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My Spider Wears a Tinfoil Hat Murder is wrong. Murder is usually, most entirely and for the most part extremely bad when it comes down to it. Shockingly enough, people thought murder was so wrong that they made laws about it. You can't murder people is what they say and they say that you can't harm animals either. That doesn't stop one from killing alien species.
The alien in question was tall, black and had eight legs. Eight long, entirely gross and disgusting legs that scurried away into dark corners with its equally—if not more-so—ugly eyes. Spiders sucked and that is really the point of it all.
There are a lot of options on what one can do when they spot one of these alien creatures. Scream is always the first option whether one likes it or not. The louder and higher the scream depends on where one happens to find the spider. If it's on the floor about fifty or so feet away, a quick “ah” is sufficient. However, if you find the s
Hello, Hello Pennsylvania?Hello, Hello Pennsylvania?
Take me off to Pennsylvania
some exotic Transylvania
Make me feel like the Tasmanian devil.
Take me up and taking down,
take your feet right up the ground.
We'll go up and upside in Pennsylvania.
I want us to make ruritania in
some exotic Transylvania.
Flip me up and upside down,
There's no reason to frown in Pennsylvania.
Take me for your bride—
Take me like you're my
Take me off to the station
Alcohol has no relation
to how much I want to see the nation
Through blood relations, health complications,
I want to see the world's location!
Bad dictation, price inflation
I want to see it all!
Take me off to Pennsylvania
some exotic Transylvania
Please, before I explode with mania.
Take me off on a ride to Pennsylvania!
American M-I-N-U-T-E-M-E-NWake up every morning
Everyday could be the day,
the gun is polished at the door,
we've got a minute before--
“The British are coming,
the British are coming!”
Take your marks.
Welcome to Massachusetts,
where the militia chooses
who and who to shoot.
The English have their evil,
drinking their upheaval.
It's a wonder why,
they come back spry
as we dump them
all in Boston.
Bang starts the revolution
clear around the world.
A start for North America:
the game for France's mania.
And finally 17,000 men take their—
And finally it all comes crashing—
Warm Laundry I'm stuck in a type of an experiment that involves an extraordinarily large laundry shoot. Claustrophobic as it may be, it's one of the most comfortable experiences I've ever had. With five foot thick walls surrounding me in a sort of dull grey arena, the addition of cozy sweaters and miss matching socks really brightens up the decor.
Everyday, there are five pounds of laundry that is stacked up through a laundry shoot in the corner of the ceiling. At first, I let the laundry stack up a bit, until I decided it would be much more comfortable to sleep on an ugly sweater than concrete ground. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, because all of the laundry was still warm after days of just sitting there and collecting dust.
The flow kept coming and I suspected that there was another pound of laundry being added to the load. I'm always so snug and cozy though, so I don't really care all that much. I just really wish I had
And to everyone that took time out of their days to tune into another episode of “Adjusting The Antennae,” I give you my most gracious thank you. Also, for those of you that are new here, “Adjusting The Antennae,” is the show where we try to shift the focus of dA to the greatness of poetry and prose. Of course, it is my greatest pleasure to have gotten this far with you all and I hope you all know how much I love and appreciate everyone’s support of me, my works, and this series. I also hope that you all enjoyed this Christmas Eve installment of “Adjusting The Antennae.”
I also want to give a huge thank you to the truly lovely Naktarra for taking time out of her busy schedule to share more about herself and her spectacular artwork with this amazing community.
On one last point, if you know of a writer who deserves more attention or a writer you believe would make for a good interviewee, please comment below or note me with your suggestion(s)! You're also more than welcomed to add questions along with your suggestions, too. Also, if you enjoyed this interview, please show Naktarra some love, spread the word on this series, or just let your thoughts be known on this with a comment!
Ars Moriendi My grandfather told me that I would find the map to heaven in the sky.
"the clouds are secret doors for the wicked to sneak through."
So, at 6, I spent my hours searching the sky for a cloud big enough that my whole family could fit.
My mother said he was just plain crazy.
She told me heaven was dying after a sinless life and that for a girl: the only sins I really had to worry about were men.
So, at 12, I told the boy who asked me to the movies, "no." He didn't like that word much and said so with a few bruises in places I didn't dare mention.
My brother said that heaven was found in a Bible.
He had always been better at navigation than me.
So,at 13, I stopped going to youth groups because heaven surely couldn't be found next to people who tasted miserably alone.
Some werewolf boy told me that heaven wasn't in the secrets or the starvation that I was learning to love.
But I was more concerned with my own nightmares.
