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Sjr1000 Nov 2013
A song of streaks and slumps
themes repeat themselves without relief
one minute you are up
one minute you are down
and each moment feels like forever

Nothing is going to change
inside or out
helplessness reigns
every decision you make
you should have refrained
every decision you didn't make
was the one which would have fixed everything.

You sit in shame
staring at the wall and wondering.
A flip of the dice, a flip of the cards,
a flip of the light, a glance from blue eyes
heat crackles midas
you think you know
for the moment you have it all.

A song of streaks and slumps
sometimes decades long sometimes in moments wrong.
A river forever different forever the same

Don't lose hope
Don't get too cocky

In the end
streaks and slumps march us through our time.
aine garcia May 2016
We are a team, That have a dream…
We don’t stop, no not even when we drop.
other teams are lame , cause we got game.

Sprint, pass, shoot, dribble, assist, defense
Thats our life as we thrive. This is our house
And the game is our spouse.

We grieve every loss, cause we hate losing
more than we love winning. But the next game
We go up down, down up back at it with the roundup

We get hungry to get revenge, on the team that
Can’t avenge but we don’t rest til we’re the best.
We’ll be on top one day and they’ll pop.

We steal like thief’s in the night,
We wont lose without a fight,
We have the pace, and we keep up with the race.

There are setbacks, slumps, bumps,
But that only makes us stronger
And it makes us last longer.

We fall as one , rise as one,
That’s what makes us family
PAST arthritic decrepit elderly female wearing traditional black southern Mediterranean clothing long silver hair braid sits in stiff wooden chair

PRESENT handsome athletic 21-year-old male soldier in tan uniform stands at ease

FUTURE eye-catching 32-year-old female wearing spaghetti-strap dark slate gray slinky cocktail dress 3” black Italian calf heals long loose brown red hair red fingernails lipstick

act 1 scene 1

PAST (clasped hands) you’re ruining everything

PRESENT get out of the way old woman you don’t belong here anymore

PAST (hands gesture) you think you’re making things better look around the earth is a toilet of human errors accidents self-destruction violence greed corruption horrible secrets

PRESENT be quiet old woman silence hear me shut the **** up (short pause) what? you think your former oppressive hierarchies were better

FUTURE talk ***** to me

PAST shush up girl

PRESENT let the pretty lady speak

FUTURE (coquette stride across stage) i have a vision a world where everyone is equal living in harmony shared respect appreciation for each other we’re entering a critical crossroads extraordinary passage in time

PRESENT you hear what the pretty lady said

PAST she’s baiting you hook line and sinker

PRESENT (male bravado stance) you wrinkled bitter blind old woman can’t you see feel this critical crossroads extraordinary passage in time

PAST i know a black widow when i see one

FUTURE who you calling black widow you old witch

PAST i remember when food was good natural cows chickens lived happy neighbors were neighborly you could walk home at night without looking over your shoulder or stick out your thumb hitch a ride or if you drove up to a stop sign no one was in front of you people greeted each other as they passed it wasn’t that far back just 50 years ago

PRESENT ***** you old woman i don’t know what time that was what were you some privileged person

FUTURE let’s order pizza

PAST who can eat at a time like this

PRESENT pepperoni and mushroom

FUTURE mushroom tomato basil no meat


PAST you’re escaping into comfort food immediate gratification

FUTURE why must you judge everything

PRESENT i’m with pretty lady pass away old witch let the future and me figure this out

PAST don’t say i didn’t warn you all this banter has exhausted me i need a little nap (she tilts head closes eyes slumps in chair)

act 1 scene 2

PRESENT (swaggers up to eye-catching female) perfect now you pretty lady and i can get more familiar with each other know what i mean

FUTURE what do you have in mind

PRESENT pardon my straightforwardness i’m shooting for 69 you know what that is

FUTURE hmmm uhh yes i know what that is

PRESENT you mind spreading open those long lovely legs of yours and let me see what you got hidden there

FUTURE you think you’re man enough to see what i’ve got hidden here

PRESENT oh yes ma’am

FUTURE lie down on your back on the floor

PRESENT anyway you want it i’m glad to oblige you ma’am

FUTURE (lifts dress to waist and stands over his head) like what you see

PRESENT oohhh you are a beauty my mouth is watering please let me have a taste

FUTURE (bends knees squats above his head sinks pelvic area into his face) give me your best shot soldier boy

PRESENT mmmmmmm (long pause)

FUTURE ease up (pause) it’s a delicate flower slow gently treat it like an intricate story plot construct it carefully strong foundation listen to my breathing heartbeat feel my muscles flex follow mounting rhythm by rhythm building to crescendo

PRESENT (long pause) how am i doing

FUTURE terrible (stands ***** drops dress walks away) you’re all over the place no skill discipline direction you need to be more precise more anticipatory more presence of mind less messy rashness

PRESENT no girl ever told me that before

FUTURE probably because she was so grateful to see your face down there she would not think to ask for more but i’m the future and my needs are more demanding

PRESENT you sure do smell and taste good ma’am may i please have another shot

FUTURE listen up soldier boy i know understand you you’re a man with needs that torment you i think you have been going through this long before i knew you i see through your tough veneer i have an idea what haunts you

PRESENT what do you mean what haunts me

FUTURE maybe you didn’t get enough love from mom dad was never around none of your teachers at school knew how to get through to you now look at yourself soldier boy you’re fighting a war inside and out trying to save something that can’t be saved the world is changing faster than you can keep up do you honestly think your life and labors will have any effect on me

PRESENT i don’t understand

FUTURE i’m on the horizon you desperately need me (pause) and i don’t need you

act 1 scene 3

PAST shut up i can’t get any rest around here can’t stand hearing all this drama gibberish

PRESENT you’ve been listening (pause) you heard everything

PAST i’ve heard enough to make my stomach turn sour i don’t need to hear any more of this crap

FUTURE (flexed posture eyes glare at elderly female) don’t give me reason to trash you

PAST you think i’m afraid of you

FUTURE i mean it old witch i’ll annihilate you

PRESENT what’s happening here i don’t understand let’s all just chill

FUTURE stay out of this soldier boy it’s between the old witch and me

PAST (stands from chair raises arms revealing long black shawl) you think i am a feeble old woman or witch as you like to call me but my power goes beyond your imaginings wherever you go i will follow track you down haunt you infect you with your errors accidents self-destruction violence greed corruption horrible secrets

FUTURE shut up shut up you’re ruining everything (frantically rushes to edge of stage looks out searching audience paces back and forth hands cover ears)

PRESENT i’m lost who do i believe listen to

PAST (spreads arms out like wings) you want to know about the future i’ll tell you i can see right through her lies it’s a world devoid of fish in the seas or creatures in the forest instead industrial farming complexes producing genetically altered strains of cattle pig chicken flavorless fruits vegetables grains toxic black oceans toxic black skies stifling temperatures coastal cities swamped swarms of vermin parasites oh lest i forget trillions upon trillions of humans and robots robots!

FUTURE (abducts arms) but what about my beautiful vision a world where everyone is equal living in harmony shared respect appreciation for each other

PAST you’re in love with your own deceptions foolish woman you can’t possibly believe the sins of the past will ever let go of you

FUTURE that’s it you ***** you die (attacks old woman’s throat strangling)

PRESENT (intervenes pulling enraged female off elderly female) please stop this fighting stop your hostility

PAST (coughing choking trouble speaking) it’s up to you now soldier boy what will you do

PRESENT i need fresh air i have to go get away from here goodbye to both of you

FUTURE not so fast

PAST in a way we’re all joined at the hip understand soldier boy now lie down on your back on the floor there’s something i’ve got hidden if you’re man enough to see (lifts skirt hem)

FUTURE i want in on this

PRESENT oh god
Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors --
Stage curtains, a widow's frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child -- look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear --
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face is red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her,
The *******'s a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He's a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet *** like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.

Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: 'Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.'
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.

Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and *******, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. 'Every woman's a *****.
I can't communicate.'

