MorticianCarefully, he peels back age-stiffened skin the last skirt a lady has to be lifted and knows her little grievances, the aches,the smoker's lungs, the ribs broken years ago,the little scratches on the leg where she pickedand picked, when nervous.He takes the too-large heart in his hands her heart in his hands!He knows her, although never acquainted formally,her calling-card affixed to bluish toesstill coated with clear polish.Amidst smells of formaldehyde, stiffness in the air,he adds color to worry-bleached cheeksand tells her not to fret, reassuringthat she'll look lovely, regardless of tobacco teeth.
Outside"[Poetry is] honest, raw, unapologetic."Unapologetic? My every wordis apology, in some context; an apology to myselfor to the reader, to everything else, to the mewling thing in my gutsthat cries and cries andStop. Is this free verse? Is this blank verse?Does my psychodynamic stanza have a rhymethat can be identified not once, but all the time?If this is my honesty, my rawness, whydoes it have order at all? If I am honestI am a scrabbling thing in the dirt and my thoughtsmy thoughts are like moles in the sunlightsquealing and blind, flailing for cover.But that's not the case; my thoughts are cleanand cold, produced by the mechanical pulsingof the light in the bones in my head, collected,and for that I must apologize. I don't havethe rawness, the honestyto pry bittersweet beautyfrom seventeen years of crusty clothwithout a pattern, without a pattern.
Weaver PoemAllexists as trap-lines in sandI lay mine carefullynever to be brokenpulled, they breakback, contingency cracks in veneerin bulletproof glassjust waityou'll seejust waitI seein my parlorin my Oval Officein my back-alleysin my boardroomsI see-watch-waitpulling pulling.
And You Will Lead Me ToIt has been one thousand eight hundred forty-nine days since the beginning of my sentence began. This is the one hundred eighty-fifth time that I have been placed into extended segregation for the good of the general population following dangerous and uncooperative behavior.I have been in here for two days four hours, excepting thirty minutes for a shower and sweep of the solitary confinement cell. Three thousand ninety minutes. The room is dark. One hundred eighty-five thousand four hundred seconds, three seconds ago. Time progresses, as it always does; I have been placed here following a confrontation with the prison psychiatrist. They are calling it a confrontation. I am calling it survival.Square peg, nonexistent hole. They ask me why I chose to do this. Why I chose to do that. Why I chose to be the "villain" in all of this, as if the world is a shape with definite sides. They continue to demand an explanation for my crimes. For my justices.Animals, filthy animals, all of them.
Advanced Science ResearchAdvanced Science ResearchI have a problem.I have surveys to solve the problem.The problem, though, is that I have surveysto solve the problem.One hundred twenty-two surveysand, so far, none of them have any solutions.To get my solution, I have to state my problem,except I can't state my problem in the surveys to solve the problembecause that's biased.Likewise, I can't wait until I'm done with the surveys to state the problembecause that's biased.I'm biased against surveys, I think, but that doesn't solve the problembecause I still haven't clearly defined the problem I'mtrying to solve because the surveys aren't evaluated.I should evaluate the surveysto define the problemto use the surveysto solve the problem,but to evaluate the surveys, I need a problem to solve.The only problem I have at the momentis the problem of having surveys,but that's biased.
Advice to a CaterpillarMy dear, what they told you is true:everything will be alright, in the end,but what they didn't tell youis that the means will be terrible.The world will be cold when you escape yourself,and when youbreakthe cucoon, when youbreakthe skin, when you crawl free? You'll be doomed.That's the truth of the matter, plainand simple.You'll be soft, little crawling thing; you'll be naïve,and the wings they promised youwill be limp, and wet.They will not work when you need them most,clinging horrified to the gnarled edges of the world.Every breeze will remind youof what you thought you could do,of what you must do,of what you cannot even hope to do,and hanging there, bedraggled and raw,you will stare out unblinkingand know that you won't make it if the rain comes too soon,indifferently pitter-pattering.
Re: ModernTo the urns, to mirages that hover closewith talk of Dickenson, and Hughes, and Kerouac Be quiet. They cannot hear your loosening screws.For what would you want the breakup of all wondrous things,the fractioning of personage?Be quiet. None are listening, butfor the guttering of a candle flickering,no audience is audience all the same, having lived at both ends,unwisely.The world shrinks, and I am not the child of ghosts, of powdered glass reflectingbrightness and green glowing things, immaterialand sickly. The ozone stink of burning cord,the tired plague of heavy gold, of lead,are me. My alchemy has run dry, and, brittle,I resign myself to analysisand am disassembled.
