“Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that *****.”
― Lili St. Crow

“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“Meggie Folchart: Having writer's block? Maybe I can help.
Fenoglio: Oh yes, that's right. You want to be a writer, don't you?
Meggie Folchart: You say that as if it's a bad thing.
Fenoglio: Oh no, it's just a lonely thing. Sometimes the world you create on the page seems more friendly and alive than the world you actually live in.”
― David Lindsay-Abaire

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”
― Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.”
― Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella



“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing — just for the hell of it, just to keep their fingers from becoming too arthritic, just because they have made a commitment to try to write three hundred words every day. Then, on bad days and weeks, let things go at that… Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck. You’ll sit there going, ‘Are you done in there yet, are you done in there yet?’ But it is trying to tell you nicely, ‘Shut up and go away.'” — Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.” — Mark Twain

“The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck. Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time. But if you think about it consciously or worry about it you will **** it and your brain will be tired before you start.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Many years ago, I met John Steinbeck at a party in Sag Harbor, and told him that I had writer’s block. And he said something which I’ve always remembered, and which works. He said, “Pretend that you’re writing not to your editor or to an audience or to a readership, but to someone close, like your sister, or your mother, or someone that you like.” And at the time I was enamored of Jean Seberg, the actress, and I had to write an article about taking Marianne Moore to a baseball game, and I started it off, “Dear Jean . . . ,” and wrote this piece with some ease, I must say. And to my astonishment that’s the way it appeared in Harper’s Magazine. “Dear Jean . . .” Which surprised her, I think, and me, and very likely Marianne Moore.” — John Steinbeck by way of George Plimpton

“Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.” — Norman Mailer in The Spooky Art: Some Thoughts on Writing

“[When] the thoughts rise heavily and pass gummous through my pen… I never stand conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch of ***** or a stride or two across the room will not do the business for me — … I take a razor at once; and have tried the edge of it upon the palm of my hand, without further ceremony, except that of first lathering my beard, I shave it off, taking care that if I do leave hair, that it not be a grey one: this done, I change my shirt — put on a better coat — send for my last wig — put my topaz ring upon my finger; and in a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best fashion.” — Laurence Sterne

“I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer’s block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don’t. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” — Barbara Kingsolver

“Writer’s block…a lot of howling nonsense would be avoided if, in every sentence containing the word WRITER, that word was taken out and the word PLUMBER substituted; and the result examined for the sense it makes. Do plumbers get plumber’s block? What would you think of a plumber who used that as an excuse not to do any work that day?

The fact is that writing is hard work, and sometimes you don’t want to do it, and you can’t think of what to write next, and you’re fed up with the whole **** business. Do you think plumbers don’t feel like that about their work from time to time? Of course there will be days when the stuff is not flowing freely. What you do then is MAKE IT UP. I like the reply of the composer Shostakovich to a student who complained that he couldn’t find a theme for his second movement. “Never mind the theme! Just write the movement!” he said.

Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren’t serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.” — Philip Pullman

This is a synn.
Synns live in scary sculptures under spider webs in spooky science labs.
Synns eat sour strawberries, smoked sausages, and snapdragons.
Synns send smoke signals, stare at nothing in particular, stalk their prey, and swim in the sea.
Synns like to sing sad songs, to sit around campfires, and to grin at strangers with sharp smiles.
This synn scratched symbols on my arm.
It slings sharp objects at me and stands over me while I sleep.

You
Have

A

Complicated
Smile


He
Informed
Me

Why
Is
That

?

How
To
Answer

A

Question
So
Simple

While
Truth
Is
So
Complex

How
Do
You

Explain

VerMeer’s
Obsession

Light
And
Dark

Einstein’s
Spooky
Action

­At
A
Distance

Is
It
All

Intertwined

Or

Separately
Defined

Explain

Pain
Or
Fear

Anger
Or
Shame

Does
My

Lonelin­ess

Look
Like
Yours

Or is it

Unique

In
All
The
Universe

When
I

Think
Feel
Want
See

Love

What
Does
It

Mean
Seem
Is
Be

To you

Is
It
Like
Mine

Or

Will
My
Dark

Conflict

With
Your
Light

Will
My
Truth

Scare
You
Off

Or did my

Smile

Already
Tell
You

All

You
Need
To
Know

serving as candyman
this spooky evening
an evening of Treat..
but the Trick
where is it hiding..?
it must be there
in those masks
or those sacks
because the Trick
is the spice
the shadows
leaves crunching
the flashlights
this magic night...!

Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you....love you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

"Uh...my sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me from...so I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming

No matter how strong you are one cannot simply out-muscle or out-shine a mad man who has great taste in fashion.  
A.M.G. Is the ultimate hooligan it doesn't have to take charge to prove it's tenacity because it's a presidential sedan that puts you in charge.
No need for a spooky entrance because sometimes demons want to dwell were there is brute force.
I miss the 6.2 litre engine, it is the intrinsic Moto of Mercedes," A big engine for the perfect gentlemen".
Cruising luxuriously has no peak when it comes to un-doubtable comfort and well established elegance.  With a classic loud noise one can't but wonder if the barbarian needs marketing.
An angry gentlemen with a smile on his face that never lacks in pace doesn't need frenetic footwork, the gentlemen goes straight to the point  and why wobble on about a winding route when Mercedes automatically includes you in elite circles. Quality that exceeds all levels of maturity, Mercedes keeps getting younger and wiser!
The phrase "numbers don't lie" insinuates that alphabets do lie. Really? How? When their associated with such class...A-class, B-class, C-class, E-class, G-class, S-class and so on. I think the numbers cliche is a turn-off.
Pleasure always mixes with business when it comes to a Benz.

Quiet nights
Whispered days
Outlandish sights
Peculiar maze
Tazed in by sun and the moon
Spooky goblins
Ghoulish freaks
Roam and prowl
The steadied caves
Kooky beings
All misbehave
Tranced by idols
Turned from God!!!!
Blaspheme love
Tis they do
Seeketh romance by phones
Back away like shrews
Kills one souls
Plots none muse
Muse is gone
The suns went down
Harrowing he feels
Writing scribes
Sick of all the same
Tis wants to die
Suicide not by choice
Lifts his head in all rejoice
Because he knows what he seeketh is right around the bin
No more fairy taled wim
Whimsical laughs
No more grins
None more waiting
On a dream
None more screams
Nor false delight
None more worries of bedtime fright
None more fights
Now all is right
Lost his mind
Gaveth his soul
Plundered down to stage six of hell
Wherein chaperones giveth ringing bells
Steps to God
God to appeal
Forgiveth one in time surreal
No more distasteful needing and wanting words
The I love thou's shalt no more heard
He's lost his touch
He's lost his cure
Giveth up all
Forgotten the world
Paintings he shalt go on in
Be like the greats of archaic sin
Handstroke brushes to pull him in
He's done
Oh my
He's done!!!

Heard again that loud eerie scream
The said haunted house on that hill came to life...
Lightning and a roar of thunder, the darkest night..
An Unexpected encounter with a supernatural being
She wasn't  a pretty little thing, She didn't even have a name...
a deformed creature, something ghostly unexplained...
Curiosity landed me in this spooky room
Everything was point blank except for a scary looking  white figure
Hanging upside down with her tongue sticking out..
Unprepared, I was drowned in  terrible  fear , shaking!
The ghostly beast kept screaming, "Where is my baby?"
Tormented... trapped .. dead meat ... I am history...

Science
This is instant messaging in the smallest scale.
Two (or more) particles are separated in space.
An action performed on one is repeated by the other.
Once entwined, they are fundamentally connected.

Romance*
Two lovers that were torn apart
by fate, against them from the start.
They kept a secret close to heart,
a way to stay connected -- how smart!

Wherever you and I may be
the stars are there for us to see.
And so the lovers could agree:
to share the heavens, they were free.

Day or Night matters not,
it changes neither script nor plot.
A love that cannot be forgot
conquers any rational thought.

But as the days went by
fear gripped her.

She thought,
It scares me that we'll never know
if one of us has stopped looking up.

He knew this day would come,
and had responded in advance.

She could hear him say,
If you look up, so will I.
If you stop, I will too.
It's spooky how we'll know,
but we will.

Fear not the coming of that day.
It may not even come, who can say?
Two souls entwined, though far away
are never truly led astray.

The fingernail moon illuminates the inky black evening
while barren tree branches scratch and poke at the windowpanes.
The letter he wrote for you neatly sealed in its envelope in the dark
of your room, in the corner mostly, where wind
and spooky spirits congregate and flow
in grand swirls like the divine milk (it tells things to you) in your teacup.