I see your cute décor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
TheRisingStar Oct 2014
I notice the tiny pulse of frustration in the back of his neck
I notice the way that he sighs and slumps over
I notice how his elbows splay out so his face bobs lightly over his desk
A buoy dancing over a wave
I notice the way he glances at his friends before he answers
I notice the way he shapes his mouth into a grin before he speaks
I notice how his eyes squint a little when he laughs
I notice how they dull when he doesn’t want to listen
I notice how his shoulders hunch when refuses to hear
I notice the boredom in the lines of his back as he considers
I notice the way his leg jiggles as he bounces his foot lightly
The ever-present dichotomy of professionalism fighting immaturity
Of a thirst to learn, fighting against ignorance, justice calling
I notice this inner battle of boyish nonchalance and masculine defensiveness
I notice how his eyes dart lightly over his chosen comrades before he writes again
I notice the way he presses his forehead into his hand
As though he could pull ideas out
And read his thoughts printed back on his palm
I notice the consistent rubbing against his face with his fingers
Phalanges to stimulate the thought process
I notice the hesitation before his pen scratches the page
Piercing the paper with words he must call his own
I notice the claim of responsibility and the toll it takes on his physique
I notice the fatigue of struggling to create
To feel, to create, to feel, to feel
I notice, throughout all the time I’ve been noticing him
He has not noticed me once
Response: On Cremation of Chogyam Trungpa, Vidyadhara. Allen Ginsberg.
Creep Dec 2014
"Get over here, brat!" Levi hollered at me from across the room, with that permanent scowl and annoyed voice. I prance over to the table he stood over and studied the map he had laid out in front of him.

"What do you think of this?" he asked me. I continued staring at the map. it showed titans coming in, now closer to the walls than they ever had been before; the titans were getting braver.

"We have to scare them away. Look! I made this new potion that when thrown on a titan's face, will explode and make a fog over the titan's face, confusing the titan and making it easier for the scouts to **** the titan. Let's try it out when we go scare the titans away!" I exclaimed with fervor and grinned excitedly.

"Problem, four-eyes. Everyone is either dead or has left for vacation." Levi stared at me, matter of factly.

"Well, we'll get them all together! It's time to kick some titan-***!"

Levi snickered at me. But he always does that anyway.
What was I thinking attacking with only the two of us. I'm always prepared to die, but not today. Today will be different.

"Four-eyes, there's only twenty of them. We can do this with your new potion stuff. Your brain's inane like them. You probably knew them the best. I believe in you brat." Levi gave me that uplift despite the sarcasm.

We planned out our pattern strategically. Usually it'll be easy with eight men. But I need to uphold his trust. His beliefs.

The first explosion went perfectly, grazed the titan's face but his nose exploded. And we killed him in a second. We managed to skewer more than we expected. Explosions within seconds, titan growled in agony as they fell to their demise. Suddenly something flew up in the air.

"Run hanji!!! This ******* can fly!!!"

I lurch away just in time as the titan snapped his jaw right where I was at. I maneuver around, trying to get away, killing titans left and right. It still trails behind me and I run.

"Levi! What do I do?!?!" I holler to him.

"Figure it out, four eyes! I'm busy!" Levi hollers back as he kills a titan. I glance back at the flying titan, trying to think of a way to outmaneuver it. Hmm 15m class, wing span of maybe 20m, two capable legs and two arms, vulnerable neck, but wings help it fly... can we use its flying ability against it?

I throw a potion at the things head and maneuver my way into a building window. It follows me, right where I want it to, and the potion explodes in its face, so it blindly reaches forward. I maneuver out a nearby window and slice its throat as it stays face first into the side of the building, confused on where I went and what it's seeing. It roars, then slumps down, dead. I make a mental note to come back here and inspect this new titan later, but for now, I run towards the other titans, ready for the bloodshed to come.
first fanfic on attack on titan/shingeki no kyojin with the awesome erenn (jaeger) :D would love to write more, and thanks erenn so much for writing this with me and keeping up with my insanity :)

attack on titan
by hiroyuki sawano, mika kobayashi
George Cheese Oct 2015
Tonight I sat down at my laptop and thought maybe I could make something good.
For weeks there has been a buzzing in my brain like a scratchscratchscratching pencil circling in on itself endlessly and endlessly. A scrawl, a squall, a squall of scrawls in my skull.
Life's a roller-coaster and I'm in a slump.
There's no discernible reason,
no obvious problem,
no escape from my pit.
I am stuck in a body with myself
and maybe that it the problem.
Danielle Shorr Nov 2013
To all the teachers who have let me down, to the teachers who made me feel isolated and alone for all the teachers who made me lose faith in the education system and caused me to believe that my strengths werent nearly as large as my weaknesses, to the teachers who have made me feel like my only purpose for living was to get good grades. I want you to know how you made me feel.
To the health teacher sophomore year who during the ****** education unit ignored my inquiries about safe *** in same *** relationships and then proceeded to tell me that my questions were innapropriate and that i was too young to be asking that, i want you to know that hearing that was a slap in the face to me. Hearing that sent 16 year old me so far back into the closet that i couldnt see any ounce light. I could not see a reason to be hopeful because you deemed my sexuality as wrong and made me feel like i was alone, i want you to know that it took me 2 years after that to understand that my feelings were not something to be ashamed of and it took me a week and google to find the responses to the questions you refused to answer.
To the chemistry teacher who told my counselor that i am a ******* addicted drug user and never even had the nerve to ask me why my hands shake, i want you to know that i have a disorder called essential tremor and my shaking is something that took me years to embrace. I want you to know that your assumptions stole the years of confidence i had built up in the acceptance of my disability and made me feel targeted and insignificant, if only you had simply just asked me then you would have saved me the loss. To the same teacher who made me sit out in the hall for the whole hour long class period because i talked while you were talking, i want you to know how ****** that feels. To any teacher who sends students in the halls, know that there is nothing worse than isolation and that making your students sit out in the hallway wont do anything but make them feel the pangs of loneliness and embarrasment.
To the spanish teacher with the bad temper who always took the time to complain and point out my mistakes, i want you to know that it never helped me learn anything and for someone who preaches tolerance amd respect i think its ironic that you made students feel so bad to the point where theyd leave your class crying. I want you to know that i tried my hardest to get your approval and never got it at all. But even though there have been those who have let me down, there have also been those who have brought me up. There have been those who have pulled me out of the deepest of slumps and showed me how to be brave.
To the math teacher who was more like a mother to me, a really cool one at that, who had awesome taste in music and understood that intelligence is not defined by grades, i want you to know that even though i hated math, walking into your class always made my day a little bit better. I want to thank you for understanding me and teaching me to try even when my attitude was ****. Im lucky to have met you because if i hadnt, i wouldnt have so much motivation.
To the theatre teacher who i met before highschool even started, i want you to know that you are the person who guided me to where i am today. And even when i cant find the words to say how i feel, you always know how to lead me to them. You were like a father to me when my own father was sick and for that i will always be appreciative.
To the theatre teacher who i can say without a doubt saved my life, who brought my out of the darkness and helped me see light, who understood all of the issues going on in my life, i owe my life to you. Meeting you was something that i am forever grateful for. You always know how to make me feel better and less alone and when i feel like im falling down you always help pick me back up. You're the only teacher who can see when im not okay and the only one who i can share with why im feeling that way, you're the only teacher that still manages to inspire me everyday and make me laugh at the same time. Thank you can't even begin to explain how much you have changed my life.
Ive learned that teachers have a bigger impact on kids than we think, they can affect them so much even in even the little things, ive learned that the things that teachers do can either inspire or haunt you for the rest of your life and its important that teachers understand that school is not the only thing in a students life, its important to understand that in just a day a teacher could either save someone or break someone. Empathy is the most important key that a teacher should hold because if you can make someone feel less alone, then youre doing it right.
Hungry Envelope May 2013
He slumps, grumbling at the air
a grunt, no more
admittance of awareness
minimising risk
of developing interest

the glow across
his face pale
a reflective pallor
shows us his day
has spent him inside

nourishment calls
a gutted feeling
deeper than his alienation
as food is not forthcoming
he tries to sing

in letting go
his newfound voice
an interrupted squawk
so disgusted he uhgs
hiding himself again

daily untouched
but for lonely nights
when in consolation
he hands himself to the
bounty of the sickened screen

and gurgles
in unity, at one
with images which champion
his waking hours, forcing him
and confused
JPB Mar 2011
Your mother sits hunched over the oak table,
hair tight up in a bun and
shawl wrapped over her shoulders and
wrinkles give a dignified, sure-looking appearance
to a face that shows steady, steady
weathering of any and everything life
could throw at her.  You place down
a mug, two mugs of something
and you seat yourself down across
from her, tidying your long skirt, and

you take a sip.  The steam rises
past your unlined face and disappears
in front of the thicker-at-the-bottom single-pane window
set between the wall-logs.
Outside is white:
white trees,
white ground,
white grill,
white porch.
She sighs and sips the mug,
a heavy, old-style clay mug that’s
been in the house for you don’t know how long.  She sighs and
looks out the window and
sighs again.  You frown a frown of concern,

lips turned down and eyes doe-like,
cocking your head and
reaching out your arm and
patting her on the shoulder, as she
slumps down farther, face almost
in the mug.  Steam would fog up her imaginary glasses.
The shawl droops forward
and a corner dips into the mug;
so you pinch it between
your thumb and index finger,
and you gently lift it out, dripping.  She sighs and
slowly takes a sip from the mug
again.  You stand and walk

out of the room, gone for a minute,
as your mother doesn’t move,
as your mother makes no move;
she sits and sighs and slumps and sips,
once or twice,
before you return,
tidying your long skirt and
sliding forward the chair and
moving your lips, mumbling something,
sympathies, something comforting,
as your mother stares blankly
at your ******* and makes no reply.
Your face makes that frown,
and you sip again and
get back up,

walk around the table,
the heavy oak table,
and take her by the shoulders,
gently, so gently, and lift,
gently, so gently.  She stands slowly,
shuffling away with you, out of the room,
leaving the still steaming empty
clay mugs on the table.

