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Dr. BakunetsuDr. BakunetsuDr. Bakunetsu6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
His name is Japanese for 'explosive heat' -
it's also, he says, unfastening his suitcase's
brass clasps, the name he gives the ailment, taps
the carat of my ribs - "In here, chief?
Right-o, that's a nasty one. No, don't speak!
These things can go off any time, sunshine,
I’ve seen ones that could atomise Parliament,
your heart’s the barrel and this thing, chief,
this’s the burning taper. S’only got to leap
like a flea, or a jumping bean, sunbeam,
skip like a record and your whole torso’ll
go up like a sack of fireworks. Keep still, chief.”
His cigarette tipped with a ziggurat, his teeth
Gravedigger - OneGravedigger - One6 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
One:
And after the storm
The body of Rafell the Magistrate lay in state beside the hole he was soon to inhabit. The family, of which there were few, and the friends, of which there were even fewer, had already deserted the graveside. They left Graves and his apprentice to nail down the lid and lower the Magistrate into the earth.
Rain was falling. Graves glanced up at the drab, weeping sky. 'Rain's puddling. Good wood that. Going to spoil fast, mind.'
His apprentice gravedigger nodded simply to acknowledge that he had heard.
Graves shook his head, looking left, down the slight incline of the hill towards the great iron cemetery gates, th
Play TimeThe ghost found Sanchez in the garden. Whispy tendrils of ecto-stuff swirled around his waist and legs, rising up his torso like thick ropes of cigarette smoke.Play Time5 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Sanchez stopped raking leaves and stood silently, eyes closed. A moment later he nodded, as if acknowledging a message. The whisps withdrew immediately. He finished raking within minutes, picked up a small trowel, and carried the tools across the garden to a ramshackle plastic shed where he stored them carefully. He stripped off his gloves and threw them into shed-shadows. Stretched, back muscles crackling.
Time for ghosts.
Sanchez trudged back to the house, lights springing up in
April's HouseThe man who would be my lover through April had a daughter.April's House8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I showed her Playboys from 1999 and she grabbed at my breasts.
In mid-April my lover's grandmother died in a Michigan hospital.
The night before we had hurried sex on a friend's floor and in his shower.
I lay naked on a dark blue couch watching B list horror movies
with names like Frankenhooker and drank carbonated strawberry wine.
The floor was covered in empty Bacardi bottles and powdered Cheetos
while the bathroom smelled of concentrated bleach and urine.
I could crawl out onto the flat tarry roof through a second story window.
On the fourth of July I sat on the functionl
Synchro-CityThey breathed in unison. All over the city, all over the planet, the bots were breathing together. They moved and walked and spoke as their individual programming dictated, but their breathing was synchronised, in and out with the constancy of a ticking clock. She was in her twenties when she first managed to make her own working robot and it breathed with inexorable regularity. In out. In out. In out.Synchro-City5 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"Hello," it said. In out. "Are you my mother?"
She laughed.
"The female creator of my form," it insisted, "The instantiator of my existence. Are you my mother?"
She had to concede that she was, although the term made her uneasy.
In out. I
PassengerPassenger6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She wrote me:
This is the time of all things read;
the time of books, clean hands, straw dogs,
shared looks. This is the time
that finds the time to settle down;
to open that smile with enormous plans;
to pound on metal rolled with rust;
to lie when lovers lie, alone, quiet,
in kitsch and style.
She wrote me:
Death for some is a careless cat,
one that lacks a voice—and love—
and never plays chess.
But that is not my choice.
You see, I prefer the quieter sort;
the kind of death that stalks one
through shapeless blur, a caress of trust
and a lack of breath—now three, now two—
a sweet bluff and a face that
omg lol"omg lol w8 4 meh!1" cried Wendy as she hastily grabbed her textbook and slammed her locker door shut. The second bell had rung five minutes ago, and her two friends were already across the hallway. They stood in front of a door with a sign that read "chatsp33k". Mary Beth, the eldest of Wendy's little posse, waved her hot pink painted fingers at Wendy.omg lol7 years ago in Scraps More Like This
"hurry!!11! were l8 lol," she beckoned.
"im coming lol," said Wendy. She trotted down the hall towards the two, who were already heading through the door into the Chatspeak classroom. Wendy panted as she took her seat, which was located directly in front of Mr. Parsley's desk, the Chatspeak
Full Fathom FiveFull fathom fiveFull Fathom Five6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
She lies, drowned,
In a world with
No light or sound
On her side, 'mongst
The corals and the fishes,
Longing for the
Breeze she misses
Full fathom five
She stirs and groans,
Shaking barnacles
From her bones
And rising from
Her frigid bed
She reaches from
Beyond the dead
Full fathom five
She leaves the gloom,
Seeks the comfort
Of the moon.
