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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 picked
and 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 toes
still coated with clear polish.
Amidst smells of formaldehyde, stiffness in the air,
he adds color to worry-bleached cheeks
and tells her not to fret, reassuring
that she'll look lovely, regardless of tobacco teeth.
Outside"[Poetry is] honest, raw, unapologetic."
Unapologetic? My every word
is apology, in some context; an apology to myself
or to the reader, to everything else, to the mewling thing in my guts
that cries and cries and
Stop. Is this free verse? Is this blank verse?
Does my psychodynamic stanza have a rhyme
that can be identified not once, but all the time?
If this is my honesty, my rawness, why
does it have order at all? If I am honest
I am a scrabbling thing in the dirt and my thoughts
my thoughts are like moles in the sunlight
squealing and blind, flailing for cover.
But that's not the case; my thoughts are clean
and cold, produced by the mechanical pulsing
of the light in the bones in my head, collected,
and for that I must apologize. I don't have
the rawness, the honesty
to pry bittersweet beauty
from seventeen years of crusty cloth
without a pattern, without a pattern.
exists as trap-lines in sand
I lay mine carefully
never to be broken
pulled, they break
back, contingency cracks in veneer
in bulletproof glass
in my parlor
in my Oval Office
in my back-alleys
in my boardrooms
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 Research
I have a problem.
I have surveys to solve the problem.
The problem, though, is that I have surveys
to solve the problem.
One hundred twenty-two surveys
and, 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 problem
because that's biased.
Likewise, I can't wait until I'm done with the surveys to state the problem
because that's biased.
I'm biased against surveys, I think, but that doesn't solve the problem
because I still haven't clearly defined the problem I'm
trying to solve because the surveys aren't evaluated.
I should evaluate the surveys
to define the problem
to use the surveys
to solve the problem,
but to evaluate the surveys, I need a problem to solve.
The only problem I have at the moment
is 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 you
is that the means will be terrible.
The world will be cold when you escape yourself,
and when you
the cucoon, when you
the skin, when you crawl free? You'll be doomed.
That's the truth of the matter, plain
You'll be soft, little crawling thing; you'll be naïve,
and the wings they promised you
will 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 you
of 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 unblinking
and know that you won't make it if the rain comes too soon,
Re: ModernTo the urns, to mirages that hover close
with 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, but
for the guttering of a candle flickering,
no audience is audience all the same, having lived at both ends,
The world shrinks, and I am not
the child of ghosts, of powdered glass reflecting
brightness and green glowing things, immaterial
and 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 analysis
and 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 racketeers
with wheels strapped to our feet
and wings to our backs
and stars burning the palms of our hands
so that we let go and fall, whooping, back to the ground.
I can't forget the smell
of ozone and bones, like a gasoline fireplace
and the sound they made when they hit the dirt
like birds against windows:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Political refugees from the stratosphere
we failed our road tests
and had our heels revoked for being too round
even though they were really too flat, like busted tires.
I can't forget the look
on their faces, like a lightbulb burning out
and the sound they made when they tried to walk
like cars without chassis:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Crazy scribblers, trying to write the billion names of God
we traded feathers for dollars
and dollars for feathers
so we could pen our tales with politically-correct quills
although our words fell heavy on the pages
like acid raindrops, bitter:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A Raven and a Writing Desk: Chapter 1Asking me to recount the tale of my insanity is like asking me to recite the entire Bible from memory: parts will end up changed and aspects will be omitted, although not purposefully. The trouble I have telling this story is that while I’m positive something horrible happened, I can’t truthfully discern which parts were real and which weren’t. I will share what I remember with as much accuracy as possible, but don’t hold me to it.
It all began on a dark and dreary December night in 2013. Rain and wind howled in the windows as frigid air leaked in through whatever crevice it could, winding through the stillness like a hunting snake ready to bite my sides and infect me with its cold poison. Typical Bellingham weather. I was used to it, after so many years, so it didn’t bother me.
I sat at my desk, which sat in my room, which sat in my rather secluded house on the outskirts of the city. I hunched over my paper as I scribbled upon it, movements neat and quick
The silence is not your friendIt was just another average day for Lucius Barker. Wake up, have a shower, get dressed, attempt to eat breakfast without throwing the bowl at the wall, take an early morning beating from his foster father, go to school, come back, have dinner, do homework then go to bed. Lucius was 16 almost 17 living with a foster family after his parents were shot when a bank robbery went horribly wrong. He himself had been in the bank with his parents at the time and saw the shooting happen. After that he refused to speak to anyone unless necessary. Refusing to speak got Lucius into trouble a lot in school mainly with boys and girls who picked on him. Another reason for the abuse he received both at home and in school was the fact he heard things. Voices to be exact. The voices in his head told Lucius to do things he didn’t want to do which resulted with him yelling for them to stop and to shut up. Today was the day everything went wrong for Lucius. He did his normal routine and waited for his
"Ok, I made up my mind what we are going to do." Melody stood up and looked at her bored friends "And what is that?" Anna asked. "We are going to the SlenderMan woods!" Melody yelled. "No." Louis spoke up. "Aw come on Louis! It will be fun." Melody glared at Louis. "So its fun to die?" She asked. "We're not going to die..there is no such thing as SlenderMan." Melody joked. "Then why go?" Louis crossed her arms. "Because, it's something to do. And they say there are these notes that are stuck to trees, and other places. I say we make a game out of it." Melody walked to her dresser and pulled on a jacket. Louis rolled her eyes, as she to stood up, "What are the rules?" She asked. "No rules, who ever gets more notes before the sun rises...wins." Melody smirked. They all followed Melody to the kitchen, she grabbed six flashlights. "Ok, no one gets an extra flashlight." Melody handed everyone one. "What if it stops working?" Adam asked. "Oh well."