So, at 14, I told him I didn't love him: again, and again, and
Perhaps I Dreamed itShe stepped into the chilly night and sat right there, beside the door. As she lit her cigarette, her face blossomed in the glow of the lighter. For a singular and consequential moment, I saw the blue and vast emptiness of her eyes before the darkness took her again. She had no awareness of my existence, feet away from her, crouched and breathless in her bushes. Although I—a complete stranger—sat there and watched her, I felt as though she was the one trespassing on my sanctuary. I did not call out to her. I made no attempt to warn her of my presence, told myself that it would only upset her, that her trembling hands and quick, short breaths could not take the shock. I know now that it was those beautiful and frighteningly void eyes that had stopped me. My curiosity has always been stronger than my courtesy.
I watched her, and she sat, still in the darkness except for the occasional drag from her cigarette. Halfway through her smoke, she began to cry—great, silent sob
The Lousy TipperDeath took the stairs one step at a time. His cloak rustled quietly against his bones.
The shadows he passed reached out to him, curling towards him, melding with his shadowy cloak.
Where his skeletal feet touched the carpet they left an almost inky residue, printing the intricate picture of the tiny bones on the fabric, only to be swept up by his trailing cloak without a trace.
Although they probably should have, his bones did not creak as he moved and he advanced in a sliver of utter silence but for the sound of shadows lapping at his feet.
He carried his burden with a reverence usually reserved for the most holy of relics. He supported its squarish form on the tips of his outspread fingers – balanced without even the barest of trembles. In his other hand he gently swung his scythe in what little area the stairwell permitted.
Death stepped out into a narrow hall. He noted the mould encroaching across the walls and the odd stains on the carpet and something akin to
daughter on the stepstool I count the cracks in between the blocks of cement as I walk, eyes downcast. Sets of two, sets of two. I can never quite shake the way my bones don’t sit right under my skin, too big for my body. It’s a constant itch that I can’t scratch, only mollified when I listen, when I listen to what it tells me. My disease tells me to count in sets of two—blink four times, two sets of two. I don’t understand, but those numbers are safety in a storm. They ruin me, though. They ruin me. I hide behind mathematical equations that account for sets of two, and I leave her to drown.
These are my hands, but they’re really just earthquakes. I am not afraid to crumble anything that gets in my way, and it’s always her. She always tries to stop me, tells me she loves me after calling me fucked up. Fucked up. I lose sleep because sometimes I dream in shades that I do not like. Blue, like her eyes. One syllable, half of a set. A ghost
Empty Parks: Slept on Sunday
Do you even remember the first time we kissed?
My garage was just another room and we couldn't get in the house. I’d left my keys. Silly, I did that often in the beginning.
My black dress was plain and my heels had been kicked off carelessly onto the floor. Your suit was black, offset only by a red tie and you’d placed your hat on my loose waves. You thought I looked better in it.
I sat on the sofa with your head in my lap and I thought for what must have been the hundredth time that I would’ve killed for eyes like yours. You didn't even appreciate them. I did a lot of thinking; too much, probably. I’m not sure what it
--At first, she made dirty jokes, swore too much, and wore much more black than anyone should care for. She got annoyed far too easily and cared way too much. She wanted everyone to be happy, but she wasn't trying to please anybody by changing into something she wasn't. She'd make fun of herself and always found something humorous in any situation. She was attracted to the dark and abnormal. She was passionate, cynical, and strong. She was unapologetically herself.
Dig a little deeper, and you'll notice the bright blush across her face when she presented in class. You'll hear the softness in her voice when a teacher called on her, and realize that she never raised her hand, or greeted people first in the hallway. She always apologized first, often excessively. She felt bad for things that weren't her fault. She was the first to hold someone's hand when they were scared, and the last to give up on something that was important to her. She was shy, insecure, emotional and compassionate. She
we are not titans but-we are the echoes of Giants, living in footprints of
Goliaths, huddling in storm-shelter bays while Tornadoes
roar and Oceans spin and in all the chaos of Life, in the midst of
Atlas letting the earth roll off his spine and the Sky caving in like a fissuring
porcelain bowl, my eyes still find yours and life doesn’t seem so bad after all.
Parenthesesfrom sand castles to starry constellations
and the grass and grit between
(our bared toes), you and i have walked
without moving, really.
i can still look back and count
the miles(tones) and beats:
closer (farther?) together (away?)
(where are you going?)
our friendship is distance, nearness,
what we make of those miles.
