The hours they pull long at me. And what you've said has left me restless. It doesn't sit right and I find myself scratching an imaginary wound. I walked along a creamy desert, soft and silken fine. I explored quiet forests and mountains high. And when I descended down into the fire-less pits; I found a horror unlike any I have ever known. In the heart it was a ruin, an empty lifeless cave. Dormant and stagnant.
I sat cold and alone. Hidden in a sleeping colossus. Waiting.
Gamers: Know Your Rights
2010/09/22
2010/08/14
Swim
In the bitterness of the night we are wholly alone. An island quiet in a sea of ideas. The ocean which sprawls before us is an endless array of decisions. Choices to make. Paths to be followed. Sometimes the hardest part is choosing the path to destruction. The one that you know will only lead to unhappiness. Tragically, sometimes that is the only path that seems to make any sense.
In the darkness, everything is muted and vibrant which shades of blue. Blood is made black, all the rich red drained away until you're left with its absence. And still it is vibrant, slick and shiny rich in the light of the moon.
The beach stretches in a seemingly endless way. Huts nestled into the rich lush tropical foliage fade away. No longer loud in their arrays of browns against an array of eye catching greens, they whisper in the night. Somber grays and stoic blues. This leads the optical illusion that perhaps there is only you. Only you and that great wide world. The wilderness behind you. The stretching maw of the ocean, lapping at the shore.
That soft sand, rich and creamy in the light of the sun is hushed. Cool and pearlescent, each step is carefully taken. Delicacy seems required. No birds call. No wildlife screeches. No insects hum.
Maybe this isn't the life you wanted. Maybe this isn't the path you chose. But now, its all you have left to you. A tropical paradise, abandoned and abhorred. Vibrant is the pulse of the sea. Luscious and light in the bask of the full moon, staring into the depths is like watching a deep teal colored night light painted dark with silhouettes of the animals going about their lives. At first it seems inviting. Schools of fish. Flickers of turtles and sting rays. And somewhere inside you know that this is merely a warm welcome. The fervor and flash of an rendezvous you've already agreed to.
The first glimpses skirt the edges in fleeting flashes. But you know they are coming. You know they are there. The hard packed sand beneath passes quickly, marking a clear trail of where you were. The history of where you've been. In one cool sweep she washes it away. No trace. No memory. The sand is always one salty kiss from a clean slate.
The ocean is cool enough to be tempting, and warm enough to seduce. The silhouettes pass by you now, rolling you into their dance. You pass through it all. And the sharks, they swarm in closer. Greater in number and more menacing in their lurking passes. This is why you've come. Perhaps there was no destiny greater than this. Maybe you were never meant to be anything more. If everyone is a whore for something, than maybe whores have something. Maybe it is easier to give pieces of yourself away than to have them torn. And if you cannot rise above. If you cannot cater to your enemies. Perhaps it is a greater gesture to lend yourself to the feeding frenzy.
Nothing hurts as badly as the first scar, and all other pain is fleeting.
In the darkness, everything is muted and vibrant which shades of blue. Blood is made black, all the rich red drained away until you're left with its absence. And still it is vibrant, slick and shiny rich in the light of the moon.
The beach stretches in a seemingly endless way. Huts nestled into the rich lush tropical foliage fade away. No longer loud in their arrays of browns against an array of eye catching greens, they whisper in the night. Somber grays and stoic blues. This leads the optical illusion that perhaps there is only you. Only you and that great wide world. The wilderness behind you. The stretching maw of the ocean, lapping at the shore.
That soft sand, rich and creamy in the light of the sun is hushed. Cool and pearlescent, each step is carefully taken. Delicacy seems required. No birds call. No wildlife screeches. No insects hum.
Maybe this isn't the life you wanted. Maybe this isn't the path you chose. But now, its all you have left to you. A tropical paradise, abandoned and abhorred. Vibrant is the pulse of the sea. Luscious and light in the bask of the full moon, staring into the depths is like watching a deep teal colored night light painted dark with silhouettes of the animals going about their lives. At first it seems inviting. Schools of fish. Flickers of turtles and sting rays. And somewhere inside you know that this is merely a warm welcome. The fervor and flash of an rendezvous you've already agreed to.
The first glimpses skirt the edges in fleeting flashes. But you know they are coming. You know they are there. The hard packed sand beneath passes quickly, marking a clear trail of where you were. The history of where you've been. In one cool sweep she washes it away. No trace. No memory. The sand is always one salty kiss from a clean slate.