The snow-covered pyramid of lumber
and the stone-built heavy
chimney exhaling smoke bring back
the memories of winter—
reminder that yes, (yes,) it is winter, that
winter is here with the snow and
the cold and everything that that entails—
runny noses and cold nose-tips and shivering,
heavy parkas and furry hoods,
no birds and empty
tree-limbs.  The only heat
the heat of the fireplace,
roaring fire of formerly snow-covered logs from out back,
trekked in with heavy brown boots,
crunch crunch though the crisp
upper layer of snow, hot cider
or chocolate or tea or coffee
that (if it doesn’t burn your tongue)
warms you up inside out, warm fuzzy
feeling in the tummy, toes warmed
by thick wool socks.  Childhood
makes for a good winter,
sliding down hills on metal trash lids,
dodging trees before hitting the bottom and
plunging into a snowbank, laughing and
getting back up to go again.
But now your job is to shovel,
is not to have fun,
is to take care of business,
to shovel and to make food/drinks for others,
with the bleak grey sky overhead
through the empty birdless tree limbs.  And to ensure
that the house does not burn down
from the fireplace fire—
things have changed.

When the morning comes,
when day breaks, and you are still here,
you look up at the sky
and fall on your knees, thankful
to have passed through this night.

When the morning comes,
with its cold grey sky,
blanketing the stars of the night,
when the chill wind blows
and the sun gives no warmth.

When the morning comes,
and the demons of the night have gone
and have made their peace,
and have retreated once more,
when you are thankful to be alive.

When the morning comes,
when the world is again astir
and comes to consciousness
with faint stale smells of beer and cheap liquor,
as people rouse themselves
from alcoholic post-****** stupors.

When the morning comes,
and the day-animals are again awake
and the night-animals are again asleep,
break of day and the sound of the
south-vanished birds is not heard,
yet echoes remain in the ear.

When the morning comes,
and the coffee machines whir and click and drip drop,
when the steam rises
into the nostrils and the near-boiling
too hot black coffee down the throat,
when the eyes finally open.

When the morning comes,
when the car won’t start for the cold in the engine,
when the windshield is blind for the frost.

When the morning comes,
when all the sordid images
of the night before
appear in the face of the one beside.

When the morning comes,
and you pop your pills
just to make it through the day
and you pack your briefcase
and you walk
and it’s still cold,
when you exhale vapor.

When the morning comes,
when the alarm sounds,
when the snooze resets,
when the alarm sounds.

You stare into the woods,
perched on your chair on the porch
and I think that there is not much there,
that there are only the small animals
and the dead trees and the crickets
and I think, I think you’re wrong.

Keep your chin up
is the call,
but I don’t think I can—I don’t think you should.
I think it is bad,
I think sticking your neck out or up exposes it to harm;
sometimes it is better,
I think, to hunker down and acknowledge

that everything is wrong,
that everything is broken.  You, horse lover, [Horselover, Horse lover, horselover]
you must endure, you must be
the redwood in the gale,
the sandbag in the hurricane,
the rock in the stream,
the brick house in the wolf.

The jockey buries his head into the horse’s neck,
and you, horselover,
you must stare stoically;
you must not be moved.

That is what they tell us,
we who go through hell and back,
we who journey to rescue Eurydice and to bring her back.  But sometimes,
I think that it is silly,
that it is fruitless,
when what do we bring back but a shade, a spectre,

an abomination, a dæmon,
hideous monstrosity of a deformity of a memory,
eager to vanish in a pillar of salt.  It is said to you,
horselover, to never give up—
but if I never give up,
if I never stop,
then where does it end?
Something ends—there is a giving up,
if you do not exhaust your spirit,
this universe,

this world, will do so.  A thousand million galaxies collide,
a brilliant cosmic dancephony,
until they tire
and grow bored,
and in ten thousand million more years
they cease,
and they slow,

as they spread too far to interact,
friends hampered by the long distances,
lovers who no longer call daily,
who no longer think constantly of each other.
One day, in a hundred thousand million years,
it will be far too cold
to dance or to sing,
and that one day, I think that
you will give up,
that we will give up.

You sit at the oak table,
and you sigh as the horses break out,
out, out, gone.  And you will not chase them,
and I will not seek to bring them back
with lyre-playing.
The horses will run free and unbridled;
you, horse lover, to love something,
set it free, set them free, set the horses to roam across the grass-plains,
set your beautiful passions to free-romp.  I will miss them,
I will miss the horses, and
you will as much as I.  Their long manes
flowing in the breeze.  But you must let go,
but we must let go—
I think that we are in rats’ alley,
and I think that it is time.
Last night Gary Facebooked me:
11:03 PM
"Can I ask you to be crazy with me?"
Gary said he had been flirting with this girl, May
for six months.
She wanted to see him in person tonight,
And he needed a ride.
Gary and I met 11 days ago.
Strangers brought together in the streets of Freeport by pokemon GO.
he spotted me holding my phone out from a mile away.
"Team Instinct?
Lightning cracked above us
as we cryed in harmony:

My knowledge of him consists of three things.

1. He works as a security guard
Is first responder for medical emergency
Tackles felons and escorts people with restraining orders.
plays it up like he's a security guard for something mysterious
He is a security guard for Wal-mart.

2. Gary buys peoples affection.
Throws his money aimlessly
Pointing at his trophies
Prooving he too is expensive

3. To Gary,
there is nothing better to do
from 12 - 5am
Than wander Looking for pikachu.
With me.
besides visiting this May.

"A taxi would be $80
but I'd rather pay that to you, Bro."

On the drive there,
He is Squeeing, Singing,
Flipping out.
"I've got knots in my stomach Bro."

Upon arrival,
He readily jumps from my car
"Go catch 'em Brock" I say.

When I get back to Freeport
he sends me a messege.
1:04 AM
I think she fell asleep waiting
I'm not inside yet."

I park my car in Freeport,
Finish catching a Weedle.
"I'm on my way, stay safe."

"Man I'm so down."
"She's not coming to the door Nick."
"I'm just gonna curl up on the ground and cry."
"I've called her 24 times"

He heavily thumps his backpack into my backseat
Slumps down into my car.

"There is"
"no shelter"
"the storm"
"In my heart."

