SleepSleep12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a tsetse fly
drinks its next meal
the sun, newborn crying,
is sky ilk
a maze of feathery canopy;
the Bandundu forest,
gives birth to a
litter of bananas-
grass covered savannahs,
stubborn windblown maize
to the river, where
water walking fish farmer
casts a drowsy eye
on a school of tilapia
playing in his bamboo den;
a kihuta viper opens
its razor mouth
while decadent sockets,
hanging by swollen neck,
as he is carried to the garden.
like an old antelope
pulses, waiting to slip
into its last coma,
palm stem walls blanketing
the mind's catacombs
while your planted carcass watches
a tsetse fly
drink its next meal.
Cliff NotesCliff Notes12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cricket leg serenades
To this Asbach taste that veneers late Tuesday -
Companions to a cork parade
Of characters strolling through the vines;
Residential escape in charmed, young prime
Staving off charge of rolling night.
Fetch your pink,
From recessed cupboards, bottled up
To pour on ice.
Lay the tumbler to the coaster;
Watch condensation droplets
Pool into a question
The modern art above your bed
Grasping for tradition, well-kept
And bred in sound conditions;
A sieve that bled until she cried
From underneath those lines,
And you found heaven
Through that answer in her eyes
Shattering shock of matter melting,
Diluting tonight's pride and worth
As the minutes go by;
Leave rocks behind
To remind of true meaning -
Everything at home is everything that's right.
BattlefearedBattlefeared11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The warlords rage, with death their language,
battle-breaking young mens' marrow -
and corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
In lovers' fields once greenly passaged,
where the youthful dreamed of hope -
the warlords rage, with death their language.
Their thoughts are steelclad, grimly savage,
rhythmic with their tireless blows,
as corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
In following their brutal adage -
'fight or die' blood-etched in stone,
the warlords rage, with death their language.
Ablaze, their fires rave and ravage,
scorching land and searing bone,
as corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
The death-knell dirge is sung with sword-edge -
grieving mothers wail in sorrow;
the warlords rage, with death their language...
and corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
an isosceles love triangleIf two angles of one triangle are similar to two angles of another triangle, then the triangles are similar.an isosceles love triangle10 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Recalling the memory of His geometry makes me sick with longing. That's the real reason I don't call Him every night, don't spend hours stuttering out words onto paper in some tremulous imitation of a love letter. The space I have behind conversation and human interaction is where He really lives, ready for me any time I need to remember. I don't even have to close my eyes before His own stare back at mine, revealing the storm clouds and stars that hover around His midnight-black pupils. The angles of His eyebrows, the slope of His nose, the arches of His eyelashes, the degrees of His gait, the radius of His smile when He sees me, the surface area of His strong embrace; sometimes the formulas back me into a corner where I try to understand, try to meticulously calculate every possible equation. I never solve for the answer before I snap out of my stupor, realizing His abs
CokeCoke11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Still noon in the paddy fields
in Kerala, we sank a well
to stem the flow of desert,
but came up smelling of dust.
Watched rice plants wither as the slow sun
silenced resolve in angry glare,
and warm dry gusts scattered
hope to the four corners.
In Palakkad, an empty street, sold
to ten million-dollar-a-day death,
men nurse wounds and children.
The women have gone to find water-
when the supply runs altogether dry,
we may find out how to swallow
the dust. Or our pride. Lesson taught,
we shall learn to drink coke.
Still noon in the baking heat
within the walled compound, we
stand around on wounded feet
spreading slurry on the ground.
So here, at least, is water
(to dampen a capital purse)
So here we earn our living -
a litre a day (could be worse).
Outside, the world is barren,
the earth is cracked and bare.
As boreholes tap our reservoirs
at last we've learnt to share.
So desert soil is progress,
and bitter stench is joy.
Infected feet dance to the beat
of the jin
Shades of SleepShades of Sleep11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Another blue ceiling, shadow-choked and unfamiliar,
stares back in sympathy - withered paint crackling
with unshed dust and old-man's tales of long ago,
a silent confidante with blown-bulb twilit wisdom -
It's comfort as cold as this half-empty bed.
Cataleptic - a midnight-waker with four hours lost
and the ceiling is shadow-smothered, blue gone grey
like old-man's ashes spread out over this dark grave
of a room - dust unto dust in the throat, and coughing
with all the enthusiasm of russian roulette.
Pull the trigger on the TV remote to no effect -
3am and the damn thing's still dead, the traitor
with screen black like a post-midnight moodswing,
mourning the absence of love, laughter, light-bulbs
and illumination lost to night's darkened thoughts.
No time for sleep, but dreaming away of such escape -
a 5am fugue with pre-dawn gloom glaring intensely.
