the vowelasaurusa -the vowelasaurus in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
a massacre of morals,
prefixes are arming our world
with pros and cons, benefit of the doubt
is that death is near; spelled out in numbers
the world is losing the nile river, the panama canal,
the beauty of the grand canyon is locking away the fears of
dictators of love and inventors of hate. they found us behind you.
easy way out.
of nothing, this is
taking the e of of sex
and solving for x and finding s
and using it to spell shit and dividing by us
and equaling you and i am finding out that the letter
e is being taken out of love and we are left with lov and
i am using that e to add to to my double l, with an h because
this is just pure hell.
i credit you
the benefit of
the doubt when i
tell you that cautious
has i o u. i owe you. and
what the hell do i owe you
besides a reminder of when i
bowled with your uvula, a catastrophic
event leading to the loss of the swish alps,
neutrality at its peak of disaster, the ozone layer
is writing an essay on the task of being go
i'm stillforming infinities from teardrops, calculating mind blowing possibilities from your slurred out words, running fingers through coarse piles of carcasses piled centuries high, mountains filled with emotions, i am creating a whole new hemisphere, a whole new planet, fuck pangaea when i can create my own war stricken, poverty thriving, judgmental hell hole we call planet earth.i'm still in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we're just run on sentencesi am camera eyes, taking snap shots of holy hemorrhages out east behind the ruins of a city full of liars and lovers and red wild flowers plastered under the noon tide sun.we're just run on sentences in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we, yes we, are all dying and so why water the grass if it is to just wilt in the sun, why eat if we are to rot under mounds of decomposed remains of the fools before us and oh the lovers strewn out five tombstones apart and a hundred centuries of love all mushed together under the ground in healthy patterns of crucifixes and i can feel it. i really can, when i walk down long dirt roads and along narrowing mountain peaks.
dead sparrows line the windowsill on a glistening morning not far from reality and i can count the snails leeched to the ceiling and the dirt around our cuticles in mere particle displays of how we spend our time digging holes a hundred feet deep and laying our pictures of a once happy time to rest.
i've always beensand paper running down your spine behind sycamore trees five hundred miles from where we first made love, scathing insects trickling between your ear drums, blood oozing from tear ducts, placid reminders of fortified nothings and beautiful shells of locus, such as the hummingbird skull earrings i adored you with for your seventeenth birthday.i've always been in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i'mbricks blocking us in between the twin towers, screeching insomniacs at half past three am, coughing up secrets doused in blood swarming from your chipped toenails and down the sea shore, collecting spines and vertebrae, this is going to be a very happy un-birthday when i build you a prison from your parents remains.i'm in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
sanguinethe hay is sticking to my fingers.sanguine in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"oh god, what have i done?"
i am greeted with silence, a river of red dancing at my boots. i see the pitchfork, stained crimson at its tines, and my stomach convulses.
her dress is torn, animalistic claws shredding the length of its blue skirt, and her legs scraped raw. i see her face, see what i have done to its beauty, and sink to the floor of the barn until the scent of moist earth fills my nose.
"i'm sorry, i'm so, so sorry." my voice sounds strangled and far away. "elisabeth, forgive me. i'm so, so sorry. i will be a better man, i swear, i will be good to you."
my hands stumble to her wet shoulder, up her reddened neck, and rest on the ruins of her face. "oh god, what have i done?"
she is a ghost, and i am a ghost of my self. i am empty as my stomach heaves its malevolent contents into a mound of hay, and i cry as my fingers stumble over the barn phone, leavin
people poetry.i told her i missed her and she showed up in a flock of birdspeople poetry. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
and feathers and wings the very next day.
she was in my newspaper bundle and tied with a cord and
i knew right there that i would never walk again if she would be
that beautiful for ever, for that moment.
i told her i loved her and she smiled a little,
and i loved the way my name sounded on her lips,
her tongue tripping up every syllable in my name,
my father's name, his father's name, his father's name,
until it sounded like music,
until it sounded like poetry,
until i thought my heart would cry
because it was so beautiful and i couldn't bear
to kiss her
the same way i couldn't bear not to.
can i touch you, she asked,
and of course i said yes.
do you promise you won't think i'm weird, she asked,
and of course i promised.
i'll probably touch you places you don't expect, she said,
and my heart ran away with a white rabbit down a hole before i could catch its toe
so i nodded and put my hand on the back of hers.
