The Story of Half an HourI hate Christmas Eve. I haven't always. It started when I was old enough to realize it was bad that boys didn't like me, and that same hatred has continued to this day. All of my friends are busy being cutesy with their boyfriends and I'm stuck, in a bar, in New York, alone.The Story of Half an Hour2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Don't get me wrong, I'd rather be stuck in New York for Christmas than be back in my tiny town in Northern California, but I'd also rather be spending it with someone special. Someone who'd give me a necklace, or heck, anything, smothered in love. Instead, I am sitting on a stool, fingering the fraying edges of my black fingerless gloves while I listen to the bartender breaking up a fight.
Lifting my head slightly, I survey the bar. There are quite a few single men, but the majority of them are not attractive, like the guy over in the corner with thick, bulky glasses and a large pimple on his nose or the burly man with huge arms covered with tattoos of half naked women. Averting my eyes, I turn instead to the other
symphonic miseryyou lied the night you kissed me,symphonic misery2 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
a vision of blood and deconstruction;
feelings with no names.
we were a february tale in a twisted corset.
i can't breathe in your presence
because our still-life fairytale
is your prisoner of war.
the oracle card in my pocket
gave me a revelation:
"love makes us blind;"
(or so it seems)
now, our seasons of knowledge
are just temporary bad memories,
but there is no more music in me.
the secret of lost thingsan old book isthe secret of lost things2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
something like a dead grandmother;
silent everywhere but in your mind
hanging from the rafters in the skyclocks in a motel room;hanging from the rafters in the sky2 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
the years go by like one day
with these old photos in my hands.
how do cities understand?
that by skating on the edge of the world
we carve north stars in Styrofoam
on the edge of reality.
we are all waiting to be found
when stars die.
(i used to have a name)
now i'm dreaming of the simple things,
and i'm ready to fight my way.
somebody told me:
"i have loved the stars too fondly."
between gray and gold
there are flaking photographs and shattered memories;
the heartlines of drunken sinners chasing stars.
cold hearted, you bound our spines.
(and breathe out)
it is not enough to know the colors of my soul,
like a painting hung all wrong, or
and unwanted diary.
dreams catch in the lungs.
let go, little bird.
(but don't forget me)
without you, my fickle muse,
the city daydreams,
desperate to connect with
the world near your feet.
(lost wishes can be found
Imitating NatureThe morning sun streamed through a series of large plate glass windows lining the library's east wall, its rays warming the room's wooden paneling and illuminating the cavernous space. Tall bookshelves stuffed with literature from across the world towered over polished oak reading tables, each furnished with a plain, green-shaded banker's lamp. On the far side, a massive painting gracing the west wall depicted the solemn face of Saint Patrick, whose protective presence could be felt watching over the library's sole visitor.Imitating Nature3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
All was perfectly quiet, save for a tap, tap, tapping that echoed in the otherwise silent room. Seated at a desk near the door, glued to the screen of his laptop, Eoghan quietly tapped his pen against the notepad in his lap as his eyes scanned through the different news reports.
Another roadside bomb outside of Kandahar, three dead, all soldiers. God frowns upon careless mistakes gentlemen. You should have noticed the dead dog along the side of the road.
Your Name's My Best ObscenityThe sweetest curses are sugar on lipsYour Name's My Best Obscenity2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
If I died this evening, you'd find your name
aflame- the words I last shouted in vain
lingering on my tongue like a toxic kiss-
revenge is addicting, venomous pain,
even spent on cries I know are mundane
No fixing up this unholiest tryst,
forged by two fools who believed in their lies;
or maybe it was I, eager for light
even in spite of the flaws I had seen
Can light be fake? Were your twinkling eyes
a mere disguise to make me ignite?
Aflame, in vain, impure light fuels my screams
The Doppelganger 2The book still sings to me, and that's when I pull it from under my bed and stroke the cover. But I never open it, because I know what happens if I do it wrong. It's still blank; but only of ink. I know the secret, you see. It's how I understand the songs, and know the melodies it echoes up to me, through time. There are impressions hidden in the pages- spilled mead and raucous laughter, summer sunshine and frost on dead leaves. The last time I tried feeling them from start to finish, I passed out from the sheer weight of knowledge, and it left my brain scrambled for ages.The Doppelganger 22 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I found out things about my past and my family's past. I have Irish on my dad's side of the family, stretching back generations. I'd have said I was surprised when I found out, but that would have been a lie.
People say I've changed since last spring. My face is thinner, my eyes are brighter, I've been "brought out of myself." What they don't know is that I've actually met myself. I've taken to wearing rich, d
Cobwebbedcobwebbed chandelier hanging over aCobwebbed2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
cobwebbed corpse. the room devoid
of light, but full of the
left behind by the murdered
and the lost --
unable to find
their way home
PressureSomething broke.Pressure3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A hard CRACK while sitting in
a soft chair. No pain registered.
The absence of it
is like watching explosions in space.
You follow the curve of your skull. You remember
how skulls are formed like tectonic plates.
Your head wants to be a planet,
volcanic, living, in change.
You continue to your left shoulder,
the one with all the problems.
But today, it has nothing to say.
Your rib cage moves
like oceanic waves, expecting a storm
that hasn't come.
You stand up,
you consider your legs,
nothing feels wrong,
But you can break
more than your body.
caged.A light rests on the lake,caged.1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Illuminating the ache
I harbor deep inside me;
All I long for is to be free.
I look at the shackles
Keeping captive my ankles,
Leading back to the sea.
All I long for is to be free.
The wind rustles through my hair,
But All I can do is stare
At the figure keeping me from fleeing.
All I long for is to be free.
