Silently I cry hoping no one hears
Secretly caring for another in love's affairs
Experiencing love's worst of weapons
Heartbreak ominously beckons

Silently tears fall as I lie alone
On the bathroom floor unbeknown
For there are no more words, no more lies
Only a silent tear that never dries

Silently I cry with images of his face
Dimpled cheeks, his kiss and warm embrace
Hopelessness ensues for the way he held me tight
Remembering he's with her tonight

I lay in bed at night beside the one I'm bound
Holding my breath as tears compound
Feeling the love I once gave and then knew
All the while he's with someone new

Silently shedding tears as my life takes its toll
Killing my very essence, my mind, body and soul
Hearing the words, feeling the crippling pain
A lover's secret inevitably ends in vain

he snaps his barbed jaws made of thin sticks— you know
the kind that
SNAP and CRACK ominously underfoot when the woods have grown too
quiet, too calm, for all to be well
teeth gnashing— this the sound of dead leaves skittering against pavement and river rocks at dusk (that time when you need to settle down and get a fire started, but you’re not quite sure of where you are)
              homeless
wandering the woods in search for something he will never find
hysterical, eternally lost his

eyes

are the dim, barely there glow of camp fires that go out too early
fingers the cold that creeps around the base of your sleeping bag and along your neck
cheek bones the sun-bleached sides of mountains
his voice is the unrecognizable call from some animal you cannot identify in the depths of the woods, but not so deep that you cannot imagine it coming towards you. not so deep that the sound doesn’t make your hair stand on end.

his feet are bound with the ghost skins of snakes that lurk under rocks, darting out only when you have one foot precariously balanced on its side.

he travels — howling and yowling like some hell cat out of deep
mountain lore— starved, half crazed, ravenous
fever hot and parched
his mouth a voracious, vacuous, vorpal cave
that leads down into his river stomach— that part of the river you thought was deep, but revealed its true nature with the electric sting of broken legs after jumping.
his howl is the pounding of the wind at your tent
angry hands running broken glass claws against your skin as you walk against it.

he is jealous of those who wonder the wood for he has no true home.
his ribs the skeletons of eerie, too thick mountain laurel trees and the hollow shells of long fallen oaks.
the light of the moon burns his moth-wing skin on nights when the forest is full of her radiance. so he yowls, furious and powerless
rattling and shaking his bones — the dead arms of trees that stretch out over too steep mountains, acid burnt and raw

his name could have been pestilence to the christians
but only the Natives know his name and only whisper it lowly
and on nights when the wind is calm and he cannot hear their summons—
Windigo.

his only purpose is that he has none.
his motivation is endless hunger
that is older than the mountain itself-
or maybe it was born with the mountain…
he in his rabid madness has long forgotten the origin of his emptiness.
he is hungry, and you are in his wood.

(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.

It was a cold night for a concert. There was frost on the windscreen as we got into the car for the short drive to this city church. We drove because we were going to be late, and it was cold, and would be likely to be colder still when the concert was over. I had wondered if part one would be enough. Could Bach and Rameau be enough? Might the musical appetite cope with Mozart and Beethoven too? Were we about to sit down to a large meal, possibly in the wrong order. Can the cheese course be a transcendental experience I wondered? Bach to begin certainly, a substantial starter with one of the mid period keyboard toccatas and two ‘distant’ preludes and fugues, but then a keyboard suite by Rameau?
 
When I listen to Beethoven though I want to hear a work on its own, unencumbered round about with other musics.  A recent experience of several hours driving to hear a single Beethoven symphony has remained close and vivid, and an experience that brought me close to tears. So I imagine that I might only hear Op.110 to make that opening sequence of chords so ominously special. The introduction seems to come from nowhere and does not connect with musical past, except perhaps the composer’s own past. It is as though the pianist puts on a pair of gloves imbued with the spirit of the composer, and these chords appear . . . and what is there that might possibly prepare the listener for the journey that pianist and listener embark upon?  Certainly not the soufflé of Mozart’s K.332.
 
The audience is hardly a smattering of coats, hats and grey hair. There is another piano recital in town tonight and this is but the artist’s preview of a forthcoming concert at a major venue. Our pianist is equipping herself for a prestigious engagement and sensibly recognizes the need to test out the way the programme flows in front of an audience, and in a provincial church where she is not entirely unknown. I admire this resolve and wonder a little at the long-term planning which makes this possible and viable.
 
Now a figure in black walks out from the shadows to stand by her piano. Coming from stage right she places left her hand firmly on the mirror-black case above the keyboard. She looks at her audience briefly, and makes a bow, almost a curtsey, an obeisance to her audience and possibly to those distant spirits who guard the music she is to play. We will not see her face again until the next time she will stand at the piano to acknowledge our applause after the Bach she is about to play. Her slightly more than shoulder-length hair is cut to flow forward as she holds herself to play; her face is often hidden from us, her expression curiously blank. Perhaps she has prepared herself to enter a deep state of concentration that admits no recognition of those sitting just in front of her. Her dress is long and black with a few sparking threads to catch the careful lighting. Without these occasional glimmers her ****** movement would be unnoticeable. As it is the way the light is caught is subtle and quietly playful, though not enough to distract, only remind us that though in black she is wearing the kind of starry sky such as you might perceive in crepuscular time.
 
