In shadows cast, a serpent sleek,
With bands of black and white.
In self-encircling, fate draws near,
A moment tense, a future unclear.

Yet, ere the bite, a raptor bold,
Descends with grace, a tale unfolds.
Its talons clasp the serpent’s plight,
A dance of choices in the fading light.

Two paths converge, in present’s hold,
Humanity’s tale, a story bold.
Betwixt self-will and forces unseen,
The dance of fate, on history’s screen.

snuffed out
like meaningless leaves and ashes
one fell moment and it's all gone
only the suffering remains
and you see, you see it at that moment
all that talk about prosperity, humanity, kindness
it was all a ruse
the only truth was capital and power
the only things that mattered to them

the statesmen and the masters
they had convened together
built the looming and dark tombs of delusion
and they did not give a damn about to-be-corpses
they still do not

over fifty thousand
they were killed, butchered, murdered
they are still unmourned to this day
they are still forgotten
many of them are still lost in the rubbles
millions more made to wander
suffering at the mercy of the monster

do they not deserve avenging
shouldn't their pain be inflicted thousandfold on the usurpers
the throne makers and takers of the rich and the corrupt
their blood does not belong to them
not anymore

gods of the new world
here's a declaration
you are not infallible
but our hatred is everlasting
as long as you exist
the spectre will never vanish
even if it takes millenia
we are going to make people forget you were ever human
you shall not be any more than ancient evils of dust
your memory shall be one of a joke, a bygone idiocy
and whatever you built, it will come falling down
much harder than the tombs you raised
the blood you spilt will haunt you down to nothing
and in that moment
when the last memory of you is forgotten
when everything you created is ashes
the void shall truly embrace you
remember this promise for the rest of your life
in your most intimate, safest moments
feel this cold breath of the cosmos on your neck
it is ours, for we are the harbingers

Mythos

A tree unwatched does soundless fall

Without an eye its crash to mark

And starborn light in vain does call

While hearts incline instead to dark

So natural course unseen dictates

The wave of time as life begins

Nor, in our barques asea in fate

Ken we the source of distant winds

Now blown to gale, now to 'phoon —

We strike our sail, but none can dock

Our crafts beset do founder soon

For to the hours we're firmly nocked

In time's swift drifts all 'twined we are

Yet each must pass the stellar door

Through deep'ning age pass on afar

And thus return to astral moor

burn away the rot
burn away the festering
burn away the power
that grip your heart
burn ’em all

the gaze of your sun
shall make you invincible
they shall fear your conviction
for they are the immovable object
you become the unstoppable force
and you are one of many

you refuse the dying of the dream
and that shall become your sun

gusts of wind pick up in pace
and oaken leaves they make to shake.
chirps and flaps as birds make haste
and hooves all trample in escape.

above, the clouds, they morph and move
bearing an ocean in their womb.
forest florals stare in rue;
effulgence dims as darkness blooms.

the rumbling clouds envelope all.
a drip, a drop. and the rain falls.
and though the canopy may stall,
a dribble starts and rends the wall.

a torrent soars towards the floor.
the land, to sea, returns once more.
in time, the green but will restore.
in time, the clouds but will reform.

i wrote this at a creative writing workshop with the following three randomly generated words as the prompt: frequency, dribble, oak.

we enshrine our lords
do we not call them Lord?
the lords giveth and taketh
they are the amalgamation
the supreme product of history
that is why they are sacred
why their divinity is everlasting
or so it is thought

gods are born, gods are killed
the only truth in them is order
and to the ordinary that is divine
their dreams start and end within
the lord's domain breaths life
it dictates what is allowed to be
it cuts the branches off

young dreamer, knowing this
do you still desire The Dream-God?
is it not past time its death?
shouldn't its corpse nourish life?
and the many branches-to-be?