OdiumBlack and blue,Odium2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
skin and sky
water down the drain,
as the red line of dawn
breaks over skeleton trees and
in terminusyou say my timeline is infinitesimalin terminus1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
when compared to your hourglass
anatomy; a never ending cycle ticking
time away like a metronome, and
again gravity refuses to bend for me;
i cannot see the fault lines in our skies
any longer. my crystal ball is cloudy,
filled to the brink of destruction --
your broken words and the obscure
misology that is to be our fate.
Car tout finit un jour... - Because everything... (English version below)Car tout finit un jour... - Because everything...3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Car tout finit un jour...
Dans tes yeux noirs où se perdent les ombres,
Immergés de spleen et d'ouragans sombres,
Assassine étoile en proie aux vingt ans,
N'oublie ta joie, ton courage d'antan.
Ah que le temps vienne où les fleurs s'égrainent !
Nos rires sous les toits bleus, nos fredaines
Oubliées, resteront à jamais les
Germes d'un été, mort abandonné.
Une lettre commencée, une plume
Egarée. Car dès lors de cette plume
Il faut tirer un trait, comme à l'enclume
Retirer l'épée. Des maux que j'exhume,
Aie confiance en eux. Ils laisseront ton
Chemin loin des issus malheureux. Mon
Oracle, ma muse. Nous n'irons jamais
Sous l'arbre fleurit, où je t'aurais donné
Toutes les splendeurs d'Italie. Adieu,
Au revoir, puisse l'air être tes yeux !
Because everything will end one day
In your black eyes where shades disappear,
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.the beauty's in the leaving2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
lost memories between the sofa cushionsi found the lost boys under the sink again,lost memories between the sofa cushions1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
their eyes boring as dark as a stygian night.
black ink tallies were scrawled on their arms --
an imaginary clock ticking life away in place
of the years they weren’t growing.
they reach their hands out to me,
beckoning, whispering the mantra
“be our mother again, again, again...”
but it was your words that echoed in my mind:
even pixie dust isn’t strong enough
to help me fly anymore.
The Rainfall KidThere are raindrops on his fingersa glistening cluster of perfectly silver droplets that read like some shining, ethereal roadway mapthe night that he comes for her with the thunder of a summer storm rolling forward on his footsteps. The low rumble of it jolts her from a book induced slumber, the cover rough beneath hands and the jumble of last-read letters blurring on the underside of blinking eyelids as rain begins to fall. Although it's almost been longer than memory will allow, she knows that there is no mistaking the sudden upheaval of the outside world for anything other than his arrivalafter all, it hasn't stormed in years.The Rainfall Kid3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Soon enough, her shoulders and the soles of her bare feet are collecting water along with the hardback that had slipped, forgotten, through outstretched fingersnow laying broken-spined with white pages exposed and its words all bleeding together in thin rivers of smudged ink. The leafless trees seem to shudder, emerging from
bartered loveBabe, you’ve got your hands all over me,bartered love1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
bringing me closer to your warm
body. You eyes are holding me here,
but all I want to do is drink you in.
Boy, I am so intoxicated
by your fire, and I hope you never
betray the words painted on your lips.
what romance novels don't tell you about lovelove is just a latin verb to me,what romance novels don't tell you about love2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
love is bait on a fishing line,
dangling out of reach.
there are plenty of other
fish in the sea, but none of
them are wretched like me.
love exists to sell itself
unwrittenI went to see your grave today;unwritten1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
picnic basket and blanket in my hand.
My heart collapsed again, like our doomsday,
living in a constant, barren wasteland.
In my minds eye I can still hear the gunplay.
I can still see your spilled blood on the sand.
I would give up my love for you if it
meant the fabric of time could be unwrit.
A Pirate-y LimerickThere once was a pirate named JackA Pirate-y Limerick1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
who was always told he had a knack
for drinking all the rum,
‘specially when he was glum,
until he got stabbed in the back.
ColorblindI gave away my name todayColorblind2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
to the girl teaching herself to flyShe is trapped by a moonlit mind,to the girl teaching herself to fly1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
come silent in the night.
Surrounded by clouds, she is blind
to barren worlds; their light.
Searching for a sign, she survives,
although she knows she cannot thrive.
Searching for a sign.
Searching for a sign.
Anything to remain alive.
Her voice calls out, though no one hears,
screaming for redemption.
A shadow comes to kindle fear,
adding to the tension.
Someone please help me, she shouts, cries,
though on her cheeks, her tears, they dry.
Someone please help me.
Someone please help me.
But her screams turn to desperate sighs.
Weeks pass, and she remains divine,
still searching for escape.
Vines corkscrew themselves on her spine,
leaves curling up her shape.
Borrowing wisdom from her brow,
she learns to
SorrowbirdI watched him flap helplessly between the teeth of a barbwire fence, screeching for help.Sorrowbird2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Papa, look Papa! A boy!"
My papa stood dazed for a moment, dust billowing at his legs, his eyes teetering along the field. It wasn't until later that evening he told me he hadn't understood what I had seen. What he had seen.
With grass tickling the backsides of my legs, I bounded toward the boy, "What are you doing? Are you okay?"
As I approached him, I felt his skittish eyes rake across my every movement. With his ten-year-old arms slung inside the gaping maw of a fence and darkened feathers pasted along the creases of his face; he looked squarely at me. I could hear his bird-bones quaking at my voice, he pushed harder against the fence. I winced for him.
"Hold still, we'll get you out," I turned back to my papa who stood alongside the road, "Papa," I pleaded, "Please! Help him!"
Reaching out, I touched his shoulder, "Don't be afraid. We're going to help you."
He didn't pull away from me. I thou