Thus, we already sense so much before she has played a note there is a firm slightly dogged confidence and reverence here in her approach to instrument and audience. And in the opening bars of the Bach toccata that is manifest; and not just a confidence born out of some strategy against nervousness, but a ritual of welcoming to this music that now spills out into the partially darkened church. The sonorousness and balance of the piano’s tone surprises. It is not a fine piano, but it has qualities that she seems to understand. There is a degree of attentive listening to herself that enables her to control dynamics and act resolutely on the structure of the music. When the slow section of this four-part toccata appears there is a studied gentleness and restraint that belies any ****** led gesture or manner. Her stance and deliberation at the keyboard remain determined and in control, unaltered by the music’s message. She does not pull her body backwards as seems the custom with so many who feel they have to show us they are stroking and coaxing such gentleness and restraint out of the keyboard.
 
As the final fugato of the toccata flows at almost twice the speed I’ve ever heard it, my concentration begins to disengage. It is too fast for me to follow the voices, I miss the entries, and the smudged resonance of the texture hides those details I have grown over so many years to know and love. This is Glen Gould on speed, not the toccata that resides in my musical memory. I am aware of missing so much and my attention floats away into the sound of it all. It seems to be all sound and not the play of music.
 
In this stage of disengagement I sense the tense quality of her right leg pedalling with the tip of a reddish shoe just visible, deft, tiny flicks of movement. She turns her face away from the keyboard frequently, looking away from the keyboard through the choir to the high altar; and for a moment we see her upturned face, a blank face, possibly with little or no make up, no jewellery. A plain young woman, mid to late thirties perhaps, and not a face marked by children or a busy teaching life, but a face focused on knowing this music to a point at which there is almost a detachment, where it becomes independent of her control, flowing momentarily beyond herself.
 
Then she reins the toccata in, reoccupies it; she is seeking closure for herself and for her audience whose attention for a short while has been, as the Quakers say, gathered. Gathered into a degree of silence, when breathing and the body’s sense and presence of itself disappear, momentarily, and musical listening moves from a clock time to a virtual time. There is a slowing down, an opening out, even though in reality’s metronomic time-field there is none.
 
There is a hesitation. With more Bach to follow, should we applaud? With relief after holding the flight of time’s arrow in our consciousness, just for those concluding minutes and seconds we acknowledge and applaud - the beginning of the concert.

Charming lass, the shark she did trust , was a nimble one,
softly nibbled the dead cells laid crusted on her heart
genial it was so she felt like closing her tired eyes a bit,
her bed, lukewarm water, ominously bobbed all the while.
A woeful clown, she dreamed, tried everything to make her laugh
with his pathetic pranks; a jellyfish wearing a  wedding dress
seeing this, smelled blood, tried to raise an  alarm.
The shark was the one responded, "Don't you wake her up"
the waves were lapping on the shore, then dense silence reigned,
as expected a sanguinary sunset it was,on water blood lay splattered.

Beyond your television
Lies vast hills,
along with many jumps and much thrill
Mario jumps
Zelda swings
As Kirby swallows
Donkey kong beats,
Star fox flies ever so high
While niko goes bowling
Roman started to cry
Meta knight stares ominously
As a goomba cautiously walks
A turtle shell turns blue
While the Mario kart racers get mad too....
We all know sleeping dogs don't lie
We joined a guild during an MMO war
Where we smashed every single one of our keyboards

I need to try and stop saying discouraging words when I look in the mirror
I need to stop wincing at reflections in the buildings windows
I need to purposely not look at my reflections to spare the pain anymore
People can't believe I hate myself when it comes to physical appearance
But the small jokes I make are as serious as my outlook on myself
And walking down the hallways is an effort to mask my face and body
And I'm desperately trying to patch the holes in myself
The holes that allowed my self confidence to leak from me in the first place
The holes drilled over and over by the repeated words that weren't meant to hurt
But I knew the hidden meaning, I knew the real thoughts underneath
And as people constantly hammer in to me you are beautiful
It becomes a familiar sound, a phrase more cliché to me than yolo
And as the dark cloud of self hatred looms ominously overhead,
It is only visible to those who truly know me, those who see the thunderstorm
It's funny how the people who try and lift you up end up slamming you to the ground
And when you hit rock bottom you stop trying to disguise the rocks that are ugly
You stop trying to cover them with make up, you stop trying
Because a rock is a rock no matter the cover up, and it'll be ugly no matter what
And if I'm a rock someone hand me a chisel so I can carve myself down
And shape myself into the girl in the ******* magazine,
Because who could ever be a attracted to a girl who wouldn't date herself
Who would love someone trying to make up for their lack of love for themselves
By loving everyone else, and patching their holes leaving myself empty
It's funny how the people who say I'm beautiful would never date me
It's funny how my mother will not utter the words that would save her drowning child
Yes honey, you  are  beautiful
But instead I have sunk to the pit of the ocean, who cares about trying to hold my breath

Burnt umber in the morning
As the planets do align,
Ominously holding
To the Zodiac design,
Reminding us that somewhere
In the Bible, it was said,
That by the twelfth year of this century
Whole populations would be dead.

They say it is upon us
Those children of the moon,
They say the fingers of our destiny
Shall fall upon us soon.
Calamitous catastrophe
To befall the western world
That fiscal debt implosion
Will result with fraud unfurled,

When abnormal plate subduction
Along the continent's divide
Will magnify the earthquake swarm  
Across the planet's hide.
When enormous ring tsunamis
Emanate from deep at sea
To cascade onto shorelines
To wreak extreme calamity.

