look
behind me expecting a knife-slinging ******, but instead a white-clad gentleman with
an obviously casual gait, is approaching steadily. Sitting up, I wait for him to reach me,
the closer he comes, the clearer his features become, before fading vaguely, and returning
to clarity. His skin appears blue one moment, and a khaki color the next, jumping back and
forth with no apparent frequency.  He stops in front of me, offers his hand and states,
"I shall bring you to an angel."
He pulls me up, smiles, and I begin to follow him.  Down, down, down the sidewalk
that leads to a somewhere, nowhere and all the houses are the same, compiling the
mindless eternity image. The white-clad gentleman begins humming to himself a
familiar tune about calming apples and shy phantoms.  Then I noticed an interruption
in the forever houses: a garish, distorted being, dancing around an easel in a petric
fashion.  I turned to the blue, or khaki, man with an inquiry of this being, and he
shrugged with a mild disinterest and lack of knowledge.  
Not much further, and miles down this insomnia vision and its somewhere,
nowhere sidewalk, we came abreast a troupe of Irish girls dancing lively reels,
and trying to entice me with return gift attitudes.  For a moment, my mind melts and my
feet move in accordance with their time, but the khaki, or blue, man chastises me to
stay on the sidewalk.
After a tiny eternity, my companion and I come to a 'sort-of' ending of the somewhere,
nowhere sidewalk.  This ending is more of a cul-de-sac turnaround but the look on the ivory
adorned man states we had arrived at our destination.  The first glance at the cement space
reveals nothing, so I turn to my companion guide to divine the purpose of our venture, and he
is gone, as if he never was.  My eyes return to the cement turnaround and discover its no
longer vacant.  The most exotically beautiful creature ever known stands next to an obsidian
harp, observing with inquisitive eyes.  I peer closer and realize sheepishly that her only covering
is her four ebony feathered wings.  She smiles, as if reading my reticence, and beckons with
the sultry tones she plucks from the harp's crystal strings.
My feet step forward to her will, my heart pushing and prodding the rest of me to
follow.  Passing her raven instrument, my hands slip around her waist: her skin, hot and
softer than clouds, her scent sends my mind cascading into euphoria.  She returns my embrace,
and whispers between her teeth, lips lightly brushing my ear,
"I'm your Evil Angel."
She tangles her fingers in my hair, presses her lips firmly to mine and the world falls away.
My existence intertwines within the arms of this sordid Seraphim and in the secure comfort
of her lust I fall asleep.
Cracks of light break through the crust known as sleep and I wake to the reality of this
present stupidity.  At a final loss, I am keenly aware of the hole where my heart used to be, or
could've been.  Such a fool, always a fool, and still desiring to sleep away the pain.
It's more of a super short story, but it's kind of abstract and such.  It's old too, but what the heck.
Jay Bryant Jul 2013
I reside of the dark side of the internet
Wisely compiling knowledge
On how Mother Earth is being taken hostage,
On numerous projects that’s create statistics,
Promises of peace that seems far from realistic.
Numbers that count every human life
Without putting any real value on a humans’ life
You tell me, what life & its’ people have
Done to you…Well….
It's done the same to me too
Along with many others
But don't give up
My sisters & brothers
Look out for one another
This doesn't make sense
To fight & belittle ourselves
Don't you know?
That we originate from wealth,
Why must we endanger our health?
Be Labeled at risk….
When already
We're the number 1 target
On their list
I didn't come here… “To preach”
Leave that jazz to the bishop
“I Came To Teach…...”
This infection of deception that’s going viral
How do I know? Look in your bible
Read up on the world
Don’t sit or stand idle
Your life is in your hands
To survive you must understand survival
Is life worth freedom or freedom worth life?
Is it worth the pain the tears and the sacrifice?
By Jay Bryant and Grayson Bell
Madison Lee Jun 2016
Always remind me of where it all started,
Was it the way you touched me as I trembled?
Or how you went into this wholehearted?
I'll never forget the moment your soft, alluring lips passionately kissed me.
As we both felt the sparks that ignited between us, what more was there to do?
You worked your hands all over my body, making me feel like a masterpiece.
Your gentle, calming hands descended farther down my spine and past my protruding hips,
I can hear our breathing getting louder and heavier,
Our perpetual moans fill the empty room.
As I start to crave the way your body perfectly curved with mine, I could feel the warmth that penetrated off your body onto mine, but that also wasn't the only thing to penetrate me either.
All of this happened in the blink of an eye and before I knew that the chaos that started compiling in my mind,
I knew that I needed you to stay with me.
Debanjana Saha Apr 2017
I write inbetween
my hushful & hasty life.
I carry no baggage
but to pour out by compiling all of my heart.