With a whisper,
She breaks the waves;
Her skeleton crew
Wake from their graves
Full fathom five,
She sails still,
Upon a gossamer mist,
Weaving a chill
Around the hearts
Of sailing men
Who cross themselves and turn
From this phantom wind
Full fathom five
She
How to Write a SestinaIn order to write a sestina,How to Write a Sestina9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
you must start by being unsure,
quickly switching from cold to hot
to cold and to hot again,
the temperature being like a cat
in the Sahara desert at dusk.
Sit on your porch at dusk,
watch the clouds create their sestinas.
As you watch, allow your cat
beside you, her tongue lapping unsurely
from a cup. Look up again,
wonder if milk would be hot
if left out. It is hot;
There is a heat about dusk.
Forget. Forget about the poem again,
Look around. Everywhere, there are sestinas.
Not just in the cool, unsure
ripples your cat
makes, the gentle clink clink your cat's
teeth make as she tips h
AddendumDo you have any clue howAddendum5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
mesmerizing
you remain?
You're a cryogenic
heart
attack
{encased in flame}
and laced with memory's sweetest secret name
spoken
and winding
icily
down the same
backbone that you freeze
with a fireburn hum;
to feel you breathe
upon my xiphisternum
is like a dream from heaven above
wrapped in an
aquamarine
pillar
of
flame;
"I am so in love with you"
becomes preferred refrain.
(There's something stuck in my head:
it's you and I.)
We cannot be the same,
for we have witnessed
candlelit displays
of com
Wild Flower Crimes When I crush the head of a clover bloom, the scent carries me to that far off field where my weed battered knees cut trails by the blackberry bush. Where the old man let us feast on his jam flavored crop of wild fruit, and told us tales of when his hair was crowned with dandelion fluff. Where the overhead hum of power lines cursing the heat of summer was the only thread we used to find our way back home. Where the king of the day was crowned based upon who found the biggest possum skull, or smashed the tallest crawdad hole; swearing he fought off its occupant, who was the size of Bobby’s dog. Back then, the trash of ditchesWild Flower Crimes5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The Umbrella LettersDear Mr. and Mrs. Umbrella,The Umbrella Letters5 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
I'm writing out of concern for your son Charlie. Since he first started in my class I have noticed odd tendencies in his behaviour. I know Charlie is a special boy, but the way these tendencies develop is beginning to worry me. He seems to be having troubles communicating with others. He rarely plays with the other children and does not respond when I speak to him. His writing is beginning to stray from the alphabet. Last week he even refused to partake in morning prostration! I took him to see the school nurse but he remained silent for the entire time and did not subject himself to examination. I therefore ask y
Under the UmbrellaThat’s me under the battered umbrella, the one with the Technicolor dreamcoat and the hairstyle that’s decidedly undecided. I’m avoiding looking down, I expect, because I’d like to be one of those confident people that smiles and says “Afternoon!” to everyone they pass on the gum-dappled pavements, and not someone that puts all their energy into considering abandoned takeaway packaging and coins glued to the floor by psychology students.Under the Umbrella5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I’m probably thinking about poetry, or one of many arrogant young men that occasionally give me a look that could be mistaken for something meaningful. Maybe I’m just
The Grammar GangstersBeware the grammar gangsters!The Grammar Gangsters5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The mafia of the literary underworld.
They saunter into stanzas,
Weapons concealed
Under their trench coats
Or in violin cases.
They can make you talk,
"With just a few well-placed speech marks,"
Leave you shouting! Where you should have whispered!
And pulp your bold statements into quavering questions?
They can, pepper, your, phrases with, commas,
Or bring your piece to a dead.
Full.
Stop.
They'll trap you (between brackets)
As you - dash - to the exit.
Then: punch a blunted colon
Into the gut of your text
Or worse;
Force-feed you a poisonous semicolon,
Then hack/slash your work to shreds.
T
Annus Novus These evenings the sky turnsAnnus Novus4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
red, bright like never before.
The fingertips of trees peek
over the windowsill. A wind
roars across the bleached savannah,
mane of brittle leaves.
My scarf falls to the ground.
I watch a man obsessed with beauty
die of cholera on
Seasons of Violet.We called her Violet, and she was.Seasons of Violet.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We knew her when she was young and pale, during Fall
And when we'd climb old trees, their brittle branches
Like welcoming arms
Would snap in two
And we'd cascade to the earthy ground
Carpeted with golden and red and orange
And as we fell,
Secretly, she'd wish with all the goodness in her heart
That she were a leaf as well
That like a leaf, she could be swept away to some distant place
In arms that would not break
In arms that belonged to people who truly loved her.