but when is enough enough?can i tell you now how i've dissipated,but when is enough enough? in Free Verse More Like This
dissolved into the fabric's interstices
swallowed like living pride
i weigh less than i ever have,
i am less than i've ever been,
let's watch as i count every single
calorie in every single
morsel to touch my tongue,
let's see how far i've fallen,
let's see how much i hurt.
how hollow i'm painted these days,
dark shadows gracing the lines
of every feeling i beat,
can you see the way i breathe
conflict with every gasp,
the happiness i bend over backwards
for in hopes of bowing to my breast,
the abandoned fears burning under
my skin, the broken stars boiling beneath
the thin-painted husk of reds and blues
do you feel lovely,
for every scar stretched across my skin,
for every number burning through
it's all for you in
the way that it's not for you at all, just
the way you are
not there for me at all.
two weeksmadeline wants to paint a picture on a canvas.two weeks in Short Stories More Like This
she wants to build a tree house and wants her netball team to win the final.
meet someone new every day. she wants to realise pink's an ugly colour and throw out all of her clothes.
she wants to make her first phone call to a boy and hold his hand and go to his house. she wants to get butterflies and wants to share a hot chocolate with him. she wants to have her first kiss.
she wants to listen to music until its all she can hear. she wants to fail tests and say fuck studying, she wants to get a detention and wants to tell her parents that she handed in the excursion money, but keep it for herself.
madeline wants to get high and get a piercing and tell everyone she's fighting the power. she wants to try being vegetarian for a week. she wants to skip school and go to parties. she wants to stumble home in the early morning.
she wants to detox and spend all sunday sleeping. she wants to apologise to her parents and try so very hard to
too fucking beautifulnote: this is backwards, and for a reason.too fucking beautiful in Short Stories More Like This
I didnt bury her; I couldnt.
She was too beautiful; just too fucking beautiful.
Even when she lay there with her flesh in puzzles and the skin on her face rotting to expose her cheekbones and the empty spaces underneath them, she was like a doll; a beautiful, disgusting doll. I still call her love, but she doesnt answer.
She screams, and I run the silver blade over her stomach again. I dont press hard enough to cut, but I press hard enough to make her silent. I turn back to her feet, and push the end of the knife under another nail. Its gorgeous; the way the blood trickles when I slowly push the knife in, and the pours when I take it out; it reminds me of rivers and of the tears that trickle down her face.
She closes her eyes, when I tell her Ill kill her. I think maybe shes imagining that shes picking white roses from her garden again. The way she je
coughing coloursi used to think alexis was beautiful in every way, back when we went to school. now though, i tell myself that he's beautiful in an artistic sort of way. the sort of artistic that makes you picture everything as a black-and-white photo and the kind of artistic that sparks words somewhere inside you. he calls himself a movie-maker now, but his friends call him alex. i like to call him a story.coughing colours in Short Stories More Like This
when we were maybe fifteen, alexis told me he wanted to go to the beach. it was cold, dark and raining outside, but i agreed anyway. i walked through the late night light and met him at his front gate. we held hands, shaking and biting our lips. we weren't talking but i don't think we had to. we sat on the beach and i counted the seconds in between the flashes of light from across the bay. he had his arm around my waist and i can't remember what we said, but i remember that we were happy. cold, wet and shaking but in love and happy.
when we went to school he used to tell me about how he had ev
night butterflyi.night butterfly in Other More Like This
there are these girls in her nightmares;
they have cotton candy lips and electric eyes,
and she's falling from their fragile fingers
with nails painted in shades of spilt blood and
she watches the setting sun from her bedroom window
she has nowhere to go now; the night has come
it is raining when her father slaps her; tells her
'you're a fucking disgrace'
her cheeks are red and her bare feet bleeding,
but its dark and you can't see them;
colours have faded
she knocks on her door in the morning,
and her brother answers; lets her in
they don't exchange words
she curls up in her bed with her head under the blanket
and tries to fall back into her dreams;
where the boys have silk skin and glass eyes
but their skin always rips and their eyes always
standing on the corner at midday; her brown hair
frames her face and her blue eyes glow
her cheeks are red not with abuse but with beauty
her legs are long and reflect the midday sunlight
she is a butte
goodnight, baby boy`goodnight, baby boy in Short Stories More Like This
when you lay in bed tonight and decide, with tears in your eyes that you're better off without me, just know that i was laying, trying to remember that breathing does help the numb ache that keeps me awake through the night.
just know that i feel hollow and sick without knowing i can run to you.
and when i close my eyes, all i will be able to see is you. and when you curl into a ball and hug your knees, to try and make yourself feel safe, just know that i was alone, trying to steady my breathing, longing to be able to lay beside you.
and it'll all be okay, in the end;
that's what i used to tell myself.
it will all be okay
in the end.
the smell of our sleeplessness-the smell of our sleeplessness in Short Stories More Like This
'You've never really felt pain, until you've lost everything' he murmured, his eyes fixed on the dirt between our feet. 'You've never really had your heart broken if you can put the pieces back together.' He paused, taking a small sip from an almost empty wine glass and continued with his drunken monologue.