We stare out the window.
At the two homeless men
With no teeth
That he didn't beat.
He's holding night vision binoculars
And a clean Knife.
"I'm sorry I got you involved, Nick
I asked you to be crazy with me."
"There is"
"No shelter"
"The storm"
"In my heart"
Simon Soane Jun 2015
A guy awakes in the month of May,
his movement is languid, his thoughts full of fray,
he showers and dresses and then leaves his abode,
the spring sun doesn't warm him as he walks down the road.
He stands on the pavement and waits for the bus,
his fibre is calloused with collision and fuss.
He embarks on his journey with eyes facing down,
needing a break, and to get out of town.
He looks out the window as grey turns to green,
urban concrete to verdant serene.
He spies a large field and rings the bus bell to get off
hoping green grass will quell his bereavement cough.
He meanders through a meadow and parks himself under a tree
and speculates with veracity "what's happening to me?
she's gone and I miss her and i'm still alive
the answer to this tripe of mortality I do strive
why the stop, why a finite ride."
His words are peppered with anguish, seeking reason,
caught in turmoil in this springing season,
he slumps with head in hand against the bark,
no idea if it's light or dark,
or if he's she or me,
he slumps forlorn neath the tree.
Suddenly a voice is heard, soft and free,
the soft free voice of the tree.
"Hi, hope you're well and you don't mind my interject
and what follows isn't ferocious direct,
I know you're not waiting for epiphany."
said the tree.
"Or thoughts of gravity,
or eyeing me up for oars to power ships at sea,
I see you want to quell mortality.
Living isn't a simple thing I know,
leaves they leave and i'm covered in snow,
those nervous budding days that precede thundering green sat row by row
are lost  in kindle by the firework show,
burnt or brittle and toppled by go.
The tree pauses for a sec as the guy listens with a heart full of woe,
then the tree continues as the day starts to glow.
"It's transient and sad this life we have live,
some things are taken when we don't want to give,
and it hurts when we lose the things we love,
but for that there's a reason
and that reason is love.
It aches when their tangible space we can no longer share
and their dalliance as it stopped as their life was short and rare
but the loss is felt because of care
we wouldn't miss if we didn't love
every end would have the green of rub,
because love lasts for every season
in whatever weather whether or not,
so with love comes loss, i'm afraid and amazed to say,
loss comes with love i'm amazed and afraid to say,
if you're finding hard to deal or wanna express maybe say something to say,
I want to write about my leaves leaves now so at your leisure be on your way."
The guy breaths in and out slow for a couple of moments and into hence
and mulls on the tree's words as he moves  from to supple from tense,
and gets up ready
with something wanting to say
and as he bes on his way the guy opens his mouth and mouths into May...

"I'm missing you today and everyday since you went away,
Jan the 25th to precise,
I miss your kindness,
I miss your nice.
When we met in June tons of moons ago
we took our time from seed to grow,
watered with careful rush amid a loud hush,
slowly placing blocks while aware of the splendour of the finished build on the box,
germinating tender.
We grew up in each moment we spent smiling,
in every chat in every dialling.
We were kids eh, buying Kid A,
I held you in May and every other month I remember,
Laughs in December, hugs in September
the summer rush of August,
high fives in July.
We went to the cinema our close was abundant,
we had a handle on home and knew what fun meant,
going to concerts, exploring contours,
flying strong with the span of condors,
taking in breath, rising to soar,
moving together, using the force,
galloping free with the wildest horse,
we could talk in code, dabble in Morse,
our peace, our understanding a calming course.
Our strait newly furrowed no burrowing head in sand,
our relaxed eyes rest on promised land ;
It exists now, it exists right here,
the earth of Utopia burying fear,
it melds in the moment when you’re near,
I think I’ve found my lifetime career!
When you felt I was feeling depressed
you brushed off a burden and cleaned up my mess,
blocked those anxiety yelps,
knowing every little helps,
zapping away fear with your glorious medication,
here it is now, your standing ovation.
Then we didn’t see each other for ages,
as we ran through our own books on separate pages.
Then we bumped into each other and got back in touch,
not just a handshake and then a farewell wave
but shimmering convergence with all that you gave.
We got drunk and laughed as one turned into a few
knowing by now I’d go anywhere with you,
your witty jibes and blooming vernacular,
******* you’re blooming spectacular,
gulping fast, no little sips,
I loved your smile and your jiving hips.
You put the ancient in fossil,
the patience in tousle,
the strength in muscle,
the brave in bottle,
the brain in Aristotle,
the flame disparaged nozzle,
the fall in topple,
the tact in subtle,
the rain in puddle,
you stop the reign of muddle,
the pain and struggle,
the mazy puzzle,
the lazy shuffle,
the cake and truffle which I baked befuddled
after waking troubled and craving cuddles
then you came to me with heavenly huddles.
You’re the sunlight sweet sound of suggestion
And take the risk out of a game of Russian Roulette with a Smith and Wesson,
could never rue letting with you,
your moves define perfection with sublime projection.
You gently gild and made love a reality,
engaged me in present the future a fallacy.
But now you’re gone.
There are so many who loved you after you’d met
And they all miss you lots, especially your pets.
It's all the same without you on earth but different,
wise guys still get hints,
Polos are still mints,
sand castles still do best on the beach,
James still has the largest peach,
will still be expealidousis,
they'll still be osmosis,
my fake sibling will still be my faux sis.
They'll be dawn still & moonlight thrill
& silly cats on window sill, still, still.
They'll be puns on the hill & run of the mill,
they'll be hibernation curl to blossoming trill, chances missed & days to rue
& summer nights with joyful coo,
but still's not the same
without you;
because there is one less friend of cats & dogs,
this little world has one less cog.
I don’t know where you are,
you hit the end or the start?
And maybe when I end you’ll be starting my heart
and sat on my heart like a star
giving a light in the dark,
I love you Rebecca, wherever you are.”
The guy stops on the spot and mouths into May,
Rebecca my sweet, I’ve missed you today.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Eternal Anaheim

Somewhere in the dark back streets of the big easy this scene opens a dope addict slumps in the chair by an old filthy bed in an old
Seedy hotel this last hit was his last to many trips the highs that were no better than the siren call of the ****** of the deadly
Godless streets a mockery a disgusting counter life contrasted with having a loving wife and a family now the needle dangles from
A dead used up body and all the time the sacred book, open its cover the twin doors of grace and love outwardly they open the very
Portals of glory speaking of highs your first steps on arrival the mountains surrounding the holy city on the peak the great Sequoia
Down the mountain then the Redwoods then the Cedars they not only are in stands but they have designs formations each has an
Esthetic quality a mood some darker blends into lighter a virtual mosaic that reflects the thoughts your thinking you can walk down
The mountain enjoying finding the right footing or you can do a slow floating glide and take out the hassle at the bottom the foot
Hills begin again trees but now they not only speak to the senses of the mind and eyes but the heart feels an inner talking and aliveness
That wasn’t known about trees before flowers are dispersed there are a sea of them high ones short ones they have continuity of flow
Should I say mind blowing well this is a true high isn’t it then the low lands flat lands which ever you prefer also your choice they can
Be moors shires or better mist filled with the hint of Gwendolyn and Sir Lancelot Camelot awaits my dear friend beyond in rings and
Diamond splendor gardens on the order of the hanging gardens of ancient Babylon or the royal gardens of Leningrad or Paris touched
With living scenes of Monet, Matisse, Renoir or Van Gough’s french country side then the orchards every fruit especially Pomegranate and figs apples
So sweet you can hardly resist dancing along as you enjoy its heavenly taste then the fields where the heavenly corn grows that they
Make the true angel food manna from the corn as high as the angels themselves seven to eight feet tall just a hint of green left here
It is translucent clear as glass to your ears comes the sound of mighty tumults of water coursing ever swiftly to the Crystal sea follow
It to the walls this bejeweled linear spectacle bluest Sapphire reddest rubies gold leafs they appear as strawberries Grandma should
Like that Emeralds now I like Onyx first its bands or white then it has practically all colors for you to view these are all the size
Of a locomotive is that Walt Disney at the throttle all the children will say it is and then the gates of perfect pearl the streets that start
From them is translucent purist gold feel left out sometimes I’m writing about your inheritance its in his last will and testament what is a
Place that isn’t defined by the wafting smells the Jolon Mission is made special by the wafting scent of Lilac that pervades the grounds
Here Manna cakes and cookies for a start but it says the master will feed the bride with a masterful banquet just go in your mind to
Grandmother’s kitchen or the smell of pancakes when dad used to cook them but you really have to stretch so the restaurants you
have visited with closest friends and loved ones add them all up then multiply by a thousand your getting close now for the city’s
Infrastructure the shops I mean I can’t believe that they will not have at least some that will be dotted with the whimsical huts and
Fiery tale feel like those in Carmel California then throw in some adobe architecture from New Mexico some Italian bistro or just stands
With pizza as the roof why not well the mansions are left and the most important the glorious throne and He who will set there as we
Lay our crowns at his feet joy singing his look of love and acceptance will be worth everything I have tried to describe back to our
earthy home there are prisons full of our children friends that are prisoners of other vices just as bad as the ****** they are going to
lose not only heaven but their souls that have been paid for in blood, agony and undying love reach them it’s a little bit of heaven down
here Merry Christmas
drumhound Dec 2013

If you stumbled onto it
It would underwhelm you
In its common stature.
Four and a half inches.
No more than
A fistful of
Black aluminum.
I found it on his shelf
As I was cleaning out
The apartment.