Who's that man?The day had gone by quickly for Alastair who was trying to go the day without having an episode. He was walking into the living room when he stopped seeing a man in white sitting on the couch.
“Ehh Masky who’s that?” Alastair asked when Masky passed him.
“No idea he won’t talk” Masky shrugged before continuing into the kitchen. Alastair studied the man and saw his yellowish hair hung low in front of his face covering most of his mask. He saw the white material had a thin black line on it which made a large smile. Alastair noticed the man was wearing a bloody straight jacket and his arms were tied behind his back. The man was wearing blue jeans and dirty black shoes. Alastair saw the handle of a scythe sticking out of his jeans and looked him over again.
“Ali! Ali! Ali!” Insane Smiles whined tugging on his shirt.
“What?” Alastair asked looking down at the young girl.
“What’s up with the weird guy on the couch?
The House Made of Flesh - PrologueWe were arriving at our new home. My father had told me a lot about it. It was an old mansion like building in the middle of nowhere. There were no trees or even grass, just loose sand, the road to the nearby town and maybe a few dry bushes here and there. My dad looked at me over his shoulder and asked to get out of the car.
It was cold outside, I missed the birds singing in the trees. I saw my parents walk into the house while I stood there near the car and pushed my hands into my pockets. I was still upset about the whole thing because I hated new places. There was even an empty sign close by which I stared at till my dad came back and dragged me and my stuff to the house.
“Don’t worry you’ll get used to this place in no time”, dad said.
“I’m not so sure. When does the school start?” I asked.
“Soon, but don’t worry about it right now. Just help us with putting things into the right places.”
I held my breath and asked where
Where Nightmares Play - Epilogue“Two weeks ago, up-and-coming artist Janine Hyland vanished from her motel in Wallace, Idaho while touring for the first time. Her manager, Jack Cason, reports having last seen her on the walkway outside of their room with her friend Sophie Sahall. Miss Sahall told police that she Janine wanted to ‘enjoy the scenery’ for a little while longer the night they checked in, and never returned to their room. They discovered that she was missing the next morning. Their sound technician, Hamlet Tuson, stated that they were all supposed to have stayed the night and left the next morning for Plymouth, Minnesota. Search teams scoured the area but found only a small amount of blood. This blood with confirmed to belong to miss Hyland, but nothing else has been found. Stay tuned after the break to find out what the chief of police thinks of the situa-“
The television powered down as Jack pushed the power button on his remote. He
VenganzaEn su pequeña ciudad la gente no era ferviente seguidora de decorar sus casas y calles de manera estrafalaria cuando se acercaba una festividad. Algunas incluso pasaban casi inadvertidas de no ser por la decoración obligatoria que realizaba el Ayuntamiento en avenidas y edificios públicos; fuera de eso, las casas se adornaban de un modo tan sencillo que hasta la decoración de Halloween podía permanecer hasta abril y parecería algo propio de la casa. Por eso fue que Daniel se sorprendió en cuanto vio todo el colorido con que anunciaban la navidad, con los árboles del camellón envueltos en redes de luces. Sabía que era normal esa clase de decoración, pero nunca había tenido oportunidad de estar ahí en esas fechas. Esta era la primera vez que se enfrentaba ante tal colorido. Figuras de Santa Claus, renos, duendes y trineos se veían de un lado a otro. Pronto su asombro pasó a convertirs
Jeff the Killer X Reader - Lies Ch 7.
State of Endless Wasteland
Earl sent the beautiful rays of sunshine down to my face, as always. But this time, I didn't wake up alone. When I opened my eyes I flinched a bit, but seeing the familiar person in front of me, I relaxed. Jeff was laying next to me, facing me and snoring gently. His chest rose and lowered in a slow rhythm, making him look so peaceful. I have never seen him sleeping so I'd never expected to see him wearing a black sleeping mask with a wet gauze behind it. Probably to moisten his eyes, I thought, and now that I had a chance, I decided to look at him further.
His skin was indeed as pale as a snow. And it looked like a fat layer of flour, but only if I looked really minutely. So the acid he was talking about probably stopped him from being burnt alive, but left an eternal trail on him. His pale hands along with the fingers were also covered with burnt acid. His fingers were long and they looked strong. It was like, if he didn't use the knife, he
March 14, 2001 “Academia et Scientiarum” Case 1
Pacem Police Department
[interrogator looks at camera]
[interrogator sits and reveals suspect with hands covering face]
[interrogator:]Hello Matt, I’m Detective Cassandra Ramirez, I’m here to ask you a few questions. Understand?
[interrogator:] Is your name Matthew Tredawney?
[interrogator:] Did you attend “Academia et Scientiarum”?
[interrogator:] Do you live in Pacem, Maine?
[interrogator:] Was Samantha Barnes your fiance?
[interrogator:] Do you know what happened March 8th between the hours of 5 pm and 4 am March 9?
[suspect:] Oh my god... oh my god. I... I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. That girl, poor poor girl, god. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want this to happen. I wasn’t in control. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t...I
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