It would seem that the whimsy and love letters that appear in your teacup
are insufficient in relaying your message, instead your voice gets lost in the evening.
You try to stutter out how you haven’t opened it, how words don’t just flow
from your pen like they flow from his, how the paper-airplanes he’s tossed you just clunk on the windowpanes
and they do not enter inside, although you sort of wish they did, but the wind
is not strong enough to compel you to throw him a paper-airplane response in the dark.

It is too much to talk to him, too much to throw your worries into his dark
heart and have them go from vibrant to stone cold in his grasp, and the prospect of it all makes your teacup
shake and tremble in your pale weak hands, pale like paper, paper that can just blow away in the wind
like it was nothing. You reminisce of warmer days in the summer, with the sunset in the evening
and his hand clasped around yours in the lavender field, like you were a flower to treasure and display along the kitchen windowpanes,
And you would beam and spill yourself everywhere and your leaves would flow

onto the countertop, because you are this all-pervasive and growing creature in tune with the flow
of the universe. You are bigger than the secrets and things that stay in the dark,
and it’s perfectly okay that the windowpanes
have shutters, the okayness of it all was shocking when you first realized it, when the trembling of the teacup
finally ceased. The warm brushstrokes of evening
align themselves and coat you in secret invisible paint so that you can blend in with the wind



and let it carry you somewhere fresh and clean and terrible, where the wind
sweeps through alleyways like a madman chasing you down with a dagger in hand, chasing you with the flow
and the torrent of words you refuse to hear. When you finally found your resting place, it was evening
and you were in your grandmother’s rocking chair, the old creaking thing; you were wrapped in a blanket of dark
and comfortable, the whispers of undesired contact spinning in your head, swirling in your teacup.
But you’ve come to the conclusion that you can just leave it alone, leave him out of view, because your windowpanes

are frosted over, and you haven’t had much interest lately in clean glass, much less clean windowpanes.
You reach for his letter, not to break the seal, but instead to toss it to the wind.
You pour a brew of uncried tears and a sprinkle of cinnamon into your teacup,
and your thoughts flow
like the gutter outside that’s gushing with heavenly rain, but they’re all pure and good and dark
just how you like them. This has become your evening.

You have no interest in the world beyond the windowpanes. Your pen was not meant to flow

with godly ink, all those thoughts were best left to fly in the wind with the birds and the crawling things that might care to listen to his sermon in the dark.

Fill his glass with holy red wine and lamb’s blood (pick your poison), sure, but not for you and the china teacup….the tranquility of unsealed letters pairs well with your brew in the evening.

Grandma never told me a tale
Never scared me by pointing at spooky pots
Never pained me by showing the bird cage trapped in the wild fire
Never forcefed me by threatening to lay in dark corridors
Never slept near me
Nor caressed me.

Sometimes she raved
About the handsomeness,
The extravagance and intelligence
Of our alcoholic, pockfaced, stingy
Grandpa.

And all these like fable
Told long ago
By your Grandma.

As many men sweat and groan
with heavy stones on ropes to pull
the pyramid grows and grows
like a small child growing up

The man in charge watches on
whip in his clenched fist
his dark eyes look over the work
his ears alert for rebellion

The pharaoh sits in his palace
unaware of the troubles of his slaves
drinking fine palm wine
from a large golden chalice

The sphinx lies on its plinth
like the king of beasts taking a rest
demanding respect from all
its large yellow form
casting spooky shadows on the sand
as the sun rises up over the horizon

The music's best on the dark
side of town, I heard. It seemed miles
from home, after waiting in a long traffic jam
But the lights finally changed
from glamorous shining to dull neon, covered in smoke
drifting up from drifters outside the Black Cat.

By the fluorescent green sign, a cat
was painted, its fur dark
as the alley I stood in, engulfed in smoke.
The cat perched atop Miles
Davis's trumpet. Bums hassled me for change
and a few drummed on buckets, jamming

with a harmonica player, synched as jam
and peanut butter. I stepped into the Black Cat,
and from the facade saw no change.
The lights turned low, the club dark
as the alley outside. A Miles
record hovered through the smoke.