We called her Violet, and she was.
And with the changing of the seasons,
Winter had taken away her smile and replaced it with t
PossessionPossession7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
-
In my shed I keep a man
by the name of Isaac. His nails are blue,
his eyelids black from a game we played.
He's kneeling in a cobwebbed corner, teeth
sinking through his lip, a grin
tweaking at his cheeks, still red with rum.
On his chin is balanced a golden moth.
He's staring through her beating wings at
some other, sweetly-coloured world.
At the window taps a haze
of spring in thick blossom, and a carnival
of birds at five AM. I don't always come
out this early. But his moans pulled at my skirt,
and charmed my feet to creep into indigo,
and here I am. He doesn't turn to me,
or blink at the stuttering dawn.
At his lips th
CompositionCompositionComposition4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
There is almost nothing of life left
in me. I spasm
like a broken wasp, like a headless
samurai.
As openings go, I could do worse.
You respond, tell me
about someone we knew from high school,
how you write him
letters in longhand, the way you once
wrote to me. You converse
about your shared love
of music.
And I know. I conceive
of how I could still play your piano
forte,
how I could make your guts
vibrate.
I could find the key.
I have spent so long
practicing.
Theory is not enough. I tune
my instrument
and bang out a few notes.
Faded SonataFaded Sonata7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Somewhere
There is a place
In a tiny room
In a special house
Surrounded by magic
Some golf balls
And a pond
A mini Mozart
Sits among
The boxed and ignored
Memories
Of years long past
Faded yellow flowers
Peel from the wall
And droop to kiss the old
Cornhusk mattress
On which one becomes quite lazy
Beside old papers
Dreams in a chunky pillow
Feet sticking out
Of that considerate hole
In the blue blanket bottom
Waking up to
Compose genius
Melodies
That are never
Quite alike
And little brown
Fingers tripping over
The little brown keys
And giving special love
To the two keys
That fell asleep mi
moth-eaten curtainsI sit on the carpetmoth-eaten curtains5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where gaps are filled
with chewing gum and dead spiders,
it's here, time,
I tell her everything;
use the words that are scribbled
on the paper with bright pink ruled
lines and no margins
kept in a shoebox beneath my bed.
The curtains were moth-eaten.
Damp marks left from leaks
swirl shapes on the
ceiling and the wall behind me,
smelling like clothes
that have flapped in the rain
and fallen in a pile, then worn
too many times;
in here, this time,
the whole building appears
abandoned,
yet with the windows intact
and exterior bricks
red, new.
The smell of summer
stays outside.
She stares at me with
Unfinal SolutionJim and Dave shuffled down the street in the hot summer sun. Occasionally they would encounter an obstacle, such as a shopping cart, corpse, pile of trash, or burned out car. Depending on the size and nature of the obstacle, their zombie intellect would kick over into high gear, and a conversation such as this might ensue:Unfinal Solution4 years ago in Horror More Like This
“Braaaaaaaaaaains….”
“Rains! Rains! Raaaaaaaains1….”
“Brains….”
If the object was large, such as a chunk of flaming airplane wreckage, Jim and Dave would do the Zombie Shuffle around its perimeter, sometimes bumping into each other and the obs
Like a Man "Please," he whimpered, eyes cast up from the polished linoleum as if in prayer, a single rivulet of blood trickling from a nostril. "I… I have a family."Like a Man4 years ago in Horror More Like This
"A family?" Charlie glanced from one crumpled heap of flesh and gristle to another, a distinct disinterest building behind insect black eyes. "How many kids?"
"I… t-two."
"Boy or girl?"
"Both boys."
He squatted next to the man, spinning the massive .357 on his finger like the protagonist of some spaghetti western. The barrel whirled around the blur of his hand like Death's private helicopter, gaining and losing momentum in an evident but indecipherable rhythm. He blew a
the cocooning of pangeatell me about continents and oceansthe cocooning of pangea4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and i'll tell you about highways
and planes.
continents -
fall apart
you say,
oceans -
destroy them
and i say:
but look,
that isn't an ending,
that's just
change.
pangea was
beautiful,
it didn't
need to change.
and i say:
we all need to change,
even beauty must adapt.
and i say:
i adapted,
pangea adapted,
why can't you?
all that distance,
you say,
all those miles.
there is an ocean
between us.
and i say:
highway
Sta.sh