I am The PragmatistI am The Pragmatist, criminal mastermind, nemesis of the League of Crimefighters, supervillain, genius, monster, prisoner. This tale I pen is not for my own benefit. I stand only to lose from telling my story, and I know that I will lose terribly. I am writing this because I am compelled to, and I can only hope with what remains of my faith, and of my sanity, that some good will come of it.-I remember the first time that the true nature of my world was revealed to me. I was in prison; I had been apprehended once again by Apex and his league of masked heroes and left to rot in a cell identical to ones I had been in before. Fool that I was, I thought that it was due to my error, a flaw in my plans, and as I lay on my cot I reviewed my actions, vowed to finally realize my goals as soon as I escaped. Then I set to work, crafting an escape route out of the prison; materials came to me as they always did, unknowingly gifted to me in the furnishings of my cell and the implausible technologi
Reminiscence of a Postmodern CriticOh yeah. Preach it We are the children of a thousand racketeerswith wheels strapped to our feetand wings to our backsand stars burning the palms of our handsso that we let go and fall, whooping, back to the ground.I can't forget the smellof ozone and bones, like a gasoline fireplaceand the sound they made when they hit the dirtlike birds against windows:Thump. Thump. Thump.Political refugees from the stratospherewe failed our road testsand had our heels revoked for being too roundeven though they were really too flat, like busted tires.I can't forget the lookon their faces, like a lightbulb burning outand the sound they made when they tried to walklike cars without chassis:Thump. Thump. Thump.Crazy scribblers, trying to write the billion names of Godwe traded feathers for dollarsand dollars for feathersso we could pen our tales with politically-correct quillsalthough our words fell heavy on the pageslike acid raindrops, bitter:Thump. Thump. Thump.We wer
Dangerous ReadingFrom the journal of Sarah Richardson.“February 18, 1928At long last I have found what my family has been searching for! For three generations my family has scoured the darkest corners of the earth for this treasure and at last my souls of my father and grandfather can rest easy in their graves. I am on a fishing vessel bound for Oslo where I can then journey back home to Baltimore and continue my research. This journey has been an arduous one. Nearly fourteen months scouring frozen fjords in Scandinavia have tested both my will and my tolerance of the cruel elements of the cold, far north. Next to me in a crude parcel is the very thing my grandfather weaved countless stories about and what my father invested more than half of the family fortune into. I am the one that shall prove their sacrifices of time and money were not in vain. Our critics shall finally be silenced! My treasure is not one of gold, silver or any precious ston
Demons (Chapter 1)Jeff's P.O.V.I was getting ready for my casual killing sprees. It was late, like.. 1 am. My brother Liu stared at me, like worried. — Sometimes I wonder if you're okay.. I thought you were going to kill people who just "infested the world", remember?— I do, but what's wrong with looking for that kind of humans? — I laughed.— You're insane dude. — Liu said, going back to his tv show. So I just looked for my black jacket as always and I went outside. I wore my surgical mask to hide my scars, to not 'scare' someone. I laughed again and started to walk. Maybe I could find someone, but to be honest the street was pretty desertic. I wanted to go for a female this time. I think they're better to kill, I'm going to guess it's because I'm a straight guy..? I don't know, I'm overthinking.After a while, I saw a female that caught my atention. I couln't see her face, her head was down but she was indeed a female. She was wearing dark c
The Paranormals- Chapter 1- Crimson Cross AcademyI stared at the large building before me.It looked like something plucked from a horror movie.The aged grey bricks were cracked and molded, the thousands of windows' shutters were dangling. A chain-link fence enclosed the structure in a tight space. The academy sat on a cliff overlooking a large blackish lake. Bright, full trees filled the perimeter with much needed foliage.CAUTION: HIGH VOLTAGE! RISK OF ELECTROCUTION! was plastered on a metal sign next to the gate.Lovely.I squinted and looked at the large sign staked in the front yard. Welcome to Crimson Cross Academy! Enjoy Your Stay!Oh, I will.I was excited to enter this Castle Of Doom. I got a weird, creepy vibe from it. Hell, it radiated off the place. Totally my style. The stained glass window of an "angel" that was high to the top of the academy, overlooked to grounds.They probably installed a video camera in the eye."Logan, dear," Mrs. Camowell, my "used-to-be
QuietAmbition cut off for the night,she sits and listens to the sounds of crickets trapped in walls.