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Why we write
By night, when homeward bound, I plan and count
The hours that remain and how I'll joyfully apply
My creative mind; but oft I can't surmount
That tiny gap between to do and try.
Like Armstrong on the lander's final rung
The smallest step is yet the longest leap.
An undecided heart is by its heartstrings hung;
A hundred short-lived joys are easier to reap.
The world has colour more than black and white
And room between prolific and procrastinate.
Creation need not rule our every night
A balanced mind has other needs to sate.
A poem written over eighteen days
Is still creation--at a languid pace.
Why we have fictionThere's a joke the gods like to tell in heaven
"A man decided to get up in the morning"
And they laugh and they laugh and they laugh
I kissed a girl the other night
She didn't run away so I did okay
I said a witty thing before I kissed her
And I said a witty thing after I kissed her
And that made me feel pretty good
Sometimes, I watch when things happen to me
Or when I happen to things
And I think to myself, well
This would be very funny if I read it in a book
Or very sad if I saw it in a film
Or very wise if a poem was to be written about it
But since it is happening to me
Or I am happening to it
It is complicated and messy and rough around the edges
Stories in real life never end on the good bit
Which is why we have fiction
I kissed a girl the other night
I said a witty thing before I kissed her
And I said witty thing after I kissed her
And she loved it and she kissed me back
And we lived happily ever after
My Father 1When he was 30
my father had built and torn down
and rebuilt again a shed
with his own hands;
had planned a future for himself and his wife
and the two children he knew he'd have.
My father had serious hobbies.
I remember the oscilloscopes and the smell
He would come home from work and pore over
financial documents, figure out how to keep us
safe and secure and comfortable.
Because that is what grown-ups do.
And he'd worry and frown and talk seriously
to serious men.
It was clear to me then that there was a line
between child and man, and that I was
on this side and he on the other.
That was fine. The line would come closer
and one day I'd leap over it
and be a serious man, too.
I am still waiting.
I am 30 now.
It is not what I thought it would be.
It is no different from being 16, only that now
I have no one to send me to bed at 11,
so I stay up until 5,
I have no one to tell me to get my finances straight,
so I don't.
And I am not alone.
We are not grown-ups, but overg
2nd person fiction and YouYou like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth.
Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth.
Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was.
Only, of course, it wasn't.
Fiction written in the second person has invaded your dreams, and what's worse, your sexual fantasies. You'd be picturing a luscious blonde, rubbing her rubbables, yearning for your touch, when suddenly a voice would pop into your head, calmly narrating what you were doing: "You are picturing a luscious blonde," the voice would say, "rubbing her rubbables. Hey
Fuck you, grapefruitFuck you, grapefruit. Fuck you right in your sickly dark-red ass.
Grapefruits are the Nigerian spam of the world of fruit. Yay, I just got $20,000,000 off this Nigerian prince on the internet. Wait, why is my bank account empty? Yay, oranges! Wait, grapefruit.
In every way that oranges are awesome, grapefruits are awful. Just look at them! Oranges are joyful, bright, full of life--they're orange! Grapefruits are the sickly pale hue of a nerd that sits in front of his PC 20 hours a day grinding quests in World of Warcraft. "That's not all I do," Grapefruits insist in their whiny high-pitched voices. "I have other interests! For instance, let me show you my 15 terabyte collection of racist hentai. I'm the only collector outside of Japan!" Go away, grapefruits. "This one is about a nazi officer who summons demons by raping Chinese mothers to death." Fuck you, grapefruits.
Look at their flesh! Oranges are brimming with positive orange-ness. You can see all the sun they stored up, convenien
The ShamblerThe following letter was found in the quarters of the High Inquisitor after he had taken his life.
We arrived at first light. The courthouse lay in ruins, as was reported. The locals assured us they had not entered the ruins since the fire, and judging from the distance they are keeping from the smoking piles of rubble even now we are inclined to believe them. They warned us that some evil entity resided inside still.
Our scouts found no signs of life, evil or otherwise, at all. We are still identifying the corpses we found within. Some are entirely incinerated, others have barely been touched by the flames. All of them are badly mutilated, as if by large cutting instruments.
One thing we cannot account for at this time is the number of limbs we found. According to copies of court documents, the hearing that morning was closed, so we have a good estimate of the number of people inside the building at the time of the fire: twenty-four. However, we have found only thirteen
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More