Black goes to grey and then back to the familiar view
of weeping cracks in the sarcophagus ceiling above -
tortured eyes read their decay
Awake Under the BlanketsAwake Under the Blankets10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Closer to darkness than anticipated,
the shadows breach the wall and slip
across the carpet.
With childish certainty the danger slides
and toils and bristles with thorns and eyes,
and eyes peer out from under sheets.
Magic never stood the test of time,
but clutching teddy close
prevents a mind spilling into tears.
Evil stalks on spindle legs
grown knobby and buckled through age,
the weight of slushy ooze a challenge.
Ears pick out the smacking of lips,
a meal made of child on the menu,
the slither of entrails never tucked in.
Move and be found, the little boy lost
inside the mind of an adult left to think,
quake with unease, but barely breath in truth.
While eager tentacles fumble with claws
made scratchy through crushing babies bones,
a pulse throbs under the blankets.
Catch the glow beneath sleeping cloth,
the torch bulb switched to combat fear,
and see the throwing off of covers.
The monster reels, flailing parts unknown,
descending the stair that waits in silence
at the back of the
The Expected Part 1 of 4—Preface—The Expected Part 1 of 411 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This is a walnut.
The walnut has no name. Its Latin appellation, however, is juglans, short for jovis glans. Jovis is what Zeus was called when the Romans saw him and decided they wanted one of those too; glans means nuts. Jupiter's nuts. It is highly probable that, back when this name was chosen, people meant to say walnuts were nuts fit for the gods. Funny, what the evolution of language can do to nuts.
This walnut is lying on the wooden floor of a monastery, a monastery beautifully situated in the middle of a seemingly endless forest.
This is Friar Mattheus. In a moment, Friar Mattheus will step on the walnut, slip, fall down the stairs, and break two ribs. Friar Mattheus really likes walnuts. A little earlier, he was going to crack this one open and enjoy it. At that exact moment, he had a doubtlessly divine inspiration for a chorale praising his saint of choice. The ingenuity of this chorale's words was that they would only make
For YouIt is not a regretful time I write in,For You8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
though it is full of half empty coffee cups and dumpsters that smell like
I forgot again. I forgot again.
Being lost in a crowd is nothing more than not missing you when I sleep and scratching away my first layer of skin when Im awake
and never knowing which way I should take when the traffic lights turn
and Im at a stand still
because theres something that something is supposed to be
and I understand that one day fate will have eaten me fully
and while it gnaws on my long brown hair
I think of all the nightmares where I cut it off
and you were never there.
Ill pull my covers up and count my toes
and take some comfort in the fact that the number never alters
because when things change I dance on my window sills and think of the times
when I wanted to jump and the desolation would dress me
and I always looked like a mourner.
Shiny black patent shoes. I watched them lower you into the ground
The Colour of TimeThe Colour of Time10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
To the Nihilists that declare Beauty does not exist,
And to the Philistines that declare her to be dead
May I thus present, forthwith, this humble diatribe,
The most offensive thing, that either of them have read.
Simple strokes of ferrous ink, to the writer,
Is like unto the painter, dabs of turpentine,
In the process of the blending and mixing
Of colours, and hues – of rhythms, and rhymes.
But a careless line written can strike or kill,
For words on a page are armies of great might –
The pen could be the only thing to put a villain down
Or to finally, heroically, set things right.
For, you see, there never has seemed to be any closure
For the tortured souls, trapped in the glass,
Or for the shapeless white puffs up in the sky,
Or the shooting-stars here and gone, so fast.
They come, and they go, inside a shining beyond
Glanced at but briefly, in this Mirror of Illusion,
Dying in agony when a second passes,
Buried forever in shattered confusion.
Now what if, instead of
The Demon WithinThe Demon Within11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The demon within, thirsts for blood,
Calls for battle, hungers for souls.
It stares through my eyes,
Using me, wielding me, a puppet unto its will.
Can you feel it?
It's cold and terrible stare?
Staring, thinking, thirsting,
Wanting your blood, your soul, your life.
It hungers, ever more, its dark hunger,
Grows more and more,
Never quenching, never ending.
It's all I can do,
Control it, suppress it,
But I weaken, its grip tightening,
Its rage surging, Tired of being trapped.
Wanting to be free, wanting to control,
I try as I might, It gets stronger,
It wants to fight, It wants to taste blood.
It hates, rages, raves, pulls me,
Trying to take over,
Wanting to escape, to be free,
To cast the world into darkness.
The worst part is…..
The demon is….me
Fine AgainFine Again11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm sitting on a dingy bathroom in some motel
bleeding from one wrist
or the other,
but I haven't the strength to open my eyes and look
and I haven't the will to remember.
What would my lover say, if she saw me now?
Would she tell me I'm alright?
