Uncle DannyIn the Beginning, there was the Word.
And some say that the reason there was only one word was because Uncle Danny got hold of the rest and God just had to make do.
And Uncle Danny had black nails and no hair, and he wore big glasses and a hat and a coat, and he walked around Copenhagen at night and wrote it all down on the cobbles, and in his head, and in his hat and, sometimes, on paper.
And Uncle Danny was everybody's Uncle, even if nobody could really remember why or how. And Uncle Danny had the Words. And the Words had Uncle Danny.
And sometimes it would be hard to see where the Words ended and Uncle Danny began.
And there are rules that say you can't start a sentence with "and". And Uncle Danny did it anyway.
And with the Words he painted pictures of Vangede. And he painted pictures of the seedy bars and prostitutes, and of the country and the land and the people in the city, and the people in the City became the people Everywhere, because Uncle Danny painted them all.
unwrappedyou: complete packageunwrapped7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
me: various useless parts
Break"We cannot fight for love, as men may do; We should be wooed and were not made to woo." - A Midsummer Night's Dream.Break8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
When you fall in love it doesn't break. When you hope, when you really hope it doesn't break and if it does you mend it, you bind it, you build it back up with glue or bandages or crumbling bricks. You mend it straight away and you keep mending it and repairing it over and over, even if it's breaking faster than you can fix it. Even if all of a sudden it's not the thing it was to start with, it's just a pile of mending...of mended parts. When there is no broken hope or love left, when there's nothing but dust, you die. In one way or another. This is what it means to love and I'm starting to think that it doesn't happen as often as they would have us think.
My mum, so good with the sewing machine, didn't even bring out the thread, didn't even try. I know it's wrong, I know I shouldn't but I just see it as a woman's job to fix. My dad fought for her, as all good sui
Pete, Re-PetePete, Re-Pete7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
Two hours ago, Pete had been pulled gasping from a tank of jelly. Now he sat in an immaculate office, wearing borrowed clothes with his employer staring him down from the far side of a granite slab desk top.
"Welcome back, Pete." Terrence Carter, syndicate heavyweight and the man Pete ran data packets for. "I must say, you look better than you did the last time I saw you."
Pete sat straight in his chair, tentatively rolling and flexing muscle that remembered thirty eight years of abusive mileage, but didn't feel a days wear and tear. "What happened Terry, what's going on?"
"You were running a very special package for me Pete, one we couldn't copy, one we had to risk transporting as original data." Terry paused, pulling at each of his white shirt cuffs in turn, evening their length against the dark fabric of his suit. "You had an incident Pete, for some reason you seem to have hidden my package from me. I don't know exactly what went wrong in your head, Pete, but when we finally... reco
What Life We Had: SweetChileWhat Life We HadWhat Life We Had: SweetChile7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We were always funny in that car-crash sort of way, you know? Like a train wreck, where no matter how nasty or ridiculous it got, you couldnt turn away. We were an icon of sorts.
Polar opposites. We were so completely different, we attracted each other. What was that your mother always said oh right, Opposites attract. Were living proof arent we?
You were deeper on an intellectual level, always seeing the world in shades of black and white. All you ever saw was the reality. I was more out-of-the-box. I could see the fine line of gray in between; and I was pretty sure, every time you were with me, that maybe--just maybe you saw it too.
Best friends. That was us too. We were completely inseparable, constantly glued hip to hip. We made sure one was no where without the other. It was like having a brother I never had, but with all the benefits of not living in my house and pestering me day-by-day. We were each others, we owned the o
Small talkTapping the baton of her teaspoonSmall talk8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
twice on the saucer, a bright start:
'You've dropped out,' says his mother.
Her vision of a career in White Hall
crushed by his arts trifling, not one
to acknowledge the legislative clout
of poets. She's a resurrectionist,
keen to deliver him to Society's
scalpel, 'What's wrong?' through
chat and china's light percussion,
a uniform hum he hears as Om.
memento mori I.memento mori7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Death has been standing outside my house all night.
Last night I wiped my eyes against the cool glass and I watched him out the leaves of my window; watched while he circled the perimeter, his hands dancing near my rosebushes, giving light touches to the leaves and breaking them off along the neon vein lines. I touch the patches on my face and I try to make out the lines on his body: hooknose frame, dark lidded eyes, nailed mouth. The ceiling of nighttime rushed over him like a blanket and a smile, and I fell asleep with the crook of my head against the sill, images of his dead-star hands floating on my eyelashes, dripping off onto my cheeks.
