...old song...The sea in the throat of a shell...old song...4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The wind blowing over the steeple
Faith in the voice of the evening's last bells
Life in the murmur of people
A song for the final embers of day
Made from colours plucked up by the wind
As it slipped through the grass, tangled in hair
Swept the blush from somebody's skin
Older than cities, though sung in their voice
In the late afternoon's lilac haze
Older than voices, than shells, bells or gods
A song for the last light of day
Retrograde Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED's, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.Retrograde4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.
She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren't the same however.
Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the universe until starvation kicked in or their oxygen-starved filters were finally incapable of operating. My unplanned departure from the mysteriously flaming
MarylandWe aren't northern, we aren't southern:Maryland8 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
we're just chill.
We can catch, cook, and crack our own crabs
from our own bay.
We are in Maryland, the best state in the USA.
Which means we have..
skiing out west, farm country to the north,
the bay right in the middle, the ocean out to the east,
&& suburbs all over
Take. Your. Pick.
Senior week is not only in Ocean City:
it IS Ocean City.
(It's the drunkest month in America)
We can drink any city/state under the table.
(I.E. We have a better night life than you do!)
The best beer pong players
are all Maryland born and bred.
Here, flip cup is considered a Varsity sport.
Flip or get kicked off the table.
Baltimore has the highest murder rate in the nation.
Don't fuck with us, we'll kill you.
Our governor fights for our right to play slot machines,
`cause we like to gamble.
Towson, Canton, Fed Hill, Fells, Powerplant, and so much more!
So many choices.. so many beers..
again, the best night life
We can either
MatchmakingFor her the summer days are long. She is small and sweet, a cube of caramel with an aching aftertaste that lingers for ending too soon. Her arms and legs are pliable as grass, and as grass she swells like a sea with the wind saturating her hair. She is one of the movers who cannot dance, but were meant to, from a tight core low in the abdomen; and she walks the sidewalk on the diagonal, a magnet pulled to a dimly lit room with the bhh-bhh-bhh of good hip-swaying rock 'n roll.Matchmaking4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He rides the subway at night, beats rhymes into the stretched skin of the drum. He is an eagle fledgling, long-haired and brown eyed. His pants are red and he sits on the ground, tapping to the chug of the engine-- the drum is the engine. The next stop is his; for the rest of the ride, the train vainly echoes his rhythms, before stumbling upon a screech and twisting the pulse to abstraction. Until tomorrow it waits for him, to unkink its music.
They could love each other easily-- as much as flame
Let's Talk RefrigeratorsStew stood in front of the refrigerator.Let's Talk Refrigerators4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"So how much are you being paid?" he inquired, attempting a small talk.
"Excuse me?" the refrigerator replied, opening two cup slots that functioned as his eyes.
"Money. How much do you get?" Stew simplified.
"Sir, you do know I'm a refrigerator, correct?"
"Of course, it's plainly obvious." Stew rolled his eyes. "The question still stands." He continued. "I've been wondering lately, how much such a fine gentlemen as yourself and your fellow refrigerators get."
"How about We don't?"
"You're kidding! Nothing? You don't get to see a single penny for your hard work? That is ridiculous! The law clearly states every man working should receive pay for it, unless it's volunteering." Stew called outrageously. The refrigerator let out a long, heavy sigh.
"And say I did get money, what would I do with it?" it wondered dryly, agreeing to entertain Stew a while longer.
"Well, you can buy things like food, and a computer!" Stew listed exci
for Stephenblackened jack boots grinding to dust cherry blossomsfor Stephen6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
The Holocaust still burying the innocent
Not HimAfter the Prospit ship broke through yet another window thing (wall, John remembered, Jade had called it the fourth wall, so did that make the next one the fifth?), John was instantly assaulted by a chilly fall breeze. It was something he wasn't ready for, after he'd gotten used to the almost ridiculously warm temperature on Lohac. Plus, his god-tier hoodie did not have the benefit of sleeves like Jade's.Not Him4 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"Where are we?" He said aloud, the first words he'd managed to get in since Jade had teleported him onto the ship. She'd been too busy shrinking worlds and spinning them around her or whatever else she was doing. It looked important, and since John only had a vague idea of what was going on, he didn't want to disturb her. At his comment, however, her ears perked up, a sight which was still a little strange. Even as she continued to direct the tiny planets that spiraled around her, she glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled.
"We're on Earth!" John stared back for a moment, dumbfou
The Russoasian War -1-038 'Year 2568The Russoasian War -1-0385 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
I've finally reached the
Northern JapanSouth Rusen base; Russoasia has finally taken North Japan. Ugh, I can't believe they've gone this far. I understand Russia but China? Korea? Vietnam?
I'm sorry I'm cutting this short, we're evacuating the city today and Canada needs my help.
I'll see you as soon as I can, I love you.
"You'll see him again soon." a soft voice whispered. America turned his head slowly to the side to see Canada hovering silently beside him. The tentative nation's blue eyes regarding his brother with quiet sympathy.