Would she say everything's going to be fine?
Everything's going to be fine again.
The toilet's got no water in it
though it is speckled from drunken expeditions
and bulimic dreams.
And if I were to look in the mirror
would that crack down the center allow me comfort?
Would it allow me to only see half my stringy hair
and only one empty eye?
And would hiding even help?
Blind compassion wants to tell me
but I'm wondering
when's everything going to be fine again?
And I'm filthy.
Yes, dirtier than I've seen
-in awhile anyway-
but the water in the shower is dingy gray,
and I strip down and lean against the tile,
wondering if theres even a point to using soap
when its covered in grime.
Is there a point is washing?
Is there a
Three Equals All-and-MoreI open myselfThree Equals All-and-More9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to tell you exactly what
But all that comes out
is this, a riddle
a mess of crumpled pictures
and unclear intentions.
My mouth curves like fingers
around the words I speak
and suddenly it hits me
How these spangled words mean things
I can't ever explain
and all the while I'm hoping
just hoping that you understand
what I don't know how to say.
I still don't understand what happened
and it doesn't matter if I never do.
Can't we just huddle together in our paperback house
let notes and beats carry us to that place where
we're not saying a word and that means
Where each eye-caress and butterfly-touch
Pain Is GorgeousPain Is Gorgeous10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Pain is Gorgeous,
A collar of pink fiery rubies
Set with obsidian spikes
That affixes my neck, chokes me --
As I stroke your chest
And beg with my eyes
For you to hold me closer...
The Emokids and the Hopeless Preps:
The first adjust their buttons,
The second pop their collars --
They watch me on stage, beseeching in a sob
Before the placid face of the Virgin
Tearing my eyes out to never see him again --
My Mind's Eye to forget the images within it,
Making mockery of my religion by saying
The wine is my blood --
And Hell's Fire and Damnation,
I will be drunk off of how wretched I feel.
I am alone.
Alone, in such a way, no one could ever bear to watch me --
Watch me fall apart, cracked porcelain hitting the floor,
The bloody flood of torrents from my eyes washing it over...
And for once, I'm humbled completely.
I could hold up my brilliance, my writings --
My beauty, inner and outer, sit in radiant contemplation
Of why Pain is so God-damned gorgeous,
And seems to glimmer c
ForgottenAm I dead and rotten?Forgotten11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Only to you, whom has forgotten
You left me behind
And now I'm gone
Dead to you and none other
My memory has faded,
My face erroded
Buried away in the sands of time
You never looked back,
Leaving me lost
I still remember you,
But to you I'm nothing but a ghost
A faceless specter of the past
You've forgot who I was, or what i am
I'm no different to you,
Than a corpse in an unmarked grave
They say it's bad to be dead,
But I say it's far worse
.....To be forgotten.
A Day Less OrdinaryA Day Less Ordinary12 years ago in Humor More Like This
It was a day just like any other day, insofar as it was not actually any other day than that one, but was probably closely related to most of the others. On this day quite like many other days but not actually another day, James Francis walked down the street with his friend Sally.
The day to him seemed to be like most others. The sky was blue, as it usually was, the grass as always looked green and he found that he could breathe the air and live. As he walked he was going to remark to Sally how nice this day quite like any other day actually was when, to the ordinary day's surprise, something changed.
James fell unconscious to the floor. This could have been an ordinary happening, if not a regular one. However, the circumstances of it were not ordinary. A bowl of petunias had miraculously popped into existence some 40 feet above where they landed on James's head. No one but the Petunias noticed the sudden appearance until five seconds later as they crashed into James's head, with what
HeroHero11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
You think you're the only one?
You think you have all the pain?
Think you're the only one worried
We'll never see him again?
I see him in my dreams at night;
He's locked up in a cell.
He died and then came back again
And saw lost souls in hell.
He'll fight 'till his blood won't flow
And 'till his spirit's dry.
He won't give up until the end;
'Till someone finally dies.
He wears a sword right by his side;
His eyes are steely gray.
There's light whispering in his head
That will never go away.
The sword that hangs 'round his waist
Captivates his soul;
Every death and every tear
Rips through him another hole.
I see him so clearly now,
Just like in my dreams.
His mental health is failing quick—
More so than it seems.
His body's broken; his eyes are dull;
His lips are chapped and cold.
This boy, a hero before his time,
Is quickly growing old,
For I can see the wrinkles on his face
And the blatant lack of rest.
He's on his bed, crying silently,
The sword resting on his chest.
Poor boy, his ha
Techno StarsTechno Stars11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
If you barely open your eyes
The world becomes fuzzy
Each colored pixel that makes up night
Can have his moment
And you can see the techno stars we're all made of
Wouldn't it be nice if we could all be pixels
Constantly raining from my ceiling or yours?