The people chattered like bees, smoking,
waiting for the players to jam.
At last, the bass player laid down a line miles
long, the drummer chinked in, and the cats
began to groove. They chilled my bones with dark
melodies, pounding through spooky chord changes.

Soon sunbeams shone through the storm, they changed
to an upbeat swing tune. The horn smoked,
hitting riffs unheard, astounding the dark
faces gazing on in awe. They jammed
endless as the ocean. The cats
started to play a popular Miles

song.  The crowd hollered in Miles'
memory as the horn steered through the changes
with the skill of the legend of the Black Cat.
The band, nearly invisible through the haze of smoke
thick in the air, strawberry jam,
soon faded to dark.

Miles Davis’s ghost flowed through the smoke,
awakened by the chord changes, grooving to the jam.
The hippest cat alive or dead, now he plays in the dark.

I trespassed into the woods
following the fragrance of a wildflower.
There was a spring of silence, birds,
and tall trees; silent indeed only
the winds sounded silent,
once I found her, she whispered...
Are you feeling dark and gloomy?
Black and empty as a dusty chalkboard?
Spooky like foggy lights falling along leaves?
Did you paint your walls with
Broken crayons?
Do you remember when we lay beside
each other, bodies warmed by darkness?

A lonely ache knocks. Asks how
far I will go to find you in me.
When everything cloaked in silence?

Wounds will heal as time flies
Call me melancholy

I am the lonely chime at night
the one that gives you a fright
then you turn on a bright
light
and with all of your might you get out of bed
to check and see whats ahead
led down a dark and spooky hall way
the noise gets closer
and clearer
have you been looking for this or has it found you

Okay guys, time to get up.
Time to rise, time to shine.
No.. you can't stay home today..
It's time to rise and....
No, you are not in a coma
Because you're breathing... and talking.
Yes, breakfast is ready.
I don't know where your book is..
Come on, you need to wash first.
Yes, before you get dressed.
Well tell him he's not in a coma..
Okay, breakfast first.
Tell him, if he doesn't wake from his coma soon
there will be no break... he said he's dead?
Okay, no yummy waffles for dead people then..
Yes, you need your book.
It's probably beside your bed.
Oh good, how did I know?
It was just a hunch..
No, I don't have a hunch.. It was a hunch..
Like an idea...
Idea... I.D.E.A, have you cleaned your teeth?
Ah coma boy, glad you could join us.
Your shoes are where you left them.
No, there's a left one and a right one.
Left.. where you left them, that's right..
Okay..okay..find two shoes that belong to you and
put them on your feet..
You can't take the hamster to school..
Okay...you can't take 'Jason' to school.
sigh because he doesn't have a uniform...
What is in your hair?
So it smells minty...?
Okay, get a damp cloth..
I can see him wriggling in your pocket.
Yes, we are late again.
Half past eight.
Okay, just.. just..put the potato back.
One, it's not cooked and two, it won't fit in your lunch box.
Why is Jason in your.. just put him back.
You need a spooky costume today?
Why are you telling me now?
For tomorrow...
Good heavens, you will have to take a sheet off the line.
Well, it will be dry by the time we get to school.
Okay, are we ready?
You need a ***?
Just *** really quick.
Well, *** faster..
No, I don't have a hunch...
I'm praying...
Okay.. are we ready?
Then let's go.

Cupid’s adept at quantum entanglement
his arrow has no shaft instead a crafty wave
two spinning end curves, not a singular head
as this emissary sends signal to maid and knave
vibrations ripple with superposition stead

like bottle-nosed dolphin smoothly outdelivers
bashful receivers twist, twirl, dare not quiver
electric intention across time-space weave
this is no unruly Robin Hood fighting heave
Divine alignment chooses magnetic maiden

portal opens precious pearly coded probability
universe responds with willing golden spirals
precise molecules looking like slippery chirals
rascal but knows ardent alchemical compatibility
mercurial mirror reflects duo’s ample agilities

turquoise light refracting lifts forgotten bond
sacred it slept inside musical harp softly fond
pirouetting progresses path matching persons
particles becoming prime entangled photons
picking out their aspects is a spooky action

wave emits fractal triangle as realisation hits
atomic Love cannot but flamenco follow flits
heart harmonic orchestrates beloved true
when triangle aims this is the cue !