America bowed his head and muttered, tears stinging his eyes, "I know I hope at least." He swallowed then bit out with a quiet very plainly noticeably forced laugh. "It's just, I haven't been away from him this long since the Acid war on Britain* " as he spoke his voice rose shakily, and the normally 'happy-go-lucky' shine in his eyes completely
beginnings.this beginning began withbeginnings.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
impulsivity restricted, considered,
weighed against odds: it was
found to be good and whole,
strong and stable and cruel.
surgical precision removes
all but deepest trace, leaves
skin swabbed raw and cleansed,
immaculate. aching, bleed from
pores, bleed out what sits
black, festered, in lungs.
torn from nest, it stiffens,
snarls -- it will not go easily,
willingly, and it catches, sharp,
pulling threads to rip seams:
fall to pieces inside out.
it goes; bruised and broken
though you are, it is gone, gone.
in peaceful night, mother moon
sends down promises of brighter
tomorrows, of sweeter starts.
SerpienteI have done with St. Augustine.Serpiente3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He would have condemned you, Lilith,
would have sought you out in your cave
to prattle at you.
God claimed that he built you
from the dirt,
and for your disobedience
he crowned you with diamond scales,
with coils to ring the world.
Eve consented to silence and thus
was cursed only with the tunnel of pain that is childbirth.
find comfort in your nest,
in your subterranean womb.
(Cuentan que hace mucho, mucho tiempo
en el mundo subterraneo )
You bear the truth in your heart,
as crumbs in your hands
offered palm-up to your Oracles.
Still you are a tree
apples blossom from your mouth,
whispers of past and future.
You alone could tell us
what a three thousand year old text means.
It has buried its spindly fingers in your brain.
God and his people call morality a simple thing,
clean as the fires of the sun.
Take a deep breath, Lilith my love
they will c
Insert Title _1We, the petty,Insert Title _13 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we, the bourgeois,
poring over mirrors of reflected, collected verse,
only we could drown
in the shallow pools of our own desires.
Self-worth and efficacy distort, distend,
Our longing sighs inflate
gauzy bladders, diaphanous,
and we fancy them substantial because they are large -
(We say much the same of our philanthropy.)
- seeking no synonyms,
though "bloated" comes to mind.
A pseudonym can shelter
the sodden intellect, emaciated,
denigrated by false modesties.
How deep, the brainy poet
who breathes his own despite
behind alabaster walls,
sherry perched atop whalebone fingers,
sloshing like the contents of his skull.
The Blame of Copper and ViolinHer eyes are downcast, and her mouth a jagged line, "Why did you do it....?"The Blame of Copper and Violin4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
His perfect lips moved slowly, forming hard and uncaring words which crashed into her heart like boulders, "What did I do?"
A cold tear rolled down her cheek, her heart was no longer a roaring furnace, it couldn't make her tears warm, "Why did you kill him?"
Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Why did you kill him?"
She leapt to her feet, an ember of indignation flared faintly in her voice, "I never killed him! That was you! Just you! I loved him, and held him, and kissed him and danced with him and-"
"And never cared enough to notice the colour of his eyes?" he smirked, "You didn't love him. For you he was just there. Then when you tired of him, when he became inconvenient and awkward, you just dropped him in the mud. You poured vodka into his young soul, you corrupted his ears with nightmarish tales, and who pick
Misplaced NostalgiaShe was the kind of girl who always felt that she had a great deal to say, could never quite find the words to say it. Grand, vague ideas and hypnotically hazy sentiments glimmered in the dark, bumping and crashing and blurring together at the edges until they left her hopeless, drained and exhausted from an age-old attempt to etch the stars behind her eyelids into letters to no one.Misplaced Nostalgia4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I was the kind of boy who was effortlessly, horrifically adept at the art of the soapbox. I felt, at the age of thirteen, that after a long and horrifically complex journey I knew what I wanted to be: liked. Talent didn't factor into it, ability wasn't important- I had long since overcome the urge for meaning, and though I ached to be artistic, I settled with noisy.
And that, in the end, was all that mattered. She carried them with her like a secret- all those perfect words strangled in her knotted vocal cords- and I knew I was the only one who could pick that lock. After all, I was the sort of person who
And then the road leads to nowhere...And then the road leads to nowhere...2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"And then the road leads to nowhere"...
sunspot activity, viral activity
Monsters from hell melting in satanic silence.
Flames shooting out of damned souls
singing praises unto the Lord.
Guts leak from armor
Ghosts flee machines like
clouds accumulate from damp stone.
ersatzyour wake is the warmersatz4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
languid whorl of a sachet-latté
gone when six a.m. rain swirls
pavement scents of whiskeysmoke
& a careless caress away
under cinnamon-sugar grace --
and it was only ever this:
you were lovely
by trembled halflight, when you almost had
my summer-boy's eyes.
Light SwitchAnd as cliche as it may be,Light Switch4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
When we take "the long sleep",
We don't get night-lights.