Across the globe, Astrologist's,  
Say something huge is due.
Their whispers quietly amplified
To percolate to you.
What little can be done or said
It's very hard to say
Because authorities worldwide
Refuse to recognize this day,
They won't readily acknowledge
Those symptoms verily to hand,
The frequent natural disasters
Occurring in each land.

Contagion is  contagious
The whispers may be wrong,
Perhaps the future holds for us
A vastly different song,
But when the moon is full and white
And I look into her face,
I discern a bleak anxiety
Destined for the human race
I see mother nature poised
To take the heavy, upper hand
With an implacable demeanor
And un empathetic stand.

Burnt umber in the morning
As the planets do align,
Ominously holding
To the Zodiac design,
Reminding us that somewhere
In the Bible, it was said,
That by the twelfth year of this century
Whole populations would be dead.


Marshalg
@theBach
In the cold moonlight
20 May 2010

Go away little wisp.
I know what you are up to.
I pay the slightest notice,
you morph into an innocent, seductive puff
strutting to and fro
offering companionship,
comfort,
yes, even love.
I admire you; you gust, fat and fluffy.
I compliment; you explode into a cumulous mass hovering ominously above.
I worry; ashen gray lithely overtakes beguiling white.
Rumbling belly fills with rage and swells with forboding.
There is no longer an escape.
My thoughts
are pulled into shadow
and slapped onto earth
in torrents of unrestrained rage.
Completely engulfed, I choke, and
swirl in great muddy vortexes down lost drains.
Who am I?
Who are my thoughts?
I only have you to grasp onto,
and that is no solace.

i extract poetry from your facebook chats
and tenderness from your skype calls
this: the compromise of a romantic heart
in the face of modern ephemera
since i cannot scale your balcony
like i memorize your wall
(o sweet o lovely wall
thanks courteous wall)
nor can i woo you or ****** you
without google as my cyrano
i worry for the endurance
of a love without tree-carved initials
and sigh over perceived corruption
caused by emoticons over emotion
though i’m sure if mr wilde could text
or byron could bbm
they’d not forego their lovers’ notice
for the sake of pure romance
they’d embrace any fleeting mention
with disregard for rose colored glasses
not moon over the glare of history’s glance
they’d kiss them with x’s
and serenade them with youtube
and covet any moment not spent
with them on their mind
so my conflict is resolved
and my star-crossed thoughts soothed
when they caution most ominously
that anything on the internet
can never truly disappear.

Never
Orchestrate a hook up with a
Ripped and curious hetero
Who dances like Prince.
Ever the idiot, I
Grabbed hold of his hand and
Instigated a kiss, whispering
“All is well with me, I’m a good bet…”
Not knowing just how much of a
Weird night it was going to be.
Ominously, he told me to leave straight afterwards. With
One eye on his sleeping form, I
Didn’t set fire to his flat, but I snapped every one of his cigarettes.

A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.

step this side..
no, you.. that side!
in a line, in a line.. quiet now – get ready for fire.. no miss!
please line up the children in neat rows, get them ready…………………..


1.
eyes are misted over – something happened in the gap
hooking-up strangely with estranged sons lost in custodial-wrangles
alienated values;
family-core defunct like a super-shiny apple with putrescent-flesh
long-beard wants a son after so many daughters, sits unwashed in the smoke
gender-penalty –  sorry, sister.. you chose the wrong straw
you remain in that cage till we say come out


2.
bread-basket filled with stealth-grenades
rights and benefits squirm in slick-oil of rules
peasant skirting the limits of the city; even rats fare better
cloak of goat-skin, the shield hides serpents beneath
the hunter will aim for the head, land in the centre..
                           yet an inch or two too high
sentry, close the gates and bar the window-frames!


3.
inadvertent greed and control; aggressive power
news-man dies for feed that’s untrue, anyway
picture-man twists an image to suit the viewer
all kinds of lines disappear so quick – ******, jokes, theatre, life, even poems
and if you’ve never had the sad combo of sick and homeless,
                                                                ­           famished and cold,
                                                                ­           tired with sores
oh, war will be courteous enough to bring you all these, *on a platter
and more..



there is no border when we all roam in hunger and in fear
like the orphans in crowded-camps
high-rankers sit far away.. ominously "well-off"
                                               chew on hard-cheese
                                               gulp down red wine
but the throat still feels parched, and that bayonet is too short
its fear will kick in.. on a day least anticipated
would you be shocked if it is a child who will drive that wedge-stick home?






st – 14 march 2014

Mine,

          Clouds gather ominously. The creak of a decrepit windmill cuts through the howling wind. Still, crickets are chirping, until the rain starts. I stand at the screen door, watching the clouds swirl and the windmill turn slowly, listening to the light patter of rain changing into a pounding downpour, feeling the angry wind lashing me with spray, thinking that this could only be better with your chin on my shoulder and your arms around my waist, keeping me warm through the storm.

Yours.

Leaves     rustling       in             the                 wind
rustling    makes        quiet        noise             ominously
in              quiet           motion    they're           moving
the            noise           they're    making's        everywhere
wind        ominously  movi­ng  everywhere   possible

"Attention! Attention!"
"This is the final call for Space World Airlines flight SW406 direct to Earth. Could all passengers for this flight proceed immediately to Martian Lounge 3. Thank you for your kind attention and we hope you have a safe flight. You will be missed!"

Seven months later...