I'm still taken by the things
That were of value to him
And the care he gave
In the preservation.
It was his grateful heart
Taking nothing for granted
Protecting tools with consideration
Not unlike the way
He would care for his friends.
It immediately meant something to me.
Like the orange pocket knife.
His favorite color,
His collection.)

This small utility
Reminded me of him.
Understated, yet powerful
Easy to handle but efficient
Erasing darkness
Wherever he went.
I rolled it in my fingers
And the tiny beacon
Called to me...
I possessed it
as he possessed me.

The diminuitive tool
Lays among the other
Integral neccesities
Of my blue collar
Bread winning
Intentional or not
I find myself
In more dark places than
Just so
I have excuses to use it
And say his name
Every occasion that I pick it up.

Inside the dark recesses of a water heater -
Underneath the leaking tub -
In the closet of burned out motors
Impossible to reach bolts
And rusted designs -
Then sometimes
Standing at the door of my van
A daydream breaks
While a light blinks in my eyes,
My fingers sending Morse code
From my soul -
Devon, Devon, Devon, Devon.

Regardless the darkness
It has no power
Over the light
So I reach for him
And roll him around
In my memories
And the blackness
Is beaten back
By his goodness.
Every closet of the spirit
Brightened in that indelible smile
Where sadness slumps away
Ashamed that it even tried.


(You are the brightest one, my son.)
Nathan Cross Dec 2014
The sorry umbrella slumps sadly toward the ground.
It's body as cold as the wet night air.
The malleable aluminum handle, bent out of shape,
By the wind that's tossed it round,
To and fro like the arms of teenage kids,
And unsure of how else to rest,
With the metallic moonlight singing its melodic lullaby.

I'm the umbrella.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
Having lost her forever,
he steps off the escalator
into hard sunshine, drops
to the sidewalk and caves—
a troubadour whose songs
have been dismantled
by the sadistic hands
of a subway conductor.

Guitar strings slip his fingers,
and nothing will bring her back.
Not a song. Not a psalm. Nothing.
Not the angelic back
of his leather jacket,
spanned by a score
of safety-pins formed
into silver-studded wings.
Not his listless body,
tattoo-inked and wrecked,
blue quarter notes slinking
down a tight treble clef,
wires stretched across his neck.
Not his mind, spinning
in a head blue-veined
and stubble-shaved.
Not his angry steel-tipped boots.

He lost his love because he looked.
One by one,
the silver pins
have come

far below
the sidewalk,
banished forever,
she slumps cheated
and dispossessed
in the vinyl seat
of a hellbound
subway car crawling
with scorched graffiti,
spray paint-scrawled
filigree spelling her doom.
Ghost of a snake bite
below her knee.  

Mohawk depressed,
she leans against
the train window.
Dead glass reflects
a chorus of piercings,
steel threaded through
skin so translucent
her veins and arteries
glow blue and red:
mapped subway lines
circulating misfortune,
coursing with dread.

The train rattles along rails
encrusted with gems and bones.
Disgorging sparks and smoke,
it thunders into stygian gloom,
ferrying her to a heartless god.

What if her shadow
had made a sound?
A backward glance was all it took
to squander a lavish second chance.

High above his beloved,
awakened by moonlight,
Orpheus regains his senses
and gathers the guitar.
The case flung open
at his boots awaits a drizzle
of tossed dollars and coins,
piteous currencies of loss.
Hard pick between thumb
and finger, a downstroke
strum delivers plaintive
waves of power chords.

The song ignites
a crowd of women
in tight band t-shirts
and skinny jeans,
smacking cherry gum,
their flaming hair
casting embers
upon night air;
radiant specks
like lighters
in a sunless

Spurred by his song,
the covey of maenads
coalesces and attacks,
enraptured, enraged.
A rush of bodies,
the crazed crush tears
him limb from limb,
splits him to close to cipher,
until what remains of the star
on the sidewalk is his heart:
the four-chambered *****
held in a hundred hands,
picked up and packed
into the red plush lining
of the grisly guitar case,
golden hinges snapped shut.

Entombed in coffin-black
chrysalis, the heart pauses
like an untouched drum—
a dormant instrument
awaiting metamorphosis
that, like Eurydice,
will never come.
Iska Oct 2017
A puppet girl, all dressed up, with painted lips and lined eyes, stands on her toes as she spins and glides.
Guided by her puppet strings she swirls and twirls around the ring.
Round and round this dusty stage she gets up and dances day after day.
The hands that hold her gentle yet firm show her just how much she must learn.
The hands grow fierce, music harsh,as they pull and push her into a perfect arch.
A string then snaps, poor puppet goes loose, abandoned and alone as they tie her a noose.
A puppet girl, all banged up, with chipped paint and bleary eyes, slumps alone as she starts to cry.
Musical laughter fills the ring, as she hears someone begin to sing.
Clanking clattering across the stage, she drags her limbs out of her cage.
She topples and falls tangled in string, trying to find the source of the singing.
Kneeling before her, with beautiful wings, is another girl living her dreams.
A puppet girl, just like her, moving with ease, unburdened by the need for strings.
"Are you an angel?" she rubs her eyes trying to see if this girl is a lie.
the girl before her smooths over her dress, before gliding into a curtsy and saying "yes."
"I wish to be an angel like you, then I could be free to move."
The angel tilts her head, her smile sly, before opening her mouth to reply,
"As you wish it, it shall be so."
then with terrible grace and ease, she cuts off the strings...
and with it she holds the Poor Puppet Girl's head,
her body lays crumpled up,
shes.... dead.
"Shh." she whispers as she cradles the head,
she spins and glides claiming shes been naughty,
and attaches the puppet girls head on an angels body.
And as the puppet girl blinks her eyes,
she realizes she's back to life.
in a form now free of strings,
she can dance and spin as she may please.
then she sees her body crumpled where it now lies,
and with a shuddering sob she begins to cry.
the angel takes her hand in hers
and with a crazy smile and mad glint in her eyes
she starts to sing:
"hush little one,
now we are the same.
don't worry baby,
no more pain.
Now listen to me child,
let blood fall like blissful rain,
and we shall free those who remain,
free them from these awful chains."
beware the puppet masters.
for they will drive the puppets to the edge of the stage,
until they snap,
and the puppets lie dead
on top of the body pile.
Edward Alan Feb 2014
I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,

A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.

A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw

To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.

The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.

I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the *****,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back

And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,

Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,

And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.

Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:

He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:

Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.
For Ragnarok. A dream I actually had.
Poetic T May 2014
I have them in my mind, a place for me to use and abuse,
when alone and where no one can see.
I visualise what I need, those lovely ladies recorded
in thoughts used by me.

My neighbour she's as hot as could be,
but after to many usesshe has become a bore.
What once went hard with a thought,
now my cheese stick slumps not content,
new **** bank material is needed so on goes the TV

O ye this is good, weather girls low cut tops
in the bank they go for use later for me.
But I need that girl to light the meat, to get me well hard,
so I see one woman in the bank ready for me.

I test drive her not as good as could be,
so I swap parts saved in the file, now perfect for lonely fun.
The thought of her **** and me.

All men and woman are nearly the same,
they have a **** bank for those times when lonely.
Be it butts,legs, ******* or meat hanging or the
slit between the legs.
We all have that special some one that is with
us when are fingers and palms get happy...
Every one has a **** bank..
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.

A warder
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.

No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.

Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.

The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
a beautiful woman.
Based on a live video of Ted Bundy, who is supposed to have killed 100 young women.
I wanna a bed that is comfortable
But I haven't enough money
to buy the best
My body slumps into the pocket filled springs.
I can't get a good-nights sleep....
All for some extra pounds..
Well hundreds of pounds to be exact
Oh well another sleepless night...
until my backs aches....
Wish I wasn't short of money....
Taking on a bed on credit
Is it really worth it....
Sleepless nights .....
Worrying were the money will come.!