© 2014 u/ebonGavia

Love

Love's sweetly poisoned darts

Are wasted on this heart

Inerrant though they fly

My shielding gives them lie

These centuries-builded walls

The keenest edge forestall

Thus armored sit I here

At siren's call do sneer

By hours, years do toll

And cold becomes my soul

That blackguard, Love, I spurn

From treach'rous Hope I turn

At length my vigil wanes

Naught but ennui remains

With apathetic sigh

And dry, half-lidded eye

My senses, weak, are dulled

To fitful sleep are lulled

Thus primed for artifice

Undone by artlessness

A 'doring glance unlocks

My bitter heart. A shock —

A shining word, a koan —

The fatal shot is flown

Each quick'ning touch, now soft

Our scales, forgotten, doffed

Bewitched by winsome eyes

We don our honeyed ties

Yet venom's stings presage

Our bittersweet malaise

But how is it that we

Bemoan this malady?

In love — by Love, lovesick

Yet, healed, we poison pick

No Cupid bends a string

We prick ourselves, willing.

Born in the wrong family
It left me a gaping void
Stole from me my charity
Burdened me with worry

Born in the wrong district
It showed me the savagery
Darkness that lurks within men
To untrust the ones of normalcy

Born in the wrong city
Filled my soul with mundanity
The unbearable banale
Empty of all wonder and beauty

Born in the wrong culture
Learned to hide my reality
Lest I be killed or maimed
In the rein of traditionality

Born in the wrong country
Flayed from me my future
Gutted sense of commonality
It branded on me misery

Born in the wrong system
Chained me to slavery
Feeding some malevolence
Corrupted my destiny

Born in the wrong time
Hurled into moment of history
Trapped within rotting remnants
Couldn't do away with the elderly

Hereby I declare to all
I reject my humanity
For no matter the causality
But only in a handul few
I see nothing worthy

we recycle our emotions
the foundations

dread, despair, the nothing
the isolation of it all
these are all mine
and anger poured on top
disgust inbetween

told by soil to extinguish
sealed them all away
left adrift and devoid
unable to feel the whole
afraid that it would crush

despairing everything
i fed the void
it bloated and festered
putrid without a voice
it would swallow all
so i bestow it mouth

eight-pointed star
the father-mother
bear my witness
i am heartsore
and loathe the creators

we recycle our emotions
i accept it all, the

denied your own tragedy
fun and cheery
held back by ancient rites
good sport and jolly
these unspoken wounds
banter along all day
festered and putrid
dish it out and take it
marred by shallow's tyranny
here's to another round

The concept

It's a box that contains a receipt printer and an interface with several buttons. A user would press a button that reflects their emotional state (happy, sad, anxious, etc.), then the machine prints out a more-or-less appropriate poem on a receipt printer, beautifully formatted and embellished with simple artwork.

It could be occasionally repurposed for certain themes, like Pride Month to print out queer poems.

I want to place it someplace public and well-trafficked, like Dolores Park or on Castro Street.

Feedback

I like poetry. The idea of a (free) vending machine that gives me a poem to uplift my day excites me. But I wonder if this appeals to others enough to be worth fully realizing. I don't want to spend time and money building something that'll go totally unloved.

Also curious about anti-vandalism measures or ideas. I'm sure some jerk will try graffiti-ing it or peeing on it.

Lastly, anyone interested in collaborating?

So we have all these people, and they all seem to be pissed.

So many people and they all seem to have... something amiss.

Many of these people, their concerns are just... entirely dismissed:

By other people with the same problems who somehow look at these perfectly normal people and react: "I have been nixed!"

These problems are pervasive in our memories and experiences and on a metaphorical wall they are fixed;

And yet the root causes are consistently misinterpreted, and ultimately missed.

And the result is we are betting everything for the sake of getting our cathartic and revengeful fix?

That is being delivered to us by people that if they were to meet us, would utterly reject us and loudly hiss?

And if that gamble fails I will be the one to pick up the scraps, and mop up the piss?