©GhairoDanielsPoetry

_______

*triangle in this context : God/masculine/feminine

Welcome to my Scary Halloween Spooky Party Night -Theme for a night is a creepy illusion light for a reflection blurred of an eerie life. its Demon the spiritual faces to ready for the Party night, Which is Making out to be the Bestest crooked Halloween spooky might.
I bet this party will be a great spooky late at night"& Cracked at all time..
Date: 31st Oct at 11pm
Venue: Hallow Town of  Stuffy street
Costume : Creepy Hat with a Long Spooky Coat dual colors — usually red and black..

    Special Spooky Party Menu...
             ....Starter....
 Blood Soup with Cheese Croutons
                   &
         Fried Nail Parcels...
                    
      ..... Main courses.....
  Twisted leg With crispy Shoulder...
                   &
     Roasted Pepper teeth with Blood drink...
     King Nose Sizzler with Sticky Ears..
                         
         ......Desserts .....
   Pudding Skin Custard Creme

Hope u have enjoyed my Invitation card.. so plz dare to come &enjoy; the scary night to remain till the next time..
                                                          ­             -Chirayu

Under the beating tickled sun
The shackles sting as they twinkle
No heart beat is near that I can hear
Only one more moment I can bear

At the hour of one's finest moment
Where all time stops for Him
And the birds stop chirping, dogs cease barking
The one trips over His own two feet

Either the greeting cards are colored wrong
Or I am in another song
Either my smile has grown down and crooked
Or I am naked and looking spooky

Fish me a riddle from the greatest lake you can find
Where they shiver either when they say their warm
Whistle through the thick green brush
Where bugs lay quiet for to speak don't mean much

Could it be that we were never meant to see?
Blind and fame both seem to be the same thing
Swiveling chairs make the sitters hair stand on end
So don't worry darling were bout' round the bend

A year passes through a ring made of pure steel
And I'm pricking myself to see if I can still feel
Fiery foreman's pound their pencils to pieces
And each daughter will soon scold their French nieces

Ill from the sight of a love that didn't want to work
Now I feel like a dusty road bound turk
Feet are twisted as the sisters pray fast away
The blur of this world is an unsolvable swirl

Nightly knights clad in robes of purple gold
Bounce around by orders that they are told
Now the times seem to be all the same
And to deny it would bring a guilt elusive and lame

Memories mourn their masters for now they've nowhere to go
Mothers whine and cry after their children who only say "so...?"
Fathers lay staring at a ceiling that isn't even theirs
And I'm all outta' money, can you spot on this fare?

The fox
runs alongside the astronaut,
who looks at a picture frame.
Around the fox’s neck, a white bandana.
There, on the spooky
moon, his only company is the fox colored aluminum.

The aluminum
fur of the fox
blends into the moonscape. The ship is empty aside from them and the spooky
remanence of the rest of the crew. As the lone astronaut
works to return home, his only comfort being the bandana
and the picture frame.

The frame
that holds a photo of a woman, standing before the ship of aluminum.
Tied around her hair, the bandana
which has since been given to the fox.
The memories it brings ever haunting the astronaut
making the moon ever more spooky.

The spooky
feeling is not eased by the frame
as the remains of passed astronauts
are trapped in this aluminum
ship, the lone survivors being the man and the fox.
He keeps his thoughts on the bandana.

Her bandana,
given to him on a dark and spooky
day, which he then gave to the fox
so he may pretend the woman in the frame
isn’t millions of miles away from them. A fox of aluminum
and a lonely astronaut.

The astronaut
chooses to focus on returning to the woman without her bandana.
He works tirelessly to get the aluminum
rocket ship off the spooky
and desolate moon, and back to earth, to see the woman in the frame.
By his side on this barren rock, looking up at him, stands the fox.

The astronaut refuses to let the spooky
atmosphere deter him from his goal of returning the bandana to the woman in the frame,
ever thankful for the company of the aluminum fox.

"What will you be for Halloween,
Dear little son? Let's see…
What could you be for Halloween?
What would you like to be?"

"I want to be something very scary--
Something that makes the people wary…
A villain who has a spooky face
And makes the world an uglier place…
Who represents an antihero…
Whose record shows he's batting zero…
Who causes suffering everywhere
And acts as though he doesn't care.
That's what I'll be for Halloween;
That's what I want to be."

"What will you be for Halloween,
Dear little son? Let's see…
What could you be for Halloween?
What would you like to be?"