Found a double bed on the internet
A site called Dreams famous for beds
I looked at a double base with a fancy headboard
It looked perfect so I thought.
that's the one for me....
I made a huge mistake
It was only for the base.
Back to square one and still no bed.
Oh i give up
Just a waste of my time..!!!
I'm just gonna sleep in my old bed.....
BROKEN BED...... A Poem by ROSALIND I wanna a bed that is comfortable But I haven't enough money to buy the best My body slumps into the pocket filled springs. I can't get a good-nights sleep.... All for some extra pounds.. Well hundreds of pounds to be exact Oh well another sleepless night... until my backs aches.... Wish I wasn't short of money.... Taking on a bed on credit Is it really worth it.... Sleepless nights ..... Worrying were the money will come.! Found a double bed on the internet A site called Dreams famous for beds I looked at a double base with a fancy headboard It looked perfect so I thought. that's the one for me.... I made a huge mistake It was only for the base. Back to square one and still no bed. Oh i give up Just a waste of my time..!!! I'm just gonna sleep in my old bed.....
Like · · Unfollow Post · 22 min
Marcus Lane Mar 2011
She slumps in sleep
Paws clasped prayer-like
Dream-dozing eyelids a-simmer

A spasm-triggered flesh flick
An ear-alert to a tremorous tick
Crisp-dry nose with involuntary sniff
Old dog breath brewing brown toothed whiff

With pain weary grunt
She heaves her lumpy bulk
Onto shaky splayed legs
That hobble and limp

Catches my eye
With a puppy-pleased glint


.... and pees
© Marcus Lane 2010

Dedicated to Pops
(Chasing tennis ***** in Heaven from 19 February 2010)
Andrew T May 2016
In Northern Virginia, for the ladies of wealth, Sunday mornings begin with a hangover, a Virginia Slim, and a Xanax. The day transitions to brunch at Liberty Tavern: one mimosa and one ****** Mary; an omelet with green and red peppers; and another round of mimosas and another ****** Mary, because: why in the world not?

For Thu—a Vietnamese American—Sunday mornings always begin with a different routine.  

She comes downstairs to the dining room, steps around the bundle of adult diapers, and pulls back the curtain that leads to her parents.

There, on the far right corner, her Dad lays on an electric bed, his eyes sleepy as if he had drunk too much whiskey from the night before. His mouth agape, he has a face of a man who has lived for many years. In fact he has, 80 something years in fact. His arm hangs over the railing, blue veins protruding from the skin.

Thu pulls the blinds and light comes seeping through the window.

Her Dad smiles as the sunlight warms up his face.

Thu lifts him out of bed and into his wheelchair and travels with him, looping around the house in a circle: starting with the dining room, then the foyer, through the hallway, out the kitchen, and then back to the dining room. She tries to make him walk at least three rounds. Sometimes he makes it, sometimes he doesn’t.

He grunts and curses in Vietnamese, his walker scraping against the marble and hardwood floors. He moves the walker, using the little strength he has in his biceps and the muscles in his right leg.

Two years ago, her Dad had a stroke, leaving the right side of his body impaired and aching. Ever since then, he’s been trying to recover. He spends his time watching soccer and UFC on a television with a line running across the screen. He has caretakers who assist him with going to the bathroom and showering.

His wife is the only thing that keeps him going. She has Alzheimer’s and at random times in the night she’ll open up the refrigerator and search for food, because during the day she hardly eats a bite. She walks around in a cardigan and cotton pants, a toothpick jutting out from her mouth. She enjoys lying on the sofa and making phone-calls to her friends.

But she often misdials the numbers, startled when she hears a voice of a stranger on the other end of the line. She tells the stranger she doesn’t know English, shutting her eyes before trying to dial another number.

Thu has lived in Northern VA for many years, 18 years to be exact. She’s a Hokie. She’s an avid watcher of Criminal Minds. And she enjoys apple cider with a side of kettle-corn. Despite having to cook and look after her parents, she never complains. Never gets upset. Never says that life is unfair.

Later on in the day, she’s wearing a blouse dotted with blue flowers, a pair of gray sweatpants, and open-toed sandals.

When her daughter Vicki walks into the kitchen, she makes a remark about her posture. Vicki scoffs, no longer trying to seek her approval, but when Thu’s back’s turned, she straightens out her posture. Thu never makes a comment about her boyfriend. That’s a lost cause in her eyes. Once Thu doesn’t approve on a relationship that’s the end of it. She wants the best for her daughter, pushes her to be the best at what she does.

Thu used to live in Saigon. When the war ended, she had fallen in love with a boy who lived next door to her. He was her first love. He would write love poems to her. Sometimes they would hold hands. Once they had shared a kiss.

They were young and deeply in love. But as the war finished up, they moved on from each other. The boy went to live with his family in Australia, while she moved to America. After they broke up, Thu would still think about him. He was the one who dumped her.

The breakup crushed her heart. But she didn’t let it mar her dignity. Time passed by, Thu moved to Virginia and she went to high school in Fairfax County. The letters started pouring in from the boy. But she had too much pride and she didn’t respond until one day.

That was the day that John Lennon was murdered in cold blood.

She was heartbroken like every other person in the world. Yet, she also thought of the boy and how much he loved John Lennon.

Thu remembers reading the newspaper, seeing John Lennon’s face on the front page of the paper. She took a pair of scissors and cut a square around John’s face. Then she wrote a letter to the boy. And then she sealed the newspaper clipping and the letter in an envelope and begged her mom over the phone to send the letter to the boy. Her mom was still in Saigon and somehow she made contact with the boy and gave the letter to him.

A month later, she opened the mail and there was a letter from the boy.

She read the letter, stifled a cry, and then proceeded to write. The next day she sent the letter. Thu was happy to read his words. It was as though she could hear his voice through his sentences. Like he was there next to her, looking at her, speaking to her spirit.

Days passed. Weeks passed. And then after a month she realized he wasn’t going to respond back to her letter. She couldn’t believe that he didn’t give her a response.

“And that’s the end of the story,” Thu said to her son.

“What do you mean that’s the end of the story? That can’t be the end!”

“Well you’re the writer, right? Think of an ending.”

Okay. So here it goes.

Thu smiles, her eyes grow sleepy, and her head slumps over. She starts to snore, very loudly in fact. But it’s cute and you’re hoping that she’s dreaming, dreaming about something relentlessly lovely.
Sheena Snell Jun 2010
Feeling her heart pound with the quickness of her breath she knows that she has found her long lost brother.  Her eyes shining with excitement, not knowing what to expect from him, scared that he will turn away and leave her again.  Holding her breath and quietly walking over to him, tapping him on the shoulder with her index finger, slightly shaking with fear.  Her brother turns around and smiles.  The reconization dawns on him and his face burns with fury of being discovered, by his own sister nonetheless!!

How could she, he wonders furiously!  He had left home for a reason and now she has come to take him home he is sure.  Well, not this time, she
won't.  In his heart he knows she means well, but he can't go back.  If only she knew why he couldn't.  Gritting his teeth he tears out of the bar, leaving his sister looking after him with tears streaming down her face and calling his name.  He couldn't stop; he had to get out of there so he wouldn't have to hear her crying.

She slumps down onto the stool that he was sitting on before he decided to leave.  She had traveled so far to bring him home safely and he wasn't about to let her!  She knows in her head that she should leave him alone; yet in her heart she couldn't just let him go on living without knowing that his family was there for him no matter what kind of trouble was, but she was going to find out, whether he wants her to or not!!

Shivering from cold and anger, he walks through the streets hoping that she won't come after him.  He loves his sister, but if she ever found out about him she would never love him the same way again.  Feeling wetness on his cheeks, he furiously wipes the tears away, cursing at her under his breath.  Feeling hands on his shoulders he whirls around ready to fight his attacker but stops short when he realizes whom it is.  He was looking straight into his twin sister's deep blue eyes.  He saw only love and affection, not anger or
hatred.  How could he have ever thought that she would desert him?  She was his twin and she would stand by him through think and thin.

As she stares into her brothers eyes, only feeling love for him hoping that he will say something or do something to let her know that he wasn't going to run from her again.  With her tearstained cheeks and teeth trembling from the cold, she gently takes his hand and caresses it with her fingers looking into his eyes pleading to him to let her back into his life.  His hand trembles with cold or anger, she can't quite figure it out.

He catches his breath as she takes his hands while they shake with the confusion of not knowing what to do.  He draws in shaky breaths and extends his other hand and strokes her cheek wiping the tears away from her eyes pleading with an emotion choked voice to stop crying.  She nods and says that she will try only if he stops, making him smile, for he had wiped his tears away and her still knowing that he was crying on the inside.