And when I opened my eyes and saw morning stretch its back in a curved imitation of blue and white clouds like drippy wings, I knew who he was.
Now it's midmorning, and I take the knife and shiver until it cracks against the board. I bring the end dangerously close to my fingers,
The FuguistJonah hated Mars. He hated everything about it. Every minute he spent there he was plagued by a vague feeling of unrest: Mars was not quite foreign, not quite familiar, an endless mirage or coma dream. Maybe he was dead, and maybe this was purgatory. Sometimes he considered praying at night, asking for forgiveness, just in case, for whatever sin might have banished him there, but then he looked out over the barren, forsaken wasteland and thought his time was much better spent sleeping, or walking.The Fuguist8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
But he hated how soft the ground was, how little clouds of dust exploded under his soles with every step, and how he could turn around and see his straight, months'-long trail of footsteps stretching out behind him, since there were no winds to erase that lonely path. He hated the air, which was so thin that no one breath was ever enough and so full of dust that he thought his throat and tongue and teeth were coated with the red powder.
He hated the sky, which hung too low overhead, ripe with
Hold the Lineriiiing.Hold the Line8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
This is an automated service:
Please be patient while we process
your personal details,
and place your call on
-- Hold on to a
final call for the faithless,
as fingers twitch a tuneless tattoo
upon graffiti casings; stacatto codecs
broadcast in desperation to
"Your continued custom
is our conscious concern.
One of our representatives
shall take the time to
-- Speak in riddles,
subtle stranglehold puzzles
that tie in tangled, intricate knots
around this line against my throat.
I'm strung-out and up,
ready to hang
then they strike out
with that god-awful muzak;
recycled canned dissonance
that's designed to decay
and echoes hollow
with the incantation:
my name is (irrelevant).
How may I be of service?"
One voice of billions,
that drones incessantly 'neath
stoic, stone-hearted heavens,
Over and out
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 Bobbys dog. Back then, the trash of ditches was pirate swag, or royal treasure. A baseball bat swollen with ditch water was a giants club. A thorny weed was the last proof of an ancient forest.Wild Flower Crimes7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Time ran slow there, meandering with bees tha
Operation SearchlightYou ripped the tongue out my mouthOperation Searchlight7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Replaced it with fire shower,
You came hissing your depraved war cries
Faces drawn like a slave to your lies;
Under the dark
Shaking your champagne bottles
You sprayed your froth- throttled
Me out of spark.
Gathered up my rivers
In pitch darkness
Starved my suns brightness.
Pulled out of my landscape
Like a picked-clean bone;
Cornered with no escape,
I died in numbers unknown.
You popped corks loud enough
To drown songs of my youth.
But your fire
Could only lick my feet;
I climbed out of the mire,
To lend fire to your funeral pyre.
In time I found and held a handle,
And blew out my first birthday candle.
CrayonsLife is like a box of crayons.Crayons8 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
At birth, you're given a great big box of them to share and add color to your life.
Some colors get used more than others.
Sometimes, a crayon gets broken. A Bright color gets snapped in half and tossed in the garbage can, never to be returned. Sometimes you keep coloring. Sometimes you can't. That color was important.
Sometimes a crayon is gained, shared between two people. That color might be just perfect, and works great! Other times it's a different shade, but it will make do.
But, there is always one color left in the box.
It's normally unused until death. It's used to frame the picture. To add the final border to the coloring board of life.
Some people use it. They color onto other's pictures with it. Sometimes their own.
They use it to scribble out portions of the picture. Sometimes the portion isn't that important.
Sometimes it is.
Sometimes there are multiple blacks in the box when you open it for the day.. Sometimes there's only one, or i
Monologue"I could tell you that I do this because I'm insane, because God is in my head, because I go about my business with a thousand avenging angels conducting a symphony of holy amorality, directing my every move. Because organized crime killed my father, raped my mother, and tortured my sister, and that they had all this coming to them. That I do this because I like it; because I like to kill, and that I'm no more alive than when I stand there looking down on them, willing the light to go out of their life, staring down at their eyes so that I can watch--so that I can feel them die. Because I revel in it. Because I'm lost. Because I wasn't breast-fed or because society wouldn't have me or that I was abused, scorned and hated. That life was cruel and God disowned me.Monologue9 years ago in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
That I never watched a violent movie in my life and that my parents protected me and nurtured me too much, and when I saw
Bambi's mom get murdered in cold blood, it unhinged my mind. That Disney walked away with my soul and tha
It's Hard To Break Bad HabitsIf I allow my tongue toIt's Hard To Break Bad Habits8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
touch the top of my teeth
to the bottom to utter a
"I Love you"
tonight, does it mean I
can't say it again?
