Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tip Your hat
And curtsy low
The masses so mandate absolute guile
A handshake, a smile, a proper and refined bow!
To adorn thy head and semble wit
And do your best!
Take pride with etiquette
If not informed
Ye won't last a mile
And differentiation between animals distinguishes you,
Resplendent child
Wash your hair and underclothes with soap
Lest ye resemble sow
And goodness dear
Have I forgotten now?
Always remember to smile!
So I'll take your Winter clothes with zest
I'll scramble on point
No unruly mess
Oh, did i forget your coat?
No, I've got it, relax, care for a smoke?
My apologies, please forgive my latency
It must be warm in here for my blood
In fact...
Boiling over kettle within
Prevent me from committing sin
I do wish to vent
Pick up this pen
And release red wells from his dainty, fragile neck
The underbelly. It's beknownst to me entrails are thick
Now whatever shall I do with this fresh clutter?
I'll act for free, so cordially!
With my chivalrous lines
But can you, my friend, respond in kind?
After all, it's only common courtesy
It's over now, my fantasy
It dissipates with urgency
And this is my confession
Imbibed in me from every grueling, tedious lesson
An implication of uniformity
The daydreams borne from the perfunctory
This is for anyone who has ever worked in the retail industry. As politely as you can possibly express it.
Another Oct 20
I could’ve wrote better, about other things beyond the realms of inner struggles, perhaps imaginary are these places where all that remains is the child that weeps behind closed windows watching wind frolicking across the soft toned fields, perhaps lifeless perhaps otherwise. It doesn’t matter. This one way perception lives in brushstrokes of something glacial and untethered, simply free in the confines of paper but also controlled in particular directions full of fragmentary places of imperfection, all that it finds afterwords is stillness, first slowing to its end, inertia flowing in, a quiet killer of movement. Then only to start over, this pattern of certainty. In dark, softly illuminated light has this Silent beggar, longing for love other than the lights overflown with endless stretches of shadow, all but the deceiving sphere burning can bloom in dreams, brighter than a person’s un-lived life, constantly does she remain unwavering, although that light wasn’t hers to begin with originating from a source of giving.  a source imagined in visions of an unconscious being. So I stay by her under her feeding on the poisonous energy, in sight are those whom have fallen to the wrath of ending.

—lucky are those whom have gone on to find our instinctive ways of existing, no matter how perfunctory, we reside on the outskirts to examine life’s sufferings for those which can’t see it themselves.   The infectious droves of those living, I’m without your knowledge, without all that means that involves the constant connectivity revolving in and out of yours, everything to you, everything out of sight, it being all the same, noticed and the unnoticed are in equilibrium, continues to remain undisturbed, steady waters begging for movement, a blade sweep across the perilous grain
farewell to those whom laid eyes on words that entangle and leave you unable to comprehend that of something which makes no sense

The light inside showing from without is not from a true source, but of one cascading off something hidden, unrisen— possibly the smallest of lights, although from the greatest of distances, coming into something centered, something combined which would never amount to enough energy—— leaving any residual essence, pouring into this formless body only to make ends meet, only to go through the motions, nothing more, maybe even something less. I couldn’t imitate she which performs well enough to be seen as something more than, presumably so well that she doesn’t show her truest face which stays behind that which radiates the night. A mythology that is up to the spectators to decide and for me to careless
Deb Jones Aug 22
As I crawled away
I could hear you crying
The hitch of your breath
As you tried to make sense
Of something senseless

I stopped  
And started crawling to you
Like every other time
Blood dripping down my chin

I wrapped my arms around you
To comfort you
I said I needed to go to the hospital
You had kicked me in the temple again

We quickly came up with
An improbable story
One that had nothing to do with reality

Our hospital was small
Everyone knew me by name
I could feel their eyes on me
Tracing the bruises shaped
like boot prints on my back

They called the police
But I wouldn’t talk
Just looked away as they offered
Empty promises of protecting me

I frustrated them
I swallowed my words
You sat in the car
Waiting for me
Holding our child

And you were the only family I had

Do you want to know why
I finally ran?

We were in the car
And I changed the radio station
And you...