So I inhabit the quaint hamlet of Earth,
Whose streets I have wandered,
Breathed their oxygen,
Felt their dirt and grime in my skin.

**** sapiens are pitiful organisms
Which are plagued by deficiencies in bottle green pigment.
They are just plain nonsensical and silly
With a passion for rather outlandish hairstyles.
All of us have zero wild hair from where I originate from..
Possessing formidable odours,
Mysterious in their temperaments,
Endless bickering and ticked-off outbursts,
Endeavours to implement their godly theories,
404 Not Found Error.

The females bear a gadget
Identified as a handbag
It ought to be alive
Since it is secured around their necks
And is clutched solidly.
In the event that others investigate
I presume these others desire to set it free.

They must absolutely have deplorable eyesight
As when a number of them are
Stepping down and up a street,
They have a tendency to head straight for each other.
Some of these humans occasionally bump
Into one another and they surprisingly
Accuse themselves and each of them apologises.
Mind-boggling, isn't it?

The majority of them seem to have one hand
Attached to the right or left side of their skull
And chatter to it..
How bizarrely ridiculous!

It really is crazy just how this planet is indeed so gigantic,
And features such an abundance of land,
But yet most of these pathetic creatures,
Will never grant you any without money.
Of course, this is obviously a bit of paper!
You will discover an awful lot food everywhere,
But nevertheless countless **** sapiens go hungry;
Thanks to the worship of this outrageous paper..
They don't permit these flying feathered beings
To ascend the heavens,
Shooting them down nutty humans,
To make shoes and boots and mittens!
They cut down all the big trees,
To construct infinitely more dwellings.

Tick tock, Tick tock..
Where is that mystical melody emanating from?
I felt so faint and dizzy..
That sound..
Then, I spotted a crystal face
With a pair of hands and eye ***** moving right and left
It seemed similar to a bomb and gazed ominously at me,
Did the inexplicable humans plan to eradicate the entire alien population?
Have you no mercy?
O, when shall my spaceship arrive,
And take me away from this perilous planet?

I'm merely a martian exploring this space,
So absurd, so preposterous
Do visit us one day, we will greet you hopeless humans,
And reveal to you the splendid planet we reside in.

There's this scintillating glow
Behind a sheer veil that falls ominously before my eyes
If only I might just...
sweep it aside
But nay
I am a moth drawn to the piercing flame of epitomical libido
So close am I
Yet here I sit in my straightjacket
Woven by the unwavering hands of Father Time
It takes a strength to find that patience is key
I'm promised freedom from my unyielding restraint
Patience is key
And so shines a new glow

There are two kinds of lives
Examined and unexamined
So we see two kinds of drives
One of grace the other famine

Two lives
Intertwined
In the line
We call time
In a bind
Of the blind
Versus kind

We needed an example
Of how to be nice
Though those were ample
We found Jesus Christ
To lead the way
Through the fray
Until the day
He was slain
And died for our sins
Because the bad guy wins

Now when
Holy men
Goal tend
We bend
To their end
As they send
Us to mend
A devil's den
That is of their apocryphal creation
Of which they deny any relation

There are no angels and demons
Only people who are the reason
For this devilish season
And those who are not
Are caught
In the empire crossfire
Until they retire

Floating through life peacefully
Treating everyone equally
The people at the steeple see
Ways to help through deep beliefs
But others pervert it
To divert it
And insert it
Into hateful ideology
That falls onto me
Ominously

The imposition of their will
Is how they get their fill
Becoming jaded predators
Not caring who must be killed
Our pain doesn't register
Once we're billed
Cash in till
Their heart goes still

Pain lingers
From bane stingers
Of shame singers
And grave bringers
Using slave fingers
As blame flingers

The righteous save brothers
The wicked blame others
The two became lovers
To hide pain under covers
Because the righteous
Want to be like Jesus
Once the wicked fight us
The righteous leave us
To turn the other cheek
Until we're up **** creek

Plenty of people act like Jesus unintentionally
And live life exceptionally
Others study religion fervently
Yet continue hurting me
This dichotomy
Is odd to me
Do we need God to see
A way to be?

The real dichotomy is net negatives versus net positives
Though we may never conceive
A measurement I still believe
This battle exists
Our actions persist
But the only judgement we'll receive
Is in the way we're perceived
Yet society's goals aren't the same as humanity's
I know it sounds like insanity
But we act counterintuitively
Like the lawyers suing me
So they can get theirs
While saying life isn't fair
Which may be true
But only because of them
So my frustration grew
Once I saw the problem's stem

I wanted to be a good person
But then I got headaches
And bad breaks
From high stake
Mistakes
Growing jaded
After society graded
My endeavors slated
As failures awaited
I became one of them
A broken gem
Can someone please save me
From remaining the same me?
Or will I spend my time
As part of the grime
Not reading the signs
Until the day I die?

The demons dance,
ominously disguised
as Monsoon clouds,
hovering above the
slick, crimsoned altar.

One more heart,
one more soul,
one more sacrifice
might make the toll.

Life-blood River
deposits iron
on the pyramid's
sculpted stone
cascading, absorbing deep, flooding the gates of hell.  

On a canoe of bone
the King embarked
to negotiate peace
with the underworld rule.