I eat, sleep, laugh, cry, work, dream
which goes on till its brim.
But one thing which makes me whole
is my write,.
It brings me joy out of pain
it shakes me up while in strain
it soothes me altogether
& comforts me without any fail.
I wanted to share my writing it makes me whole every single time without any fail.
Worldeater Jan 2015
One of the basic concepts of art
Is that within every creation lies
Fundamental shapes shepherd by an
Organic compiling of lights and darks  
Bending to formulate shadowed tales.  
Stories. Myths. Epics.
Triangles and circles rest undisturbed
Scattered rhythmically like smooth curves
Contouring to the whims of the dance...
Yet, when infusing detail into mapped
Shapes, the stories are no longer the same.
Haunted and forsaken.

But still, such a delicate face hearkens my
Pencil to life.
My fingers, to smudge these fine lines
Drawn into the organic creation that is you:  
A lovely imperfection.

However, I never seem to get this line correctly.
Despite my efforts.
JWolfeB Feb 2017
The cracked corners of her spoken too many times mouth bent just far enough upward to be called a smile
Teeth yellow from a coping mechanism you can't quite understand yet
Holding back each breathe just enough
For it it were not for the power in her lungs I wouldn't be here

She says "Boy you just don't understand"

Four years later,
This jigsaw puzzle is slowly compiling itself into a fading picture
54 years of back breaking uphill climbs
Two children who are still on a search to become men
Zero men that deserved her heart
A single mother conquering the branded arms of poverty
Days weaving together begging for refuge
Finding empty responses

She is the shore being abused by the ocean
Never once asked consent for what the body of water has taken
Her framework eroding from view
She has given too much too fast and it will not be given back

Cancer has a funny way of taking something that does not belong to it
Ending stories before they are finished
Cutting to the credits earlier than expected
We are powerless power lines being controlled by the wind

Four year later I hear her saying
"Boy you just don't understand"
You are right mother
I still do not understand
Why you are not here
Rose Albireo May 2020
Picking, lacy clouds from April skies
to make a bouquet of wildflowers,
I get tired of leaning and think of was

since when did I decide to
hide myself behind insincerity?  

Made, my wish come true
by writing one more poem on
dull riots of burning willows

twice-born within
seven days of this in a hotel
of days like a passing shadow

Pitied, myself for being so
for having such a weak
and childish heart  

Humm, in the marketplace  
I patiently pick out the perfect
moments from a basket of kiwis

Surprised, by ten years roamed
of letting days go idly by
while I stay perfectly still

compiling my work
of brushing grass and prose,
not caring anymore about fame

Mindless, my shutter snaps
another beautiful day that’s mine
and I quickly pin it on my wall

without a word,
I fall from April skies
Joanna Oz Apr 2015
endless drip-drop-plopping pling-pop puddles pooling over
their self-constructed boundaries,
spilling into rainbow chem-drip paintings on the darkened pavement,
melting into unseen hues of wetness.
the super-saturated ground continues to collect the leaking of the sky,
compiling samples of the potions spilling from clouds who gathered too much magic to hold onto by themselves.
bustling busy-bodies cower under fabric roofs,
only to be barraged by rising tidal waves rolling at their feet,
sneaky splattering from dirt sick of being stomped upon.
under the cover of brick and mortar
searching eyes are stuck staring out blurred window-panes,
hypnotized by the water-works and
feeling nostalgia for a time when they lived under the sea,
evolutionary longing for ancestral roots that escape understanding.
entranced by the suspended flight and splendid crash landing of
parachute droplets sent through a long descent as singular entities
to dissolve back into a homogenous being at the end of the journey -
separating and reconvening, reforming and dissipating.
drip-drop drip-drop all the same,
everything as everything else under the guise of arbitrary names,
dripping-drop plopping in watery refrain,
I am the same as you are the same as we are the same as the drip-dropping rain.

— The End —