I bite my nails
as I recoil, remembering
the bad habit, barely making
progress in this patience
plaguing, somber, far from serene
two minutes since we last
said our good-byes,
good-nights, good-wishes of
sleepfully peaceful mind shows.
Feels like an eternity since
we last spoke, while Eternity
waits by the door,
readying to again make my heart
long so long for you.
~she has always been
so successful in her
SocksYou can't always win a nobel prizeSocks8 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
or vicarious eyes
while thinking of ways to rhyme
with a 2 syllable word;
I spew lizard,
despite how absurd,
and whether or not
that strikes you in awe
or raises a brow,
or opens your jaw,
regardless of whatever you're thinking right now,
this has no relevance... to anything. At all.
Sometimes you write
about humanity's flaws,
write to grant laughter,
or analyze God,
but then when you write,
you imagine your bed!
so maybe you'd rather be writing
about... socks, instead.
It shouldn't take long
since i'm very much familiar
and quite frankly, an expert,
in the subject matter,
I mean, I wear socks
like, every day, man.
It's I think something
everyone should try.
At least once,
just sit down and write.
No theory, no philosophy,
no literary temptation.
Just write shit about socks,
and the feet that wear them.
HabitsI've been picking up bad habits. They're everywhere.Habits9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I find them on the ground sometimes. I think people drop habits a lot, because I check the same places plenty of times, and there's always something new. At the laundromat alone, I've picked up smoking, nail-biting, and staring, all in the course of a single week. That's not to say it isn't worth trying new spots now and then, though. Once, by the side of the road, I found nose-picking out of sheer dumb luck.
The subway is another hot spot. You got to be willing to sort through them, though. It's easy to find fidgeting or breathing with your mouth open; that's common stuff. If you want a collection like I've got, you've got to sift through things until you find a real gem like scratching or knuckle-cracking.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do with all these things. I don't think I can sell them for much, and the rare ones aren't in any g
DogmaThis is how I think of you:Dogma7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That you are made of wide-frame glasses,
vegetables and dismissals; that you watch
Dogma and you do not know why they
bothered making the movie and then ask me to
put in something depressing so you can cry again.
This is how I dream of you:
That you are standing outside of a residence hall
in the winter without any shoes; that you have no hair anymore
because your niece had leukemia and you cut it
all off to spite disease; that you flay your arms into
seventeen parts and I wake up screaming.
And most of all, this is how I feel you:
That you smell like the innards of a gull, all
lonely and grey; that even
If I Were A LineIf I were a lineIf I Were A Line8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I think Id be curled,
billowed and swirled,
and slowly unfurled.
Id sweep over a page,
if I were a line,
with the wind in my hair,
and my heart laid bare.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a line.
If I were a spot
Id be round and fat
(now how about that?)
like an old, well-fed cat.
Id have drizzled and dropped,
if I were a spot,
pittering and pattering
with a slight hint of smattering.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a spot.
If I were a colour
Id be a rich red,
like a painted deathbed
or a sword to the head.
Id lunge for macabre,
if I were a colour,
made oh-so dramatic,
my thoughts all sporadic.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a colour.
But I am a human,
so pale and flawed,
and easily bored,
(wishing I was adored).
I twist and bend
(these hinges, you see?);
my shape is no other
than the one I can be;
My colour, it changes
because I am a human:
a human thats me.
PASSIONPASSION9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"Passion - it lives, it breathes, it exists within us,
To inspire us, to invoke us, to entice us to find adventure in all life."
"It is the fire that burns within our blood,
It is the little voice in our mind we hear,
That urges us, that taunts us, that seduces us to go beyond even our fears."
"Passion - it is the reason."
"It is the reason that the sun seeks out the horizon with such intensity,
To burn it, with its kiss of rays complete
Filling then all of life with its passionate heat."
"It is the source of all that is power in nature.
"It is the gale of a hurricane."
"It is the flash of the lightning as the storm thunders out its name.
"It is the cause of the frantic rush of the waves to kiss the shore.
"It is the touch of a lover's lips to another in the beginning of a dance of
"Passion is who we are."
"Passion is either our very life's breath or the very final beat of our heart in its death."