"No more blood,
no more skulls
no more souls",
said the Lord . ...
"your time has come.
No more bargaining fool"

Courtney’s old subaru stuttered and stalled as she sat at the red light. The large blue duffle bag sat ominously on the leather seat beside her. She couldn’t look at it.
God, Luci. Why did you get yourself into trouble? Courtney’s mind was racing. Ridiculous. This is ridiculous. She ****** her head to look at the bag. It was bulging.
The bag was stained and dusty, ripped along the seams in some places. Courtney’s phone rang loudly. She jumped, and held onto the steering wheel with one hand and answered.
“Hello?”She was silent as the voice on the other end talked quickly. “No, I’m not there yet... yes, I’ve got it.. No, I haven’t touched it... Yes, sir. She’s very sorry... I know, sir. Yes I’’ll tell her.” She hung up. Her face was ghost white, her palms and forehead sweaty.
Many voices argued in her head. I shouldn’t be doing this for her. She broke the law. But Luci’s your sister! That doesn’t matter. She caused the whole family a lot of pain and money. And now I’M breaking the law. What the hell?!
She looked back over at the duffle bag. It sat staring at her accusingly. She turned away. Her car was getting awfully hot, so she rolled down the windows, letting air flow through. Checking her watch, she hiccuped with surprise. Her foot slammed down on the gas, her head pressed against her seat from the quick acceleration. Her car’s enging groaned with the speed, but she couldn’t slow down.
*******, Luci. I really hate you right now.
Suddenly, she saw flashing lights and heard a sharp wailing sound behind her. A police car pulled right up behind her, speeding along, signaling for her to pull over to the shoulder of the road. Courtney’s eyes were wide with fright, and her palms were sweating profusely, leaving stains on her steering wheel. Oh god oh god oh god oh god...Ohhhh my goddddd.
Courtney slammed on her breaks, pulling over. A man in uniform knocked on her window, and she rolled it down slowly. There was a loud noise from the passenger seat and Coutney’s world slowed as she saw the duffle bag fall to the floor of the car, the zipper breaking and the contents spilling onto the carpeted floor.
The policeman’s face was horrorstruck.
“Ma’am...” He stuttered. “I’m going to have to ask you to...step out of the car and put..put your hands on your head.”

As the first drop fell on me
I looked up at the black canvas
gathering and rumbling ominously.

But there was supposed to be another
not far
but right over my head
to defend me against the weather
pattering insane
between me and the rain.

Did I by any chance
leave my umbrella here, sir?
I ran to the shopkeeper.

We all suffer this predicament
was his smiling statement
losing grip over our mind
letting things be left behind
and then came the mischievous addendum
as if my trouble had inspired his mood

go for good
once you let them go
woman and umbrella

they never again show.

The music of life, at times, is a raucously *** concert
of ominously monotonous melodies sung sirenically
by voluptuously ugly monsters.

Curvaceous enough to flaunt the fact they’re actually ****.
Which makes you feel like an *** but that’s just the way
it was meant to be.

Then the chorus bombs in, and the song starts to get sweeter
since the tune becomes a lot like Bob’s album: Street-Legal.
But as quick as you can nictitate, the ****** you anticipate

flicks away like a spark that was never gonna be lit-to-flame.
And so revert the monsters, their obnoxiously off-key verse,
somehow being, paradoxically, still acceptably heard.

And I almost forgot to mention how horrifyingly awkward
the gawking audience dances! Watching it is honestly
the most awful part of this non-senseness.

I

Fanciful and then the first notice of
suspended mouth corners,
fleeing gravity with invisible strings,
sloppily synchronize in giggles.

II

A glance at the shore horizon,
widening into chasm,
Erebus leaking
ominously—
oh but the raft
is far too small!
oh and flimsy!
surely the shadows
will ravage
the branches
and pull this
neurotically
euphoric contraption
below.

III

glazed malfunction
blurred and hazed
for lack of clarity
billowing surges
mold as magnets inandout
and in andoutandinandout again

fades in before
melting again to
disjointed gestures
in a multicolored backdrop

IV

Skeletal architectures
return from a hysterical
awareness of ****** intricacy—
And discussion is,
of course,
forever precluded
for fear of relapse
and embarrassment.

When we were little
you held my hair back
from my ear as you
gently breathed:
"I will always be here
to catch you when you fall."

But here I am,
Falling.
Falling so fast
my insides swell and
ooze from my
ears, nose and mouth.
So fast my heart
becomes lodged tight
in my throat.

I'm waiting for you
to pluck me from the air,
hold my hand in yours
and stand me back up
to teach me to walk again.

But you left me
here alone
and the concrete
begins to loom
ominously below,
and I fall to the
impending smack
and splatter of
my brains.

The cold ground
greets my face,
crushes my skull,
snaps my neck
in two.
My teeth shatter.

My brains pile in a
pillow under my head.
Then, every bone in
my body snaps.
Jagged pieces of these
bones poke through
my pallid and paper thin
skin,
and yet..

Somehow,
my heart still pumps
hard in my throat.
I start to fall unconscious
when I see your feet
approach my broken body.

You pick me up,
slide my brains into place,
force me to swallow
down my intestines
and you glue my
bones back together.

Then you reach down
my throat,
grab my heart,
and place it back into
the center of my chest.
Next, you walk away.

You leave me
but this time I am
not void of your presence.
This time, when you leave,
I'll see you again.
All I have to do,
is
fall.

The storm clouds have been hovering all day and now the darkness has closed in. The dark portentous clouds that have been looming ominously overhead have finally rolled in with the force of a category 4 hurricane. My body no longer feels like it belongs to me. Even little things are such an effort. I feel ravaged by the torrential rain and devastating winds of the hurricane.