And the truth is-
I'm scared of the dark.
So, no, I'm not "ready"-
I'll never be "ready"-
But I know
That I never want to reach the point where my hands
Are too shaky to hold a pencil,
Because I have nothing left to write down.
I know that I don't want to die like some out-grown t-shirt,
Crumbled and fading in an unconcerned closet,
I know that I don't want to go stale in some hospital cabinet,
Alone with a too-loud TV and the nagging idea that whatever I did,
I should have done more .
When I die,
I want to die as me,
Not this wrinkled thing of...
Of vague regret and onionskin,
Of emptied eyes and a life-story never told because it was never written.
And, yeah, I "don't have enough time", but
No one ever has enough time,
And I am growing older
way faster than I am growing up,
I won't be growing anything.
And when that happens,
I don't want it to be
Equinox LoversWe come into being twice a yearEquinox Lovers4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a balance of shadow and fire,
a half-lit moon face
pale blue and reflecting a still sun.
Sunflower faces follow me
westward, an ember
dying in the flame of thunderclouds.
Resonant and careful I am,
my molecules built on changing shapes.
You say to me,
"You're too young to be so shy,"
so I stand up and take your hand.
I am a glacier quivering atop cliffs
overlooking the North Atlantic,
but you exhale and
set me to smoking
blowing candle flames free
like dandelion seeds.
We've learned to keep our breath
cool and slow,
draw it out steady to catch the wish
with a last puff.
We are a pair of Arctic winds
howling down Norwegian coasts,
flopping like fish into open hands
a pair of freshwater salmon:
cook me gentle, peel back my scales
and pull away my pink flesh
with a fork.
I've sought loves like evergreens,
whole forests of pine sap
at the midpoint of summer and winter,
at the crash of seasons
like waves on cliffs.
You are my old woman
SaprophyticShe was a girl that knew how to photosynthesize. She was nothing to look at; unless hair the consistency of wet noodles and eyes that were reminiscent of faded denim were something.Saprophytic5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She always found it strange that there was nothing blue that could be considered repulsive, except her eyes.
It was January and cold, as expected of the season. The sky was gray and there was far too much snow on the ground. As she walked, she kicked it out of the way with the toe of her father's hunting boots. She was the first to wear them.
She toed slush out of her path until she reached the door of a pawnshop. By this time, she no longer needed to look up in order to find the alley and then the door. At least the heavy clouds made the grime innocuous.
"You do know that you can't pawn beer," he said before she had fully stepped across the threshold.
"So I've been told." She wiped her boots on the floor as he scowled at her. His eyebrows were only the slightest bit too thick, especially when he had such a
Poets make good liars.She always walks alone broken and lost,Poets make good liars.4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
but a lot of people call her cold
because she's never been in love.
At night, she can't sleep anymore
as she just lies awake day-dreaming.
Poets make good liars.
Salient Reverie Olive hills enticeSalient Reverie4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Ringing a thousand years
Of seeming mockery
Where weary men often dream
Of glinting bells
between such crockery
Is this a dagger I see before me?
Unmarred MementoUnmarred Memento4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I thought about how I cut my palm
falling on sharp rock
while we searched the lost and found
of the sea, hoping for treasure.
I wondered if the ocean
would take our lives as payment
for the wares it could not recover
until high tide -
when we would be long gone,
warm inside the cottage on the bluffs,
admiring our pilfered discoveries,
safe from the sinuous fingers of waves.
While outside the foghorns bellowed
and the mist crept in
through cracks too small to see,
seeping into our seaside refuge,
to once again caress
the lost shards of its kin.
I watched the blood swirl in the water
as white sea foam rushed forward
to collect its bounty:
a willing sacrifice.
I knew that I would cherish the wound:
a memento of the windswept shore.
I cradled it lovingly, as the pain throbbed
and I resumed my search,
studying discarded skeletons
and abandoned homes, now too small.
I wondered if their inhabitants
were ever homesick, ever felt longing
for those husks they had outgrown,
for the misshapen piec
Drown MondaysThe best way I foundDrown Mondays4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to catch my seven-twenty train
is to miss the seven-o-five, be late
and grow a glut of yin
from the corpses of yangs
drown mondays to breathe tuesdays
but I nibbled cake and kept it too;
I caught the seven-o-five
and the hands fell off the clock,
fell off my wristwatch
Sonnet XXIV: MayI woke--and found that April'd changed to MaySonnet XXIV: May3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
While I had slept. Oh can it be the first
Of that beloved month?--beloved of Earth
Who crowns her head in flowered trees to say:
"This is my favorite child, worship her
With all your revelry, sweet blooms are ripe
For you to love, remembering the pipes
Of pastorals long-past--remember mirth."
O May of hawthorn trees, O May of blooms
Upon their branches, low like settled clouds;
O first-born day of art and labour brought
Together to remember what we ought
To never have forgot--O May, consume
The earth with joy forevermore unbowed.