Oh, so casually said
I was going to get it
when we got home

There was none
Of the uncontrollable rage
That I pinned my ideals on
That I was saving you from

We got home an hour later
And you methodically
Closed all the drapes

Hit me a few times while I stood
Against the wall in the kitchen
Ground zero for most of my pain

Your heart wasn’t in it
Your eyes not enraged
Just distant
Everything was perfunctory
Each of us playing out
Our assigned roles

Seven years
For seven years
I molded and created a monster
While you, just a boy
Lost your morale compass

I tried to save you
While drowning myself

I was a little girl
when I married you
The way children do

There was no down time
I was hypervigilant
Exhausted, trying to keep up
With your mercurial ways

Punishing myself for a simple
Forgetful moment that set you off

I wasn’t allowed to read
While you were around
You tore the last chapters from my books
That was the greatest injustice of all.
Funny, isn’t it?

All the physical, mental and ****** abuse
It was my escapism I missed most
You were jealous of anything that I did
That wasn’t about you.

I had to go to bed when you did
Even when my mom and sisters visited and waited in the other room

If I could slide out of bed
Without waking you
I felt accomplished

If you woke I had to stifle the cries
As you buried your hand
Deep in my hair
Shaking me like a stuffed animal
For daring to disturb you

Why did my mom allow that?
The one time I went to her
She sent me back to you
Saying it was my bed to lay in
When it was really her
That first put on the clean sheets

Marrying me at fourteen
To a boy of nineteen
One I only knew a week

To liberate me from foster care
Where I may have been safer
Emancipated from the courts
A woman the moment
My beloved mom signed me away

You showed me your gun
Waving it around
Empty threats of retribution
As I made empty promises
To love you forever

You wouldn’t shoot me
I wouldn’t give you a reason to

I feel melancholy when I think
Of that little girl

I accept what I allowed
There were so many
terrible things you did
But I was the catalyst
Some part of me still
Holds that belief

You were never punished
You skate through life
Your moral compass
In pieces beneath your feet

Because, because? Why not?
The victims you leave
Harbor your secrets
Scared to say things out loud
Scared of you

Most of all scared
Of how others would measure us

So all the times I crawled towards you
All the times you cried
Became our self imposed roles
When I should have left the first time you hit me

I remember it vividly
Standing outside against the wall
Of your brother’s house
As you slapped me again and again

I had never been hit
Like that before
The shock of it all
You trying to make me agree
With you
That I was looking too long at your brother

No answer was ever good enough

When I ran
I ran so fast
And so sudden
Along my preplanned route

The almost debilitating fear
I had to overcome
Running towards my future

You did find me.
It was the last time I was hospitalized
And the worst time
Because of you

Found unconscious
During a welfare check by my neighbors

I protected you.
I survived you

I loved you

At the same time I pointed you towards your own future
I feel sick to my stomach when I think of you.

But our son grew up
To be a honorable man
Strong and proud
And I did that.
Without you
I did that.

He was worth that seven years
Can you understand?
Akemi Jan 4
The Ache is leaving. Three years languished by dead end jobs, drugs and friends. Last week above a bagel store, the sun morphs mute amidst travelling clouds, indifferent fluctuations of light on an otherwise featureless day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ache responds “I know right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last lingering traces of acid flee your skin. Doused in tomorrow’s stupor, you close your eyes. You catch no sleep.
“Self-destruction is simply a more honest form of living. To know the totality of your artifice and frailty in the face of suffering. And then to have it broken.”
JaxSpade Oct 2018
Push away the stone
Look inside the tomb
No one is there
But it should be you
Destitute ignominy
Pernicious specious
What are you looking to remove
I'm looking to keep
As a solution
But the confusion
Is the illusion
Anyone is ebullient
I'll gesticulate
what I'm trying to say
With words grandiloquent
Irrevocable iracible obtuse
Perfunctory & querulous!
My sentient
Solid as a conscious
Surreptitious surrogate
Is just a verisimilitude
Deja vu imminent
Immutable idiosyncrasy

Greater is he
That is within me
That strengthens me
Against my enemies
Holy spirit

Without he is left me
Empty waste of breath
And evidence
I am nothing

Without Gods
Jamesb Apr 18
Our eyes speak volumes
That our mouths never say
Though our bodies ache to hear or feel,
We circle polite yet yearning
Until one day that perfunctory polite embrace
Lasts a few seconds longer than ought
And holds a few inches closer,
You feel my body’s strength,
I feel yours succumb
But then we break and there is one more
Unacknowledged sharing which
Neither can now unknow

— The End —