"I'll be the meanest person of all,
Who has no sense of protocol…
Maybe the biggest liar on earth,
Whose only care is what he's worth…
Who many call a political hack
Or a selfish egomaniac…
Who drags the people's names through the mud…
A vampire who is out for blood.
That's what I'll be for Halloween;
That's what I want to be."

"What will you be for Halloween,
Dear little son? Let's see…
What could you be for Halloween?
What would you like to be?"

"I want to make people ill at ease
By kissing up to enemies…
I want to make my critics cower,
The ones who say I abuse my power…
I want my poisonous words to flow
And boost the art of quid pro quo.
I'll pretend I'm heaven sent,
And so I'll be the PRESIDENT!
That's what I'll be for Halloween;
That's what I want to be."

-by Bob B (10-31-19)

Gaze at the gigantic moon.
See how it illuminates the room.
The sky so foggy & dark casts shimmer of light,
The night grass soggy.
The dog still barks, moonlight glows bright.
A silloutte shadow of a black cat jumps a fence.
My heart beat intense.
Spooky images move.
My vision improves.
Owls are bad luck.
If you hear one at midnight it means someone is going to die.
Say " goodbye".

Once, a long long time ago, there lived a happy family,
of good looking dinosaurs, with all daughters; they had three.

The dad went to his job all day, he always worked very hard,
to support his family the best he could, against all evil he did guard.

And so his daughters and his wife never wanted for anything at all,
he even built them a swimming pool, his own hands put up the walls.

His daughters knew that they got lucky by having such a dad,
who did so many great things for them, though just his presence made them glad.

On top of this, these three girls had a pretty awesome mom,
who stayed home with them when they were little, and helped them all day long.

She put band-aids on their bruised up knees and brushed away their tears,
and came when they had spooky dreams, to chase away their fears.

Then, when they grew up a bit, she followed her own dream,
and started teaching little dinosaurs all the things that they would need.

Soon enough, it was time for their oldest to leave the nest,
and find out where she should go to start her own life’s quest.

While they were sad to see her go, her family did not despair,
for it was not that far to her new “independent” lair.

All too soon, it was time for the next daughter to move away,
she chose a slightly farther place, where they could not see her every day.

This made her family pretty sad, they didn’t want her to go,
but they knew she had to try new things, and have her own space to grow.

And so the “baby” was left alone at home, though baby is not the right word,
because she had grown into a beautiful dinosaur, as if overnight she had matured.

It was weird for this youngest dinosaur, without her sisters there,
she had her parents to herself, along with the entire upstairs.

While some days this was pretty nice, it was a little bittersweet,
because she loved her sisters very much, and they had moved out of her reach.

However, distance makes the heart grow fonder, as the oldest soon found out,
she hadn’t thought she could love her family more, but she now did, without a doubt.

And though it made her sad that she did not see them every day,
they were always in her thoughts, never even slightly fading away.

So this oldest daughter was really not too sad,
when she thought of her family, it only made her glad.

Because what she had realized, with all this time apart,
is that you never leave your family, because they’re always in your heart.

H.P. Lovecraft's most famous quotes about the horror genre is that: "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, T.S.Eliot I. The Burial of the Dead


As a child I was never fearful.
Not of the dark, spiders or ghosts.
In fact I was wilful.
Hard hearted, cold.
I liked that about me, it was a barrier to the outside world.
I was the loner, the malcontent, the strange spooky one.
I loved it more as a teen, embraced the Gothic, elevated the bizarre.
I smoked, it was cool, I drank, it was cool, I was nihilistic, it was cool.
Popular meant conforming, how that repulsed me.
Why? Because conformity meant no individuality, no soul.
My Grandmother said once "be careful what you read, it becomes you"
Yeah right, look I'm Pennywise the clown!
But she was right in a way.
I became repulsed by myself.
I had no compassion.
No true love to call my own.
I was alone with my fear, my fear of loneliness. Irony.
I had no true identity, I hid in horror, then became horrified.
I didn't know what was coming, where I was going, who I was.
I was afraid. Truly afraid for the first time.
Afraid of my shadow, of not knowing, of returning to the grave.
Fear is a loathsome creature, devouring love and hope.
Yet, know this, we are born to die, the clock runs down, no appeals.
So fill up on love, fill up on warmth, for Hell maybe hot, but alone,
it's cold*.