Man, I didn't want to grow up to this.

always seem happy and dandy
and talk of love and romance
a riven smile on the face
to hide thoughts of pain

for her, everything has a verse
a waltz at each step
a flimsy variety of beauty
that melts after rehearse

huge hipster glasses
coffee without any taste
a window facing concrete
is now hummingbirds enlaced

and when she sings all her love
I am always in disbelief
cause when someone shouts too much
I sense a hooded grief

You were smart and pretty
and praised every word I said

Responded to my commands
like a very well-trained basset

You gave me food, shelter, affection
in bed, you did as I pleased
and such strong devotion
was hard for me to receive

Cause how could I trust someone
who clearly and truly loves me?

In this grass where we sit,
I saw many full moons lit

Kissed them shivering in the wind,
felt like solution, formed decision, ultimate end

But the frenzy always fades,
pretty mirage in the haze

Silly me...

I just met you yesterday
And once again tremble my veins

Ask not for whom the cradle weeps; it weeps for you.


O sly kitten, O accursèd cat, cry,
cry for the weft and the warp of the world; cry,
cry for the sin and the sorrow and suffering; cry,
cry on the bloodshed, but more on the tears; cry,
cry for divisions, and ill-wrought connections; cry,
cry for the laughter, so far out of reach; cry.
And in crying find solace; peace——rhythm——be still.

                                               cry 
and cry——cry for the widows and widowers, woven together forever,
by weeping and painless heart-let.
   But your pain is not theirs.
   For, though burdened with truth, you will never be cut 
   by the serrated and blunted edge of polite fiction.
   Enough!


When the cat's in the cradle, the mice will play,
And I hope that they fly far——far-far away.
But the tears of the kitten forever abide,
and someday they'll catch you.
               will you take it in stride?

I'm not quite like you
A few words and that's it
The façade fades
Crumbles
The carefully constructed mood dies
Coping mechanisms defeated
The castle is compromised

A strong exterior only goes so far
Each word pulls stones from the foundation
Fragile walls, fragile heart
I retreat to my secret home
Away from the swords and arrows and fire
No one can reach me here
Safe and quiet and in control
Equally secure, equally secluded

Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise!

the water laps at the dam
seeking egress, seeking progress
everyone inside so thirsty
life affirming liquid
but the dam
the wall we built to keep ourselves safe
our salvation
our condemnation
seemed a good idea at the time
but all our other crimes against ourselves did too
how are we so smart yet so stupid
it hurts
it fucking hurts
life without love may as well be an empty gift on Christmas morning
but we all do it to ourselves every day
so many boundaries and rules and norms
all because we’re too afraid to get hurt
too afraid to be ourselves
too afraid to realize ourselves
too afraid to give one another the best gift we can

I’m sorry
but
I can’t today
I want to
but
I can’t
It’s not my fault
but 
I’m guilty anyway
I’m not understood
but
I’m pressured anyway
I yearn to create, to do
but
I just stay in bed
I want to live
but
I’m too hurt

Put your head over here
and cry all the yearning away
cause thinking will bring you nothing
just thoughts and yet more pain

Sleep, sleep my child
breath slowly that way
cause here there is no more strain
under my loving gaze

In your cotton candy dreams
you embrace with such strength
a cloud above in the sky
sleep, honey, yes, sleep
cause here you're free from time

And there I am on this dream
imagining, imagined
the mark of a want, of a wish
a trace drawn in the sky
don't know if I'm the one dreaming
or if I am been dreamed about

Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end
a phrase with no reticences
a shadow lost in the gaze

A question you have not made
a plot not yet heard
a night with no resolution
be calm, the sun is not late

Glowing friend, your light
has given me
everything I know.
To run you require
a sacrifice

I click open my knife
forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo,
the heart necklace of an immature love
and the compass
with the atomic symbol.

With the blade I
etch
and cut
and stab
to draw sand
from the glass
long left unflipped.