I want to be a techno star
In the light of the morning, brilliance fades
And the music of raving pixels leaves my ears
But when you're close
And I breathe you in
You're so beautiful, my industrial friend
So let's go back
Rewind to nighttime past
And you'll be so beautiful
In all those techno stars
And when you feel as if it's done
Just remember silhouettes of lights and love
And if you stand on your toes
I can take you to the stars
And if I run my hands over your body
You can close your eyes and I'll be there
And you're so beautiful
With my eyes open wide
My eyes open wide…
But when I close them, just enough
To see t
dragdrag11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Of anathematized eggheads, dead poets, uprooted saddle-tramps -
an eclectic shangri-la that impales itself upon her sensibilities
like a beached whale on her shore
And this cold, small man-
call him Animus Annihilated-
"You wanna see Heaven baby?, Here's your chance." -
An open invitation to cool her heels in
the shadow of his soul.
Hoodwinked by her own loathsome ideal
she ogles the out-side,
staring through the cigarette that drips from her mouth,
into her love's eye
..silhouettes and broken glass..silhouettes and broken glass10 years ago in Erotic More Like This
A boy and a girl, two completely different worlds.
Something was once held so close between them.
But time passes and feelings fade away.
Nothing can bring together a moment that no longer exists.
No matter how many times memories are re-enacted in hazy minds, the truth remains.
We are all alone.
A wine bottle stands open on a table, and glasses scatter around it. Reflections dance off the light from the glass, distorted and discoloured. Each person interacts with others, keeping their most inner thoughts safely hidden. There's a mask we all wear, don't forget to make sure its firmly in place before you step out
Or you just
Back into the past.
A warm room, people laugh. Couples huddle together, feeding off the warmth from each other's bodies and the alcohol flowing through their blood.. Feeding their lust with suggestive looks from eyes that don't quite connect.
Is it love?
Or just another night to pass the time.
He has his hand on her arm as he looks into your eyes.
phutphut10 years ago in Humor More Like This
Beard now meticulously trimmed, remaining follicles on his chilly scalp brought to some kind of order, tie perfectly complementing both handkerchief and socks (exposed a devilish half-inch), "Yes," said mirror "you still cut a dashing figure, Rupert."
Rupert sniffed, his eyebrows rippling a little as he did so. "Today," he announced to his lamp… or maybe his wardrobe… perhaps even his comb, who knows? "Today, (Monday the seventeenth of May, two-thousand and three) is a milestone, in the life of Rupert J. Falt. Today he steps out of his front door for the first time as an executive member of Zest Incorporated! And what is more," he added with an ITV grin "he's rather proud of it."
Rupert J. Falt shooed a fictitious speck of dust from his trousers and trotted down the stairs. As he approached his front door… he faltered. In front of it was a walrus – a large, grey, blubbery walrus with whiskers and tusks and all of the usual walrustic trimmings one would expect from a typical walrus. In
The Barbiturate BalletDo not pity me.The Barbiturate Ballet7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Do not pity me and my loss of short-term memory.
Yes, I should have learned from the poison-dove nosebleeds
burning up my hair as it went
I have lost keys;
I have lost lovers,
I lost my mind
but I found it again, drenched in mucus and shivering under your bed.
You are gone by daybreak.
I am glad that in the daytime you can easily
drift from tree to tree
like leaves or raindrops
or a little bird
that always avoids my outstretched finger.
You falter like shadow bars,
the ones that mutilate my body splayed upon the wall.
You went away
and you took with you
and my love when I
lost my baby in the toilet of you
and left it bloody.
Next time you pray
and go to expel your waste,
you will smell what you did to me
and become lost in the crust
its blacked, no longer red
it is blacked like death is.
This life is so slow
and this death is so slow,
that syringe in my armexhalationgiving up the breath I took in
II. Extreme-Planet-MakeoverII. Extreme-Planet-Makeover11 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
When the Carrotians won their last great galactic war with the Primari from the star system Magenta, an endurance battle that lasted for nearly nine hundred years of shooting at tacky primary coloured Duplo-like spaceships with very annoying Colour Reflector Shields and deadly Confetti Scatter Beams, their empire finally flourished with a whopping thirty two star systems, twenty four inhabited planets, forty five inhabited moons, a few dozen interesting asteroids and one rather nifty black hole.
However, the Carrotians got rather bored with the whole conquering business pretty quickly as the job of supreme interstellar tyrant turned out to involve far more paperwork and systematic genocide as they ever had imagined. Most galactic races would die just to get into the position of ultimate power the Carrotians were in, and many did. But that's not the point. As for we must not forget that the Carrotians always remain in the first place a race of deeply creative people, of artists. The who