She slowly offers him a smile hoping that he will open up to her.  When he gently strokes her cheek, she feels his fingers shaking, now knowing
not from anger, but from love........
esther Sep 2013
My cell
Has no door
Unlike one you'd see
Where a madman slumps
In waiting of release
My walls shine
With the sticky softness of comfort
But beneath the paint
The cold, blank stone
Echoes the void
I have not the energy
To fill
Although this prison
Locks from inside
Still there is
A madman
Trapped within
depression suicide madness mental illness
Cloaked by the veil of night I ready myself for what is to come. Fear is not recognized on this side
of the shroud, for it is this fear that is my most useful and treasured tool.
Footsteps approach the alleyway, I see my target pace forward towards his end, illuminated most
benevolently by the blush of his own burning cigarette end.
In his own world he lays claim to control and intimidation, a brave and dangerous man by his own
words. Words I shall later configure to be truth or allegory.
It is a simple matter to terrify someone prone to be terrified, is a different course to set the same
action upon he who does usually initiate the afor-mentioned phrase.
As the victim looks up into the eyes of this purveyor of violence I suspect it true that fear is well
presented to his visual inspection and it goes without saying it adds to his delight.
I imagine in other venues the same is said of myself but I would very much disagree with this
evaluation. Fear, Intimidation is not what I represent, they are just tools in an arsenal, I am just
simply here to reek good old honest revenge..
You do the deed, you pay the price, Simple as that. No forgiveness passes through this alley-way
this night, just utter, complete and total retribution. A gift from me to all those whom have been
As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you will indeed fear evil, for I art with thee
and this rod of correction is indeed not one of comfort
The scatter of burnt ash bouncing off the alley wall signifies the conclusion of any remaining
illumination as he throws the **** of his cigarette away, darkness prevails once again.
As I strike, screams of pain shatter the silence and echo through the narrow passageway. The
****** body of this victim slumps unceremoniously alongside garbage bags, a fitting end for such
True and honest folk can breathe a sigh of relief, to them I am vigilant. If you swing the other way
however, BEWARE.
Daniel Handschuh Oct 2015
He is blessed to have not lost a hair, despite his climbing age.
   He is both nearsighted and farsighted; can see every turning page.
   His gray mustache is thick; his smile is jovial; he is grandfatherly.
   He is loved by many for his outgoing, convivial personality.
   One might say that death would be quite peaceful with this fellow,
   But who is to be warned that he will not even see the morrow?
   A pipe bounces in his lips as he tells heroic stories to the children:
   “He hoists up his pack and fights to reach the peak of the mountain.
   “He battles the knifelike snow as it attacks like thousands of spears.
   They stab his burning eyes, and blizzardly winds scream in his ears.”
   But what is on the other side of the mountain? What lies beyond?
   What is so great that the suspense and action must be prolonged?
   The man’s face tightens, his eyes go distant, his body goes rigid.
   It is as if his brain has suddenly transformed into a slimy liquid.
   With a rough cough and a puff of smoke, the pipe falls to the floor,
   Spilling out unused tobacco; it is a quiet, unsettling roar.
   The man’s eyes grow dark; his face turns from healthy to deathly white,
   And his head slumps down, staring at his knees, the children affright.
   As a droplet of blood seeps from his nose and caresses his dry lips,
   And a restless bead of sweat travels down the bridge and the tip,
   The children scatter like cockroaches, searching for the darkness—
   Some comfort to ease the horror and the pain and the sadness—
   Somewhere to empty their minds of this terror into a black hole—
   Someplace that they can entomb their thoughts with the secret, unknowable scrolls—
   An undisturbed place where their innocence can be embraced and consoled—
   Yet is there such a place where the recesses of the mind do not unfold?
   But already the old man is forgotten, as are his great stories and tales.
   He slips from all conscious minds and leaves nothing, no details.
   No questions arise; his whereabouts are not wondered; he is decoration:
   A work of nature’s art that is meant to stir up onlookers’ admiration.
   His beautiful stillness strikes a long, thin, metallic chord of inspiration:—;
   But it is the gong of fear and disgust that overrides these ponderations:—
   Fear and happiness battle symphonically to make the best music.
   Fear wins because screaming noise shall always reign over acoustics.
   A young man, unmarried upon seeing his bride-to-be hung in her room,
   Has enclosed himself in his own prison and will not come out soon.
   It is rectangular and copper, putting a deep taint on the world outside.
   Long gone is his decency, his health, his love, and his signature pride;
   Long gone is the liquid of delusional ecstasy that once filled this bottle
   That he now resides in. He feels that he has lost a hopeless battle.
   His skin is whitening, the color in his irises are fading, his body is thinning.
   Everything in him is collapsing dejectedly as his skeleton continues creeping.
   He hums an arrhythmic tune with a salmagundi of conflicting emotions:—;
   The phantasmagorical manifestation of mental convulsions:—
   The hot flames of Hysteria make love with the cool rains of Sadness;
   Joy—giddy and intoxicated—rapes Hatred with confetti and madness;
   Anger blossoms as a spring flower and attracts the red blood of Love;
   The screams of this beastly mating is heard in the heavens above—
   Oh, the horrendously whorish screams, how the animals salivate!
   The wails of bastardly offspring! How the corruption does culminate!
   One can only marvel at the dishonor that the unabashed Morality
   Has taken! How can one now differentiate between dreams and reality?
   How does one now describe dreams—so ****** and violent, but perfect?
   Or reality—so disinteresting and faulted, not a wanted soul in it?
   The entrapped man has every answer, imprisoned in a cell, like him,
   But why should he utter a word at all when he is his very own phantom:—?
   He answers only to himself, never reveals the codes he has deciphered.
   So many anomalies, oddities, and complexities that he has been inspired.
   As his breath walks away with loud shoes and its head held high,
   The world is suddenly transfixed and does not want to see him die.
   They know not his name or profession, nor can they remember his appearance.
   Even so, he has been unexpectedly labeled as their guide, their endurance.
   But he froths at the mouth and urinates freely, like a wild, untamed animal—
   For even humans become animals, and grow further to become cannibals.
   Shall all of society tumble because of a lost faith put into the faithless?
   Needless to say, an impalement on jagged rocks will not be painless.
   Upon the gong, a naked woman is on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back,
   And her ankles shackled. She is a pained, a contradictory nymphomaniac:
   Oh, how it hurts, but how thrilling! What is pleasure without the slightest pain:—?
   Deception! Nothing! It is suddenly worthless and full of absolute disdain!
   The woman looks up with bubbly, tearing eyes and awaits the cannonade
   Of gripping and violent desire. She will gladly be a toy, and a toy she is made:
   A sword descends and inserts itself into the woman’s welcoming throat.
   She gasps at the cold metal; how deep it falls, how it makes her feel afloat.
   How her ******* bulge with warm milk and her hips shake with anticipation
   Of what the sword has to bring: Happiness, glee, lust, and beautiful vibrations.
   She pants and chokes as the sharpness slices her inside; she tastes blood.
   The sword breaks flesh, finds her womb, and fills it like a flood.
   Oh, how her desires are exploding, going far beyond the limitations.
   The tastes of fulfillment come from the monsters of intimidation.
   She coughs; a crimson blob fountains and drenches her cheeks, neck,
   And her mermaidian black hair, like soft silk across her smooth back.
   Whatever blood she does not catch, the gong of fear and disgust catches,
   And it is painted redder than Judgement Day’s moon. The blood attaches
   Itself and becomes one with the gong and sings it's now morbid song.
   As the woman’s lungs are violently ripped out, she feels nothing wrong.
   Nor does she feel at all as her heart is shredded within her tireless chest.
   Rivers of blood flow down her impure body—its warmth is the best
   And brings dizziness to her he head, tears to her eyes, and wetness to her legs.
   Even as she weakly collapses, eviscerated, she continues to long, to beg.
   The gong of fear and disgust vibrates roughly, sparking hormones—
   The hormones of terror and revulsion that help her to never be alone.
   As the corpses rot below the acidic waters, the blood polluting
   It even further, horrors beyond comprehension begin rooting.
   The gong of fear and disgust drones over he mountains, emotionless,
   In a great search to find a host. And searching has never been hopeless.
   Catch its eye, and be afraid, or catch its eye, and breathe fire.
   Either way is a dangerous pursuit of will and courage—a dance on a wire.
cozy april Jul 2014
In secret
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy

Stainless inks get messy

Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps

Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds        
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs                                                        
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average
Paralyze those walking eyes
Bumping rhythms
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes                                                            ­
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms

Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps

Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins                                              
Affiliate with true bones
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums
Instrumental bones
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts        
Words dig up chaos with no mercy                  

Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums
Words are just messy and profound

written a few weeks back
Sjr1000 May 2015
Eckhart Tolle found
while sitting, homeless
on a park bench
watching the world go round.