It slides along your surface
sinks in
and is gone.

lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass
lost feelings like love leaving a full heart
lost purpose like a crusader without a cause
all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated
an evil I never invited, never wanted
it's not my fault, not my goal
innocent yet guilty
convicted
more like cursed
their hatred is my destiny
never get back what was lost
never recover who I could, maybe should, have been
robbed of a life, of a happy, normal life
I can't even hate them for it
can't even have that comfort
I'd be just as bad, repeat the cycle
almost sympathetic
only path, only cure, is love
creamy center of a cyanide pill

This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying.

it shines and blazes
such light and warmth
stories told round the hearth
cold nights kept a safe distance away
beauty in chaotic dancing patterns
it promises everything all at once
no regard for consequences or the future
just passion in the moment
no foresight, only enthralling abandon
its wake is ash
empty, cold, dead
no energy
never burn again
it destroys what it loves
what it needs
not because it wants to
because it is
destruction guised as passion

I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is an attempt at expressing that difficulty.

Down in the foothills the peak is so perfect
Covered in pure white snow
Nary a tree in sight
The peak carves a visage in the sky
In the clouds
It just is, it exists peacefully in its austere authority
Calm, serene
Impossible
Yet I yearn to climb
To ascend
Down in the foothills among the trees
The greenof the hills
I make my preparations
Breath
Training
Gear
I practiceand I meditate
I meditate upona life
A life of mistakes and triumphs
Each breath preparing and steeling

It's time to begin my climb
Each step and the air, the precious vital air, thins
Lungs emptying and muscles weakening
And yet I continue
Not quite undaunted, but I continue
The views are stunning
Yet I don't see them, eyes ever on the peak
Visualizing success, not the process
It's so cold
Bitterly, viscerally cold
There's no air
Even a yogi must stop for air
But there's no air
The ground slick with snow and ice
Snow and ice with the oxygen I need
Sealed away in the mystery of the bonds
Just as beautiful as it is inaccessible

But I continue my climb
Slipping and falling, the rocks cut and score
Gashes and bruises amass
I take a moment and reflect
Is it worth it?
Shall I ever ascend?
And as I slip into meditation, I slip down the mountain
All progress lost
The world turns around, up and down
I lose my breath
And land, dizzy and hurt, down the bottom
Even further from the peak than when I started.

First, the piece.

I built a fire from the branches

which were missed by the snow.

Drank the water of the cacti

that in deserts still grow.

Found the shade in the south

where the sun forever glows.

Clawed and scraped my way to freedom

of likes I have never known.

.

A starved, abandoned cub

lost in Greenlandic champaign -

I pawed about the lifeless floors

of snow-imprisoned plains.

With wind ill-matted fur I marched

and shivered through the rain

in search of hearts and hearths to

make me home again.

.

A ward of warmth appeared, assumed

to aid my ailing mews.

A securing shawl of summer softened

me from winters shrewd.

A multitude of miracles revealed

rejuvenating news.

I concluded countless colder winds

are warmer without you.

This site has given me so much: peace of mind, freedom of expression, cathartic release, and a sense of care and community of which I, over the last number of months, have deeply been in need.

Things are looking ever forward as I continue on about adult life. However, included in those plans of forward-action are a number of artistic pursuits.

In search of some semblance of belonging and community, I revealed a lot about myself in various posts and comments I’ve left about Tildes; and made the mistake of not publishing my works separately or under a pseudonym.

I would like to publish a book of poetry, release paintings, and create music. However, I don’t feel comfortable continuing to do so under my real name.

I will be well; I’m in a better place now. (Personally, of course. Not like that.) It’s simply time for me to separate the art from the artist, as it were.

Thank you all, so much, Tildes. I love you.

It’s been fun.

Bishop.

Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more generally. I've never not lived in a city after moving out of my parents' place, and can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Cities are my home, cities are where I belong. I don't think this one is finished, yet; there are a few rough spots, and I'm not sure about the ending. But, like people have said in a few of the timasomo threads, the important thing is to get the words out, to make the work exist outside of one's head.

the city is awake, alive
lights dance in the dark of night
little lifesigns, each a past and present
each a history and a story not yet told
subways and busses and ubers
the occasional oblivious cabbie
(cancer on the streets)
each moving people to their goals
their dreams
veins and arteries in the city's body
lights for seeing
superstructure in steel and glass
inspiration
aspiration and ambition
passion and drive
these power the pulse and the breath
each person, each cell
shapes and grows the city, the body
each experience shapes epigenetics
no place the same after
the city takes us all in
gives us homes
maybe not shelter, but homes
we are alive and so is our home
an energy ineffable yet indelible

edit: A friend has said that this reminds her of the opening of Murakami's After Dark, and I can absolutely see it. Perhaps a bit of subconscious inspiration?

This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I explore yoga more deeply as part of my teacher training program. There's clear inspiration from Whitman's O Me! O Life!, but the message is very modern.

That the powerful play goes on and you will contribute a verse
Why not let the verse be love?
It used to be so easy, so easy, just a simple choice
Choose love
All the conflicts of today and every other time
Not enough love
For one another
For ourselves
Not enough love
All the religions and faiths of the world
All our enlightened leaders
All taught love
The play used to be about love
So many acts ago
Only a few moments ago
Seems like forever
Seems we’ve forgotten the lines
But no one to remind us what they are
And we don’t get a rehearsal
We get one grand opening day
One somber closing night
No matinee
No encore
Why choose any other verse but love?
Love makes everything else possible
Makes everything else worthwhile
Everything else builds on love
That the powerful play goes on and you may choose a verse
Choose love.

note: Posted this with the wrong title first, so deleted and reposted.

My phone sits, as I, in silence

In my room – alone.

I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy

To dig into my bones.

When I was younger I was told that

One day God would call me home.

Instead the coffin calls my name in whispers

And beckons the unknown.

.

Why do I feed a body with a

Soul that keeps depleting?

When all my hopes and expectations come up

Short and keep receding – I

Start alternating between plotting,

Thinking, pleading

That I’ll make a rash decision, they’ll

Give my organs to the needy.

.

Perhaps I’ll drive a stake into my head and chest.

No one should endure this mind or heart.

Meditation never seemed to give much value,

All the medication felt a farce.

I’m an incongruent, uncompleted puzzle

Dangling from a bridge; falling apart.

I watch my pieces sink below into the water,

As this letter dances all about the hearth.

.

I carried out important shit in boxes;

Let the rest behind to be thrown away.

I hid and watched as they threw in the dumpster,

A bed now wrought with chocolate and decay.

As the memories flashed in to my brain,

Of how we chose to spend that final day.

(Of how) even on the best day of the end of my life,

I ended up naked, chocolate-covered, curled up on your chest and crying,

Begging you to stay.

.

The devil is a myth they tell believers;

Hell prevents their chasing earthly dreams.

I will not go to Heaven, and there is no Great Receiver

Who will comfort me and silence my screams.

There is no purgatory in the ether;

The earth is this one act’s final scene.

Fittingly, the water isn’t beautiful here either.

It’s choppy, warm, and a putrid shade of green.

.

Someone use my hands to write a sonnet.

Someone use my eyes to see a better day.

Someone use my legs to climb a mountain;

Use my tongue to find the words to say.

They’ll use my lungs to feel the oxygen.

Use my kidney when theirs is in decay.

They’ll use my heart to feel in love again.

I’ll rest easier that way.

I keep on my journey when the world's asleep,

searching you out, like a bewildered sheep.

If you'll come to my aid when you see me-

with my knees bleeding red on these cobblestone streets.

It must be the price of my earthly sin,

that I've no food or water for nourishment

that I crawl alone, in the dark, hoping.

I am the moonlight masochist.

..

So hear me cry out your name, whoever you are.

Bring me the moon, and make me your star.

Protect me like mountains and be my guard.

Help me sleep sound when the noise is harsh.