Rita Hayworth is 90 nowThe old man sat shoelessRita Hayworth is 90 now9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
On the side of Grayton Cross
The dust on his face and hands made
And white alongside the stripes
In the tired sky.
It was April, and still too early to
Put away the animals
I slid down
By him and accepted
His yellow cigarettes.
Somewhere buried in the paper of his pockets
Lay stale pictures of the dead
"Remember Ms. Farrell?" he spit out
A little too quickly, landing
Dried pieces of his lips
Onto my bare feet
"Older than me
but pretty as a statue
I could picture
This woman, frozen
In one place
Sitting easily within a smile
Like my mothers'.
The red in her hair
Had faded with the heat and dust
Of 60 years.
Then down to my own elastic
Thighs, the tight
Wrap of my ankles snapping
With early springtime wind.
I licked the dust off my lips
In an effort to talk to this secret
Man smoking inside the evening mud
But nothing was pulled out.
Later he asked again
By that time I was too gray
And it was time for night.
the opposite of sin"Please, honey," she says, "don't be scared-a the cross."the opposite of sin7 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
She says, I know Jesus once stood there like a pinned butterfly, His wings all in cascades of browned flesh and His sunburned words stumbling out of a jaw that had forgotten how to closeand I know He tore all them admittances from our hearts like dangling baubles off a Christmas treeand I know, she said, I know He looked awful suspicious with His head bent downwards like He was lookin' at somebody, and I know that His knees bent under the pressure of all those thousands of millions of sins He had planted in His back like rows and rows of dandelion seeds, sprouting up every which way on His skin.
And I know, I know, He was all mountain-carved hipbones and arms like gaping wounds, His neck snapping like his head was paved with rocks and iron, His eyes struggling to break free from their lids; and I know it must've looked awful terrible, honey, but please, don't be afraid.
She takes a breath. I know, she says, I know He
Looking UpEvery person that I pass on the street either looks at me and smiles, or looks down at the passing cracks and scuffed boots that refuse to look back. Not one ever looks up. As a human I feel restrained in this two-way world, and as a stranger I feel helpless.Looking Up7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Did you see the man with the tattered work gloves? How he hid his fingers in his sweat-stained blue jeans and held a staring contest with his steel toes? I wish he knew that I walked by, that if he was to pass by me a second time, a that man looks more tired than the last time I saw him thought could run through his mind. He cant even imagine where hes going because he is too busy stuffing his mind with personal guilt. Nobody blames him but himself: for his menial job, his workaday routine, his solitude.
But I am just assuming here. I couldnt pinpoint this mans face in a lineup, or greet him by his predictable nickname. He would tell me (if he could see me), that the brim of his cap simpl
welcome back to kansas"Before you kill yourself," I say, not unkindly, "I want you to tell me what your mother's favorite flowers are, so I'll know what to send her afterwards."welcome back to kansas7 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
I wish I could help you, kid.
I mean it.
You tell me you love me while you are sobbing. The phone skips in connection when the thunder roars hungry and I nearly miss the end of "you." I am biting my nails and the rain outside begs for me to come out, asking for a retreat from this pavement and these cupped hands.
I feel like a burden on your white carpet. It molds like hot iron to my feet and I resist the urge to tell you that I'm stuck, stuck, so terribly stuck. You look at me apologetically and miserably and you begin to cry and I have to shut my eyes and let the world stop.
"Roses," you mutter, and it is silver and shaky in your hands, with a circle mouth and black air for eyes. "My mother's favorite flowers are roses."
You load and cock it.
I watch you aim.
of monsters and menTime does not wait for you. He walks down the train tracks with squared shoulders and looks ahead like he is going somewhere. In his eye you can see the horizons of concrete buildings dying for a touch at the sky, raising antennas up to grasp onto God's outstretched palm. Time is the seventh grade boy in overalls who walks unfumbling along the gutter with his feet like bound rivers, and if he were to stop and smell the roses we'd all be afraid we'd have none left, sucked up his nostrils into the secret garden of his lungs. Time wears wristwatches like snakes along his arm, traveling up to find his clavicles bent out of shape with want and desire, and his knuckles could pinpoint you from miles away. Time is the seventh grade boy that you watch enviously, his skilled feet and his unfurled tongue and the confident way he sits at his desk and speaks Latin in school, and you are the kid who sits in the back row and draws ants on the back of his neck with your scrunched fingers, mumbling a dof monsters and men7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This