The burly winds have destroyed lawn furniture and sent backyard grills reeling from decks and porches – they have scattered tumbleweeds across the plains…the ability to keep your eyes open in the midst of the flying dirt and dust has diminished. I am blowing in the wind…tossed like the tumbleweeds. I am constantly fighting the winds of depression, fear, sadness, hopelessness and tonight my overwhelming feelings are a force to be reckoned with!

Sleep fails to bring relief…the darkness invades my sleep, my dreams….I fight sleep – fear it, even. And when I do sleep, I talk and moan, thrash around and whimper frequently. I wake up multiple times a night from a nightmare only to find a broken compass and an inability to navigate myself from the past back to the present.

So much of it is irrational – and the small, logical voice inside of me tells me that – but the logical part of me cannot overpower, or balance, the other irrational, illogical voices of the terrified children trapped inside my mind and my body. I know I'm not in control. All the drive and spirit and determination that made me ME has been drained from me and most of the time I just feel like a rag doll….just do with me what you will…I'll just wait here.

And I have these horrible thoughts…what if I took a few extra sleeping pills, anxiety med…maybe chase them down with the ***** in the freezer…..

It's not about suicide….although I'll admit I have fleeting thoughts that death would be easier on everyone around me who suffer with me, despite my trying to keep it all inside of me. But it isn't about suicide – it's about making it stop! And I know that sounds sick…

I have always been strong, a fighter! Always! And certainly I've been through worse than this…… But I hate this! I hate the panicky feeling when I wake up from a nightmare and I'm in a state of half-consciousness. I hate the overwhelming feelings of rage that make me lash out at those undeserving and sometimes unsuspecting souls. I hate the external scars I've inflicted upon myself. I hate that I have these overwhelming urges to hurt myself and I sometimes act on those urges and then suffer the feelings of guilt and shame that come afterward. I hate that I've given them my joy and that means they win! I hate feeling and acting like a child! I hate the memories, and the crying and all of the feelings, feelings, feelings!!!!!!! I hate it! All of it!

I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm in such a state of darkness tonight and I need something to renew my courage, to get back my determination and drive. Now I feel like my body and mind have been taken over by a poltergeist! It’s all fear & darkness now.

There is thunder, and wind and lightening and hail raging in my head and I'm caught in this storm with no protection, no umbrella, no coat or boots.

Last someday I told him you know soldier you gotta stop saying please. You gotta pull the punches like get off your knees and onto your head and roll away laughing in cartwheels. Get your shoes shined your collar pressed your dogs walked, your **** ****** by women who will tell you they think you’re a riot sort of. Gotta stop counting the ghosts in the hall and the pills every week and the calories burned and the blessings. Eventually you will learn to tie your own **** tie but you’re proud of rolling your own cigars, you’re proud of remembering to water the calla lily on the windowsill. You’ve forgotten most of what you’ve read. You can’t remember the news from yesterday or was it the day before did one of the neighborhood kids get shot or did we go to war again, maybe it doesn’t really matter. Haven’t had a fruit juicy enough in six years and you gotta find a tropical country where the papayas and the sunshine make you melt into puddles and you are the rainy season, you roll ominously overhead. You think you’ll stop staying at the Ritz-Carlton on business trips, you think you’ll check into the Super 8 at three forty-two a.m. and when you open the door the ashtray’s full and there’s *** caked on the wall. When you go to the bar you keep forgetting you want a shot of bourbon or maybe a double of Scotch and you order a g&t; instead. The clouds stay grey and the sky stays tearstained. You remember playing tennis and skinning your knee when you were seven, you remember grinning the widest when you had lost your front teeth. You don’t own a single photo album. In spring when the flowers start to bloom you think you ought to have a daughter so you can read her Maurice Sendak. You’ll get shampoo in her eyes and she’ll be cross, and she’ll only forgive you when you tell her that story your college friends are all tired of by now. You have those thoughts and then you remember to wash your hands. But I said yes gotta stop being a yes-man because that turns into I do and then where are you, on the altar with the sacrificial lamb and a woman and when you slip the ring onto her finger and say this isn’t funny she says you’re a riot sort of. You wanna make it here, then you better learn to eat the locusts and ride a camel and not get angry with the scorpion in your underpants. You don’t get angry, you gotta squish his head between thumb and forefinger before he manages to jab your pecker. You are fifty-two. You don’t feel fifty-two. You don’t feel anything other than maybe an intense dislike for carob bean. You were told to be on the lookout so I said to him I said.

you used to make me feel like i was in flight;
above the clouds, with the breeze in my hair,
and no one around so i could actually be myself for once
nowadays, when i see you,
it make me feel like i’ve fallen down a flight of stairs;
all tangled up inside
and broken in all the wrong places

sometimes, i wish i could forget you
but then i remember i’ve avoided a lot of train wrecks
because of our atom bomb

we were the first of mine, you know,
the first to make me commit as big a mistake
as the ******* manhattan project

you ******* me up more than you can imagine
i lay waste for months, with no sign of human life,
or, life of my own, at least

i threw myself into the care of plants and cats
and writing love songs with terrible lyrics
telling tales of people who weren’t us;
of people who never fought.
of people would never leave the stove on
because something more exciting
was going on in life outside

i used to feel like i was always close to you,
to the world, to a bigger idea,
but now, when i think of you, i feel like
the bigger things are ominously closing in on me
closer, closer, too close, crushingly,
and you were always so physical