Be the hearth for my fire; the warmth for my heart.

Get me into a home, and out of the bars.

Can you hear my infantile, crying heart -

My moonlight masochist matriarch.

..

I cough as I choke on the poisoned air.

No one around who seems to care -

Save for two beady eyes who approach and glare,

a thin coyote with a hungry stare.

I only hear howls in monotone

as two other dogs come sniff my throat

But at least when they carry off my bones,

I can kinda say I never died alone.

..

Hear me cry out your name, whoever you are.

Bring me the moon, and make me your star.

Protect me like mountains and be my guard.

Help me sleep sound when the noise is harsh.

Be the hearth for my fire; the warmth for my heart.

Get me into a home, and out of the bars.

Can you hear my infantile, crying heart -

My moonlight masochist matriarch.

it's kinda silly

kinda nothing

but i was thinkin

kinda wondering

hey.

if i asked.

would you pick the loose string from my sweater

bring a blanket in cloudy weather

go with me on an adventure

give a little hug, a little pressure

would you grab a little snack

put my favorite towel on the rack

hear me sing, and try not to laugh

or light a blunt, hit twice, and pass

help me dye my hair

tell me i look cute in underwear

text me just to say you're there

snap your cookie just to share

or rub my neck soft when it hurts

tell my i've a way with words

walk to the park when wind's absurd

just to sip a tea and watch the birds

tell me that you like my lips

pick me clothes out for a trip

head to the lake to skinny dip

and blush a bit because you like my hips

could you

sweat with me at the gym

fill our popcorn to the brim

say that this shirt makes me look slim

and maybe love me limb from limb

instead of him

.

.

.

I was a kintsugi bitch

A dull, forgotten, broken pot

And then you fixed me up

.

You lined me with your own

dweomercrafted brand of gold

Lac, Mel, et Saccharum

.

And when you’d starve me for attention,

Fed me more from your breast

Til you filled me up

.

And then I’d look you in the eyes

Sugar broiling in the stomach

Am I pretty now

..

Lost, full, and quite ignored

When you had leapt onto the floor

And said we’ve got to go

.

I grabbed your hand and followed blind

My stomach churned I lagged behind

You were the love I know

.

You said we’re going to the sea

My dear you’ll spend a life with me

We’ll make the waves a home

.

And I smiled ear to ear

Cheeks were blushing like a deer

Am I pretty now

..

And then we made it to the bay

quickly climbed into a boat

They never have to know

.

We headed south for centuries

They cannot take the memories

I never hunger now

.

And after weeks of solitude

A stranger came into the view

There was another boat

.

My stomach burned, concerned,

Not a soul had stood astern

You produced a rope

..

You gave a gentle kiss

And slid the twine across my wrists

And tied them into knots

Dipped my legs into the water

Either hand tied either helm

Stretched into a cross

I looked up at you in fear

Just to see you’ve disappeared

I started crying out.

My stomach burned under the water

And the sun was getting hotter

And I’m all alone.

I pleased come to feed me

Don’t leave me weak, depleting

I got no response.

The fish were getting curious

Flies buzzed something furious

They knew what I did not

That if you leave out milk and honey

In the heat, in weather sunny,

It’ll start to rot.

.

Months had passed in sickly motion

Head leaned back, my eyes were open

I died long ago.

The bugs ate at my open mouth

My skin was yellow, wrought with drought

My throat housed a mold

The waters smelled of sulfate

As the serpents ate my stomach ache

My blood has washed away

The rope gave up on hope and

Threw my purple, molten corpse into the ocean

Am I pretty now?

.

.