You think you
have it wired,
just before it all
falls apart.

A bagpipe empty of air,
An accordion on its side,
Gasping for air.

Shaking rockin and rollin,
Nepal ground,
It all unfolds
after a while
dusty and dying
under the rubble.

**** with nature,
It'll **** with you.

Beginning as a solid silent
predictable mix
until it isn't
what it isn't.

It'll take a while
until it all settles down -
streaks and slumps
we've been over this ground.

Structures erected
nature's forces take over,
Life changes,
You hold on tight
searching for solid ground
when the waters come around.

Self inflicted,
Victims of circumstances,
Bad timing,
"Structures are known to become unstable,"
Eckhart Tolle
just before he became
rich and famous.
Eckhart Tolle, modern philosopher,
The Power of Now.
E Townsend Sep 2015
The president of the horticulture club
thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite
ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin.
The other members glare at her,
waiting for the reaction-
touch the frail plant
and your mouth is sure to set on fire.
The contact she has on the flower
is insanely dangerous.
Potent alkaloids bloom overhead
and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow
the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere,
which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation
and seizures of her small limbs
but at last, she glances
at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching,
"Are you writing this down?
I want the future of this club
to know to never touch plants
without doing their research."
Then she blinks,
slumps against the bench,
eleanor prince Feb 2019
ever standing
body lithe, strong
trained to strike

too dashing for peeling paint
old verandas
slow-paced hamlet

waiting in country town
place to whizz past
road to tourist hub

how does his tale read
did he pay
for assault

struck the frame
holder of *****
spawning breath

cold fury
for scenes of his mother
thrown down

stain his every stance
grabbing mail swiftly
ahead of arrival

panther muscles
no more the crouching lad

her screams
bounce off walls
as mother's body slumps

broken bottle scars
left to clean up the mess
as he leaves for school
forage into
fictional possibility -
with deep respect
for David
of village
post office
Latroy Robinson Mar 2014
My mother always reminded me of a great white swan.   It's because she has a sense of direction air-locked between her feathers of silky iron.  I've never felt scared nuzzling under her as she flies.  

I am sitting in the kitchen.
She is filling a *** with water.  
She is using two hands.
Her back stiff.
I watch her try to shift the *** to stove,
sweat drips off her nose.
Her back quivers.  
The *** crashes to ground
dragging my mother with it.
The water ripples on the floor.
Mom's hand is shaking, her face doesn't rise to mine. Just coast over her fingers . She mumbles, I'm fine, it's been hurting all day.  She slumps.

Her wings slouch and give as they float on the water. I've seen her fall, tumble, and crash with enough force to spring back up, but there is something about slumping that’s too soft.  

Swans are suppose to be able to fly as high as
28,000 ft and as fast as 80mph, but mom looks like she has been dipping into telephone poles, sliding down, her feathers are splintering. She can't even float on the water.  Swans' necks always have an arc, but mom's face droops to her chest. Her body crimples.
Only her hand shakes. It's the only part of her that remembers how much she hates breaking.
Her life spent running from this moment, and it still has managed to catch her.

I'm standing here.
Wanting to do so many things, but don't know how because I don’t understand why this is happening so early . She always told me I would never need to worry about her because she was never going to drown, but by the way she slumps on the floor, I think she understand she can't soar anymore.

Her hand is rattling a tune that beats a new meaning of melody, but this is the first time I've heard it. I'm use to her bellowing from her throat as she trucks through clouds, I place my
head on her shoulder, listening as her wings begin to sink under.  I've been told that there is beauty in hearing a swan before it dies.
Jason and the Argonuts

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

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

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


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

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

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

Going Under

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

                “Dan Singer! You little snake in the grass, what are you doing down here? Don’t you have work to do upstairs?”
“Your grandfather said I could take a break and see you.”
“Ha! I’m sure he did. “
Samantha rushes in my direction. She smells strongly of formaldehyde. I pretend to find the odor unpleasant, so as to be able to look around the embalming room as she approaches me.
“I’m so happy you’re here. I could use a little break, myself.”
My eyes settle on the body of my former patient, which rests on a table on the far side of the room. Everything else seems very far away.
“…I don’t know why I ever got into the profession of ******* around with dead bodies. Stupid family business. It’s gross. Well, I do tend to enjoy the macabre. But the way you Jews handle things is far better. Just put the corpse in the ground. Be done with it. I know you haven’t been religious since you left your family, but…”
Our session seems as if it had taken place a lifetime ago. It's almost as if it couldn't have been real at all.
“…And the fact that I’m stuck working for my grandfather is just one more pain in the ***, you know? He really is one stereotypical grumpy old man. Hey, Dan? Hello! Earth to Dan!”
“Oh, sorry about that. I’m a little bit distracted. I was a friend of that woman over there.”
Samantha’s voice takes on an almost annoyed quality.
“You were? I’m so sorry. A close friend?”
“No. More like casual acquaintances, really. I just find it strange that she'd wind up here.”
“Pretty ****** up, isn’t it? So many young women disappearing, or plain turning up dead these days. It had me on edge for a while. Remember a few months back when that lady disappeared from the Ranch Burger? I eat there all the time! Couldn’t believe it. Thank goodness I read about that goof serial killer group. Helped me laugh about the whole thing.”
“I’m sure whoever thought it up must be a real character.”
“Oh! You should totally check out the site it was on, if you haven’t. Didn’t I send you an email with the link? I forget the name offhand. With the Slinkee logo. It has all sorts of weird ****. There was a great joke on there yesterday. Something like, ‘Did you hear about the guy who liked to play Russian roulette while *******? He really shot his load!’ Ha!”
I force a smile.
“Samantha, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you don’t have a great sense of humor.”
She seems very pleased and smiles back at me, drawing a bit closer.
“Uh, Sam. What are you doing?”
“Uh, Sam?”
I turn toward my former patient, looking for help. She is in no position to offer any. “Dan, are you all right? You don’t need to be so shy when I’m around. We’ve known each other for years. I know that you're upset about your friend. You can talk to me about it, if you want.”
“I'm sorry, but I don't.”
Samantha frowns.
“Well, if you do, you know where to find me. Anyway, I’m going to take a trip to the  restroom upstairs, then speak with my grandfather. Maybe you can say goodbye to your friend while I’m gone.”
“Oh, yes. It was nice chatting with you, Sam.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Samantha fusses with her hair a bit and heads to the stairs.
Up the stairs.
The basement door closes.
Rush across the room. Within seconds, aroused and exposed, I empty myself over the face of my object of affection. Fumble about in my pocket for the handkerchief. Clean her nose and mouth. Run to the stairs. Out the basement. Out the building. This is the last time I will ever pass through that door. I do not even think of looking back.

The Golden Fleece

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

speaking in cryptic tongues

with mystic strums of my sadistic slumps

for i am the ******* son

born of the blood of the gun

the rage of the dumb

direct descendant of a sociopath ***

eternally stunned
Mr E Nov 2013
My breath rose above my head, the cold gushing into my lungs
The wind rattled the barbwire fence as I waited there so quiet, so alone
The warm cup of coffee rested in my hands, its aroma engulfing my station
I looked out over the barren fields in which I was positioned to look over
I could see the watch tower high, above the roofs and chimneys vast
Snow began to fall, large flakes and eddying flurries
Getting up from my seat I gazed out at winters first storm
A ****** war it had been, so many soldiers lost, friends and families gone
Wind seemed to pass through my jacket, it whipped my cheeks and brow
I needed only to clear the trek of land between the wall and the brush, I ran
Hoisting my gun upon my shoulder I walked out onto the ledge
I spotted a shadow dancing through the light, I called out but it was no use
"Stoppen!" I hear through the scream of the wind, I looked back for only a second
The lone guard reaching his hand across the rail, begging me to halt
Stop I say, as I grasp my cap, Please stop or I will shoot
I lift my gun around my head and **** back the metal bolt
Ground beneath me thumps against my boots
And the guard's voice is no longer heard
My hands do tremble in the cold, but also from the sorrow
I aim down my sights and with a loud ring the rifle lets out a howl
I tell myself I am finally free, from the jail which held me back
I feel a sting in my shoulder and I fall to the powdered ground, my  scarf falls off of my neck
The runaway then loses his footing and slumps to the ground without noise
*I dip my head low and carry on with my duties, as the snow is painted scarlet red

— The End —