I know little of rhyme
Nothing of meter
My writings, barbaric
Don't express either
Part of poetry
As well as another
Someone more well-versed
In giving poems color
I use alliteration on occasion
Pauses to be dramatic
These little lacking lines I craft
Probably come off as erratic
Syllables be ******
Imagery imagined
Rhymes forced
One of the only poems I know
Is about a hearse
One that ominously rides by
Intimidating some unfortunate guy
Reminding him that he'll eventually die
Or those under the pen of Poe
Whose tales of distortion and woe
Are firmly engraved in my memory
As empty as blank verse
I sit here vexed and cursed
Trying to express my thoughts
My more artistic passion
Which just so happens
To be in a more archaic fashion
Than the others I admire and read
But I've never taken the time
To put poetry under a microscope to see
The framework that could lead the blind
Guiding and inspiring those who write poetry
And so I'm inclined, but don't really mind
Remaining forever in obscurity

The throbbing is almost blinding
I’m up In pain starving & alone
It’s not the pain
I can even be happy alone
(some days)
It is the starving
Not for food

Not

Well not for just anything
Today would have
Would have been

Been
No
Is

Is 1 of those days
Where I’m starving
Because of you
Yes
You

It’s just the ideal
I tell myself
The easy
Oh so easy thing
Because of what I did
I do
Do to myself some nights

Thank someone
Anyone

Because it isn’t
Isn’t ever going to be
Fire knives guns & drugs
Any more
Try as I might
I am going to be
A statistic

Some place
They will have My box
And I will just
Check in

Just not like today
Not one of these days

When I’m starving
For you

When the gaunt look
Is rooted on my face

When my decisions
Have been poor

(“aren’t they all” you gently chime in my mind)

I prefer the old way
A lil’ salve & the
The fire knives & guns
Disappear


Ominously



Obviously





It is one of those 
   Days

High above the teetering mast
A shout long awaited is heard at last
"Land **! Land **! Straight ahead"
Across the sea, the mariners sped

The mass of land, close in range
Ominously, the winds have changed
The ship drops anchor a hundred yards out
Rowing in without a doubt

Making landfall, the ****** cheered
A great appraisal to Brown Beard
Gallivanting, their songs sung loud
Roused, the sea soughed

Ripping from the strenuous tides
The monster emerges, the sea divides
Crashing down upon the ship
Fearful men tighten their grip

Threshing about as the beast descends
Into the depths where the mirk never ends
Duped, the mariners take their last breath
Inhaling, the seas grant them their death

Bloated corpses resurfacing
The dubious island repositioning
Full, the gulls await
For the next to take the bate

The steeple's bell
ringing ominously in the distance.
So far yet so close,
resounding inside of my throbbing head.
bare feet brushed in earth crust and moss
dragging themselves over the wet grass,
body stuck in a mechanical forward motion,
having given up
on breaking through the thick ice now encasing her rotting bones.
Onward and onward,
toward the never ending bell.
Eyes pale and absent from vision,
she stomps on and on.
A wicked attraction
to that Godforsaken bell,
forcing itself from side to side
atop a burning prison of religion.
She opens her frosty,
melting mouth,
unable to speak truth
or reach her own thoughts-
she brays out quietly,
like that of a sheep.
Mindlessly her numb body
continues to follow the clanging of the bell.
Hearing only a glorious sound
to guide her in a world of dark,
foolishly braying her heart out to what she cannot see,
too frozen and numb to feel
the scorching flames
licking at her feet,
engulfing her,
enjoying her,
kindly leaving,
only her crisp ears
to hear the bell's final toll.

toasted snippets of crispy information
lie on white plates rapidly cooling
while lips dry into deserts
of steel-toe apathy

stale bread waits, uneaten
growing fuzzy colonies of mold
that scream in delight at your
dipper-dapper disinterest

breadcrumbs blaze new trails through
forests of great-grandfather clocks,
looming ominously as they sing
tick-tock with woodpeckers where

a manic imp bakes loaves for
several forevers in an attempt
to escape its inevitable
decomposition

grasping at salvation and
fumbling for words that slip
from buttered fingertips

better luck next time

Ominously spindling thread
Tempestuous, voluptuous
Contemptuous and gluttonous
Stitch me a heavy heart
Now rip it to shreds

Rewarding impetuousness
How I long for your torture
Tortuous contortionist
The pleasure is without measure

Your posh silk,
Treasure of my endeavor
Enveloping like the web of a spider
My heartstrings twine;
then are severed
What a twist
Never have I ever

when one door closes...
then it can also be locked
an unintentional specialty of mine

some close of their own volition
others require a little nudging
leaving those that need be kicked

i've walked through them all
beneath their porticos of promise
over their thresholds of dreams

spaces beyond so warm and inviting
or ominously dark and foreboding
but entry is inevitably mandatory

a lament in keyhole retrospective
reduced in scope and visibility
incomprehensibly limiting foresight

begrudgingly resigned to redesign
wishes trapped beyond mortal reach
accessible only with a skeleton key