.

i have no idea where i am
who i have been
i have the slightest glimpse into the present
a wavering image of a time long past
my soul sits on siain heights
above the fish and birds
where we know endless comfort
and a burning desire for wisdom
this version, far away from the peaks
that I am so accustomed to;
yet drawn to the body of man,
who screams in agony as he is raised to the heavens.

one day

i will die

one day

so will you.

the pictures on the wall

will end up in the trash

or old and tattered

in an attic.

our greatest of great-grandkids

won't know our faces or

how deeply we were saddened

to never see them grow

to never learn the world they know

to never speak their modern language

or watch the trees around them

grow.

for we'll be dead in the ground

and we'll never hear a sound

for what comes next ain't only silence

it ain't blood and it ain't violence

it just

ain't.

so for now we're killing time perhaps

we'll get laid or

learn to paint.

but in the end, it all goes out

into the trash

into the dust

and rest assured

into the ground.

.

if you choose to abuse me

i'd rather hear threats for ever than

hear no sound.

because if you're still here to hurt me

i can say that someone

stuck around.

.

.

.

before i'm buried in the ground.

Longest piece to date?

Last night I saw a beast

four different heads with blackened eyes.

Not black in metaphor, but from

the blood that dried inside.

Each of seven legs was mangled

and the beast was blind

but she could fly.

.

Once upon a night so dreary,

and so dreadful I

came across a weathered bar

a woman stood inside.

She sat me at a table, there was

not a soul in sight

but I felt fine.

.

Then she brought a glass of dark with

something new inside.

Leaned in close and whispered to me

"Baby, close your eyes."

I parted my lips and drank as

her hand guided mine.

My guard resigned.

.

She said "I know a place where you can

truly feel alive.

Each one of your problems fall

defenseless by your side."

And she wrapped her arms around me

I contently sighed

as she took flight.

---

Her wretched and misshapen legs

held me close to her chest.

She let out her warning cries

i inhaled every breath.

Her claws were creeping out I

fell upon them like a bed.

I laid to rest.

.

I fell into a home so oddly

shallow and recessed.

The walls were made of rock,

a water drop fell on my head.

There was no single light,

the ceiling lowered as she led

me to her den.

.

As I looked around the room birthed

questions in my head.

So opposite the warmth that she

had first on me impressed...

She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin

my heart fluttered, digressed.

I was possessed.

.

She laid me on the floor and stood with

five legs for each end.

One aside my head and feet

another at my hands.

Then she gently laid a blanket

down over my head,

"Shall we commence?"

---

I still feel it so vividly

each night I fall asleep,

the fused infatuated fear I felt

at a monster's feet,

when that heinous eldritch horror

drained my blood from me,

took me for libation, prayed a tithe

she poured me out.

Her heart could call the kettle as it,

too, went black in drought

She bore her fangs and lowered,

took my body in her mouth.

She then carried me cliffside, like a dog

she threw me down.

My corpse then fell so far, on

impact, no audible sound.

The final earthly thing I heard,

her shriek, "The Gods are proud."

---

Now upon each night so dreary, she

crawls out to find

a source of poor, defenseless blood

that she can sacrifice.

She'll lure them in with gentle kisses

and sapphire eyes.

We all will die.

Epilogue.

On my way to death, I was met

with a choice instead.

I could end my life or help

ensure the gods were fed.

In the heat of fear and pain I

then nodded my head.

The halls of purgatory filled with

screams and smells of death,

as my eyes dried from the inside

and I then begat

five extra legs.

So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?

What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!

I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?

Fabulous!

——

So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.

Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.

Anyway here’s that piece now.

——-

I remember that time I forgot your

birthday

And that time was today

At 12:08 in the morning

And for a moment

I felt great.

.

My dear that was the first sign

That you were

Slipping on out of my mind

Today I’m sober in the morning

Feelin okay.

.

Well well-butrin what a surprise

When it done

Come on back to my mind

Now it’s 12:09 in the morning

And ain’t shit changed.

.

And in those 60 seconds

Girl I swear

I learned a lesson -

Depression is a woman

With your name.

fotózás

i wonder what it must be like
to remember your life.

i wonder what it must be like
to record it with a flash.

i wonder what it must be like
to pass those memories down.

i wonder what it must be like
to be normal like that.

nyáj

in the shadows of a great unrest
stand hallowed halls
yet undisturbed by
collapse.