'You've never really learnt to appreciate their hands if the hands of another don't make you sick to your stomach, and you never understood the way they smelt unless you can smell it on your pillows'
He looked up at me, his face wistful and his grey eyes reflecting the cigarette he held in his hand and stared right though me as he muttered.
'And you know what, you've never really been in love if you can learn to love another'
He doesn't like the way he looks anymore. His once smooth skin is now a victim to his grief, to gravity and to his old age. His hair, growing more and more grey with each day that passes had once been dense and thick, dark brown - framing his luri
recoverythe most beautiful girl i've ever met - her name was ivy.recovery in Short Stories More Like This
she used to have this beautiful blonde hair, that would shine in the sun and glow under the moon. she had a passion deep inside of her, a raging fire that looked as thought it would burn until the end of time.
we met in the summer of 2006, ivy and i. it was almost midday, and the sun was heavy on our shoulders. we sat together on dry grass and told each other about how all we wanted from life was love. we lay on our backs, our hands behind our heads, and stared at the wide blue expanse above us. back then, we both felt like we had the whole world ahead of us.
we felt like we were going somewhere.
she would tell me about how if she did one thing with her life, she just wanted to change someone's life. together we'd paint new realities in the sky, made from clouds and pure imaginations, and i would tell her that we'd live together one day, in a house along the beach. we'd lay on the sand every day, watching the sea roll
at least we'll have storiesi woke up alone in the new year, in a bathtub full of cold, grey water.at least we'll have stories in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
there was a glass half full of whiskey and a photo of you next to me on the ground. my lips tasted like they were bleeding and my eyes were heavy and sore.
dark hair; damp and dirty clung like a leech to my pale skin, and only when i moved to pull it away did i notice how numbingly cold it was in the water.
i thought of how i dreamt that tonight i'd fall asleep in your arms as you sung beatles songs to me. i'd lay there, happy, thinking about how mysterious and dangerous and perfect you are and about how our bloodshot eyes matched each other perfectly. but you're really just out to watch me fall, and me, i'm a drunken sparrow on barbed wire.
i pulled my heavy body out of the water slowly, cringing at the sudden influx of loud noise as the water ran over and off my body, falling back into the small bathtub. i looked at my ugly face in the mirror as i wrapped an already wet towel around my shaking body, and told myse
sad french films.'take me to a sunsoaked horizon'sad french films. in Short Stories More Like This
'wake up to yourself. life isn't a fucking love story'
but oh how she wished it was. if only his smile reminded her of the way the sun seemed to shine just that little bit brighter on a winter's day, or of watching the sun set in summer. if only she could walk around with a handful and a pocketful and a heartfull of stories. but she can never see his reflection in the midnight sky and he never tells her she's beautiful.
he has dark circles under his eyes and when things go wrong he sits alone in small parks drinking until he passes out. at first, she thought it was beautifully sad, but when you're being rushed to hospital to have your stomach pumped, it's not as beautiful any more. when you're coughing and spluttering in the gutter with vomit in your hair and no one around to help its not so poetic.
sometimes she sits down to write about how she feels but nothing comes. all she can see is him with white noise spilling from his mouth and his angry
harlequinade smilehe has a harlequinade smile and sometimes we fuck under the stars. in the backyard; a mess of drunken, tired limbs shaking in the breeze and shaking under one another, we disregard everything we care about for as long as we want and everything is perfect as long as we keep it that way.harlequinade smile in Teen More Like This
we collapse into each other; our heartbeats slowing and our breaths becoming deeper as we lay next to each other and watch what we can see of the stars from our suburban backyard. he tells me they're beautiful, and all i can remember is the real stars; the real night sky without the purple haze of pollution clouding the sky. i want to show him the real night sky one day.
he tells me he wishes moments like these could last forever, as we lie side by side watching as the purple-black sky fades into blue and the stars cease to exist for another day. his dark, tired eyes stare through me and i haven't slept but it doesn't matter, because his smile is warm and his hands gentle, resting in the curve of my back