February 12, 2016

I lie **** on top of my blankets; praying. Praying. Praying. I am fighting waves of nausea and sleepiness. Medicines I feel sprinting through my veins dragging me downward. No.
The rain slow at first but gathering wrath in the warm night.
Lightning and thunder will come I smell it afar off. Ions heavily scented spill through the atmosphere holes in my plexiglassed window.  
Thunder rolls through my chest shaking deeply my whitewashed plaster cocoon. The cries begin to swell, and echo strangely through the sterile corridors. I am not the only light sleeper, I muse.
I doze momentarily even among the screams of the mentally hilarious; I am called into sleep. They must have doubled the sleeping medication; the storm will be worse than I thought.
I start at a sound. Steady. A theta wave vibrating through my room. I pitch to my side in time to see a lightning bolt slash through the sky. I saw something. The bolt plays hell with my night-vision as I sit upright on my bed.
There. Struggling up the plastic surface of the viewport. It cannot fly in the rain; it struggles for purchase on the portal. I study her. Elegant and slender she reaches the airhole and pulls herself through. Far off the screams wax and wane as the storm intensifies.
Her slender thorax and polished, obsidian, exoskeleton strike excitement through me to a cell. A perfect engine of pain and terror. A great black wasp. She reminds me of a thorn as she rests on the windowsill; unmoving in the air conditioning. Giddily, I shake with excitement nearly overwhelmed. Delicately she cleans water droplets from her abdomen and shakes the moisture from the thin membrane of her wings. I slowly move to my shelf and remove the specimen cup from its placement; silently unscrewing the threaded lid from the clear plastic container. Down the hallway a tired groan and a throaty grunt from one of the other patients. The wind now screams through the breezeport that runs to north toward the cafeteria. A shingle is peeled from the roof of a gazebo and cyclones into a bulkhead. I lick my lips, and consciously check my excitement.
I slide a sheet of crisp white paper from my desk. Quickly, I trap the great insect with the jar and slide the paper over the aperture trapping her between jar and paper. She does not struggle, but looks intelligently at the walls of her new prison. Beautiful, and intricate machinery at work; she readjusts her  wings, observing me with with bulbous eyes. Lightning strikes, and there is a deafening pop as a transformer explodes. For a moment it creates an azure sun outside, and casts curious shadows through my room. In the corridor the lamp light is squelched, and then ignites emergency lamps in scarlet hues as the diesel generator sputters to life and idles. A deafening clackson alarm begins to wail.
I am not aware of this at first; obsessing over my catch. Her form is ******, deadly. Something deep within me stirs at the very site of her. Revulsion? Ecstasy? From my reverie I am stirred by the clanging of doors and staccato laughter in the crimson glow of the storm lights. In a moment I am resolved and I slide the paper from the opening and cover it with my hand. Now footsteps. She senses me and reels in instinct. Without hesitation she draws herself tight as a bow string, poised to ****** the hypodermic stinger into the warm pink flesh of my palm. Quicker than thought she strikes piercing, seemingly to the bone she injects poison. Down the ward doors are slid open and the sound of radio chatter plays toward me. I am engrossed, in bliss as my arm begins to numb. Five times then Nine times she spears me with the barb. My heart beating so hard in my chest that I am sure the orderlies must hear it. Then I hear a burst of static and a sing-song reply of phonetic alphabet followed by my room number. I grasp her delicately from the specimen cup with my thumb and forefinger as she stings me with prejudice beneath the nail bed and cuticles. I cast her through the air hole in my window and quickly lie upon my bed before the door is unlocked. A man in white scrubs and a five o'clock shadow opens my door and pierces me with two steel blue eyes. "You should be asleep." "Get some rest, we will have the lights back on in no time." I smile my head swimming with post adrenal bliss. When suddenly I hear the droning of wings. A sea of raging hornets sounding ominously in the small cell. A black cloud pours through the airhole, countless chittering wings encompass the orderly in a poisonous storm cloud. With vengeance they sting, his eyeballs his hands, his throat. All swelling with purple nebulas of poison. In his mouth they crawl and down his throat. Efficiently suffocating him in mere moments. Then they quiet. All at once they flock to me, walking on my pale naked flesh caressing me with millions of antennae. They do not sting, instead they are still. Their crescent shaped bodies vibrating,  like a cat purr against my cold skin. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing hilariously, and I shudder hardly containing the joy. Then I pick up the radio clipped to the orderlies pants, and pull the 18 inch telescoping  steel baton from the holster belted at his waist. I click the PTT and speak into the radio. Epsilon Wing Cell 005 Accounted for, Over Quintar beep followed by a burst of static and a reply. I cover my mouth to suppress another fit of hysterical laugh. I step barefoot over his body and onto the cold tile of the ward; spinning the heavy keyring on my finger

Darkness consumes the room;
time is running out, the end is coming soon.

The moon grins wickedly,
waiting silently for the story to unfold.

Alone she stood in the corner,
eyes closed, but face plastered with horror
feeling the presence of the man who dared enter the house,
the house that blinded her soul.

The intruder observed her cautiously,
as she whispered ominously,
"It's coming, it's coming."

Turn back, warned a voice in the man's head,
but he stood there frozen like ice instead.

Suddenly, her pupilless eyes snapped open wide
as the wails from inside
escaped her mouth and shook the world.

Overwhelming malicious power surge through her
while her black-and-white vision began to blur.

Her hands clamped onto her head
as she collided with the ground.

With that, the man held his heart as she fell,
his lifeless body helping increase the pile of other dead souls.

"Hear the screams of death!" the female spirit proclaimed,
with a voice the sound of broken glass.

Then the banshee went to rest until the time came again.