---

to be untouched by
revolution
is a lucky fate
for a place like this—
so stable in lives
and yet
always received
with such hostility.

oh, to be a church—
a great meeting hall
for those of
the faith—
is to be us,
the people of this place
who dare to
keep their fire alive.

we are but a
little congregation,
coming together
once in awhile.
giving praise to
what had been;
remembering what
our time had lost.

we bear upon our weary backs
a legacy
and hope one day
to restore it.

but
we must rest now,
and resign to our dreams
what could be again.

A free form poem.

You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.

Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.

The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
nothing.
And I deal with it.

The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
against me.
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.

Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.

i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:

bűnös

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
or i'll shatter your bones
and crush your heart—
to dance with me is to dance
a fine line that wrenches two worlds apart

for on one side there is a hall of saints—
on the other
the brimstone of hell—
and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
is something you'd best do well.

and brave souls that dare toe the line—
that cross it
are mighty thin—
and their ranks are made of anarchists
who commit most grievous sin.

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
state your allegiance
to the vaunted line—
or soon you too shall join the ranks
of those who deserve malign.

fáj

when i was seventeen
the panic attacks began.
the nightmares.
the violence. the violence. the violence.

violence is a funny little thing—
insidious, slithering in through one grate
and out the other.
it always begins with little things,
little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
one offs.

it's not normal to
want to hurt so bad.
it's not normal to
want to cut yourself everywhere,
is it?
to feel those feelings,
to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
to wish some days you could cut to the bone
even though you're afraid of blood?
to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
even though you know those feelings are irrational?
to wish you could die violently, publicly
even though you're afraid of death?

violence isn't a very funny little thing—
terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
one night after the other.
it was the little things once,
the little fantasies that used to be but now
consume the dreams, the
waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
every day.

when i was nineteen
the panic attacks were normal.
the nightmares.
the violence.

Burnt!

You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
to consume everything it touches
so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.

This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.

Please let me know what you think.

Today I found a girl

Who was pretty nice

To me.

She made me stop and talk

And rest

and breathe.

She said your stomach growls,

Your legs

Are weak.

How’d you like to come

And sit

With me?

.

And my how time it flew

And passed

Us by.

Lunch turned into tea

Turned in-

to night.

The way her body curved

It shaped

My mind.

And then her laugh,

Her smile,

Her eyes.

.

Would you mind if I stayed

For an hour or two

Or three?

We could sit and talk

And laugh

And crawl between the sheets.

And maybe I can stay the night

Or two

Or three?

And you’ll hold onto me.

And we can spend forever

Cus talk

Is cheap.

And maybe nights will

Slowly carve a curve and crash on

Into weeks.

Maybe we’ll be cuddled

On the couch or sipping

Sex on the beach

Maybe I could stay

For life, just

You, and me.

i got fire in my blood

Wild Turkey and the nicotine

might just call my doctor

have him put me on amphetamines

driving past the memories

i'm pushing on 100 speed

crossing single-white lines

with a blade til my bones weak.

cold-brew hipster

gothboi fantasies

hard to think straight when

my thoughts are attacking me

here i let the voices out

inner demons writing rhapsodies

before i go and swing from

a noose and a dramatic tree

.

can't decide what i want between

freedom and consistency

i say i want it done

but i think i want her missing me

last week i bought a gun*

this week i went to therapy

when will i be free from all the

thermo-manic tendencies?

.

drowning in my bed

breathing wild turkey

i couldn't feel if i were dead,

but i like the way she hurts me

i've come to know the pain

it's like a second home to me

liquor novocaine

im falling from autonomy.

if mecca was a bedroom

girl you were a God to me

and laying here alone is

a wicked act of blasphemy.

never knew you were a snake

feeding hate from an apple tree

I'll chop it down, and build a tomb

so you can hold me,

as an effigy

(* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)