The Ruinswalk with me in this crumbling chapel,
gold & stone lining every crevice,
as beams of sunlight illuminate the space.
the sound of our bare feet pressing against the floor fill the room;
emptiness flooding a place where sacrifice shall be made, no matter what the cost-
still, i wish to stay here until the moon flutters away with you.
and is it against your religion to trespass here?
to trek through this place with nothing but linen coating your skin?
would god dislike the fact that we sit & laugh where blood was spilled for idols to indulge in?
but this is freedom,
to no longer be restrained by common practice,
by what everyone else defines as 'normal'.
and if i take your hand,
would you teach me how to stop collapsing like the very structure we lay under?
cobwebs and crinoline confettiand you'll pout your pretty lips and
watch the moon go down, wishing it was in
your back pocket black lockets stare
at you from the mist they got here
first but they're not
afraid of strangers heart eyes hard tires
of rubber bicycle chains of
red rose crumble claims this has to be
the only place they'll blossom the
only place they will kiss and crash and
the way wanderlust
sighs on some dust driven dew drenched
brides of dandelions crown the river, the colour of
the unlocked sunset in
the pages of bristled notebook sides.
we who are wearywe who were afraid of those dim evenings,
homesick for the soft rains which were
are uncertain again of
the waning stroke of the moon.
we who embrace the wicked
leave the seasons to maneuver themselves
and wind into each other,
sure of their graceful oblivion.
we who are weary descend,
following our fingers as they are rising,
the thick air before it can kill,
we who were once war personified,
warn them of our great coming.
and we shall not run,
We Will Always Take You BackYou and your rebels,
you thought you were safe,
but you forgot,
no matter how far you run,
no matter how many times
you bleed out
and cast aside our ways,
spit in our eyes
and tell us we're wrong,
break our chains
and go against us,
we will always take you back.
There is no escape
from this planet for you,
and we control it,
so we control you.
You've got no choice
but to try
and change us,
and you know yourself
just how hard that can be.
But You Do Matter.Kind Heart,
I hope you read this and hang off of every word like it's a piece of yourself
and I hope you never lose those pieces because they're precious,
they're beautiful because they're you.
Don't tell me "no" or "I don't think so",
this is what I see.
I see a beauty so strong that you outmatch the Violet-spotted Charaxes,
you have a voice so powerful that otherworldly angels can hear your roar.
And what would I give to see you shine like the light I know is inside of you?
You are a gentle presence in the midst of chaos,
you are the sun that refuses to dim even during the most atrocious of storms,
and when the rain has gone away, you leave a rainbow of colors on everyone's doorstep.
You are so much more than you give yourself credit for,
I hope that one day you can see what I see.
DreamsSubconscious leakage ;
Wisps. Reality is faint,
Colors are soft and deceptive.
I am myself. There was never any other option.
Surreal, impossible, and indefinitely pure.
Don't make promises you can't keep,
Don't do love and you won't weep,
Don't describe what you can't see,
Don't try to be what you can't be
Don't lie about what you don't feel,
Don't prefer illusion over what's real,
Don't wake up until you sleep,
Don't shout out what you don't read
Don't make friends without some foes,
Don't sing jazz without some blues,
Don't pretend to be their fool,
Don't let them force and break your rule
Don't cut your hair or lose your weight,
Don't give in into their hate,
Don't cry for those who don't deserve,
Don't shed tears for those who aren't worth
Don't kill and kiss at the same place,
Don't let your feelings go to waste,
Don't cheat death and copy his work,
Don't be cruel and please don't hurt
Don't paint blood with bible verse,
Don't screw up and make it worse,
Don't rape and tell her to shut up,
Don't rape and tell him he would suck
Don't choke a children's little throat,
Don't wear a fleshen furry coat,
Don't violate the wea
Milky Way Greetings Santa groaned, leaning his face on the papers splayed across the table. Mrs. Claus came up behind him and placed her hands on his velvety shoulders, “What’s wrong, dearie?”
“These kids keep on sending me letters,” he replied, face red from eggnog, “Guess what they want? Go on, guess! Gifts. Every last one of them, nice list or nah, they all want gifts and we can’t supply them.” He gestured to the huge sacks of mail lying scattered on the floor. “Every day, the little elves bring in more. And the reindeer just can’t - *burp* - carry anymore…” His voice trailed off, and with a sigh, Mrs. Claus realized her love had fallen asleep.
“He never could handle his heavy eggnog.” Mrs. Claus muttered, summoning a nearby elf to clean up the mess. Frowning, hands on her hips, she surveyed the letters. Most of them were from places that w
Samhain (complete)For what may have been the thousandth time in her life, Julia Nantes walked down the walkway to her apartment, starring furiously at her Y-Phone the whole time. Her anger was directed at a single fact a friend of hers on Just4Yu had sent her: The Y-Phone 5D was going to be $50 more than the previous model.
“How dare Mango treat its loyal fanbase like this!” Julia shouted into, and onto, her phone. “Do they not realize that now I'll have to use my credit card?”
“I know it's like sooo crazy,” Julia's friend replied. “But, like, what can you do a butt it? Sorry, I meant about.”
“I know full well what I'm doing!” Julia grinned, as she pushed the 'show-off' button.
In no time at all, Julia typed out a scathing attack on Mango, filled with sarcasm in all one hundred fifty five characters, Just before launching her strike, Julia decided to immortalize it by taking a quick picture of herself, and then using it as the post photo. While