The ocean is cool enough to be tempting, and warm enough to seduce. The silhouettes pass by you now, rolling you into their dance. You pass through it all. And the sharks, they swarm in closer. Greater in number and more menacing in their lurking passes. This is why you've come. Perhaps there was no destiny greater than this. Maybe you were never meant to be anything more. If everyone is a whore for something, than maybe whores have something. Maybe it is easier to give pieces of yourself away than to have them torn. And if you cannot rise above. If you cannot cater to your enemies. Perhaps it is a greater gesture to lend yourself to the feeding frenzy.
Nothing hurts as badly as the first scar, and all other pain is fleeting.
2010/05/09
201059
If you reached into her chest you wouldn't find anything there. Hollowed out, what was once mortal and soft had been altered. Changed. Rendered into the new machine. All the systems were there same as before. It breathed, it ate, it slept, it drank. But it was no longer human. No longer ubiquitous or pleasant. No longer something to be desired. Even the casual onlooker was put off. Whatever had once inhabited this shell had long since pass and now no man, woman or child would be able to place a name to it. A mere title of convenience. Something to manipulate this new machine.
Treat.
A false name. A lie. A sinister practical joke at the expensive of whosoever sought this prize. And sure as where treats are tricks are soon to follow. Perhaps the man who owned her was mad, or perhaps he had been spurned by her. The stories were many and each of them tinged with inklings of truth, and in the end if you took bits and pieces from them, along with time, you could puzzle together the legend. Whatever could be said of the man, one thing was true – he was nearly as empty as she was.
However, where his had been a slow withering from corrupt morals, a lack of ethics and a seriously skewed set of values; hers had been taken by his whim. As if in an ironic twist of fate, he was aptly named by fate. Mr. Trick. Whether his first or last or something in between, Trick was the official name on his birth certificate. An ill omen that cast a shadow over his family until he had crawled away from their all to bright and eager socially acceptable world too a slimy darker one where he could reign supreme. Often the worst nightmares are the ones that we wake to.
Treat.
A false name. A lie. A sinister practical joke at the expensive of whosoever sought this prize. And sure as where treats are tricks are soon to follow. Perhaps the man who owned her was mad, or perhaps he had been spurned by her. The stories were many and each of them tinged with inklings of truth, and in the end if you took bits and pieces from them, along with time, you could puzzle together the legend. Whatever could be said of the man, one thing was true – he was nearly as empty as she was.
However, where his had been a slow withering from corrupt morals, a lack of ethics and a seriously skewed set of values; hers had been taken by his whim. As if in an ironic twist of fate, he was aptly named by fate. Mr. Trick. Whether his first or last or something in between, Trick was the official name on his birth certificate. An ill omen that cast a shadow over his family until he had crawled away from their all to bright and eager socially acceptable world too a slimy darker one where he could reign supreme. Often the worst nightmares are the ones that we wake to.
2010/04/08
Because I Keep Posting Blogs No One Reads
White hot lightening flashes deftly, lingering on tendons and vessels; spiraling up electric courier systems. Crimson horizons against milky backdrops even the rain is scarlet here.
Sorrow is all consuming if you let it
Floating still in waters so near ice they burn, silent and empty – like boats left floating on the ponds of Roanoke. Physicality is life and you cannot spell life without lie although what is the cost or worth of it? The intake is acid maybe oxygen feels this way to flatworms and the gurgle surging up this throat clutches to it. Thrust back your head. In willing maybe sinking is probability.
Maybe Ophelia had it right…
Slow in gravitational trail, crossing endless fields of cream that garnet honey flows as rivers do. Saccharine leisure you can count the tally in groups of five is seductive. The world may not be a vampire but it certainly hungers for something. What is left to give after heart hopes wishes dreams soul?
Filled with an emptiness full to bursting and yet without feeling. The Nothingness was not some idea in book forgotten long ago. If you put your ear to the wall you can hear it coming for you. They lied when they said it was termites. And no one anticipates it; regardless it comes still – like natural disasters of the soul.
Pour out that tide of verve, rich in vibrancy with notes sweet as honeyed nectar flowers spill to bees.
It will break like waves cresting walls they shouldn’t be able to climb and will sweep swift over all, consuming pooling engulfing drowning. Escape futile from a stampede as overwhelming as the coming depths of oceans god hasn’t known. Cascade like waterfalls in damned villages from christian fairytales. In reality christians are vampires, drinking the blood of life. The puddle matures into pond as the form collapses, colliding with marble in vein attempt at stillness. That white escarpment bleached as bone blinds and that sanguine pond spreads as oceans do when ice ages end.
…The slowing clock stops
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)