The world lost a shining and inimitable talent yesterday. Mr. Love paid a beautiful tribute, and we wanted to express it here, and on the channel, along with our condolences to Mr. MacGowan's family, friends, and fans. Go easy, Shane, and thank you for your years here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEBzheJviBs

I like my favorite food , like my favorite humans , I will consume over and again , addict to euphoria , idolizing the flavor , I will share it joys with everyone , but never a piece from my plate … over time It will disappoint me and their is no joy in consuming so much of something only to be let down … I have made a god out of peach O’s and watched it humble me … I have made thrones out of dirt and flesh … and only to be disappointed their is no altar fitting for humans and fleeting circumstances , that show me too much of how they are flesh and dirt , their is no gold in their bones , they will weather like iron in the means of storms .. rust showing all character and nothing becoming …

My body becomes a jungle gym

You climb on me

Knead yourself into

Me

I am placid and jello

The kitchen calls me

My mouth leaves itself open like a fly trap

I wonder if this is what being underground feels like… or sitting on a pedastal and watching mortals .. chose a god … and finding their is no heaven in between legs .. after the light goes out , we are all shadows and gaping mouths .. making gods out of dust ..

I may not be able to save you all, but please know that I'm cheering you from afar.

I may not be able to fix your problems, but I'm able to listen to you, within a shallow column.

I may not be able to help you, but I'm able to cry with you.

I may not be able to stitch your scars, but I'm able to appreciate the beauty of your scars from afar.

I may not be able to give helpful advice, but I might be able to guide you towards the light.

I may not be able to hold your hands, but I'll be able to gaze at you.

And cry with you.

And simply just...

listen. to you.

I may not be able to save you. In fact, I've failed to save multiple people.

But I hope my words reach you. Anyone. Even just one person. Even if I impact at least one person, that's already more than enough for me.

I know I can't do much. I know it's not possible to make everyone happy. I know it's not possible to turn everyone's frown into a smile. But you know what's possible? Taking things one step at a time. Even when things get difficult.

I know it may seem like nothing's ever going to get better. I know it may seem like you're alone in this, but you're not. And if you ever feel like the world is better without you, you're wrong. You're absolutely wrong.

The world is a better place because you're in it. And I know it's hard to believe it, because it also took me such a long time to believe it. You are so much more important for this world than you realize. In one way or another, you made such a huge impact in this world, significant or not. I know my words may seem like nothing to you right now, but ever since you appeared in this community, you only made me feel even more inspired by your words. And I'm grateful because you're here. All of us are grateful because you're here. Alive.

I know we may not know each other. I know my words may seem odd at the moment. But you. You are one magnificent person. You are way more powerful, and strong, and braver, and more important than you think. I don't know what we would be able to do without you.

I don't know how you'll take my words. I don't know if my words will pierce you instead of comfort you. I don't know how you'll react to my words. But just know that I'm here for you.

Always.

I know I can't save you. It's not possible for a person on the other side of the screen, typing this out, being able to save you just because of my words. I know I can't physically go out of my way to hug you or comfort you every day because to an extent, it drains me if I comfort others too much, knowing damn well that no one would ever do the same to me back.

But no matter what, as long as I'm alive, I'll always be here by your side.

Always.

- Raynstar

4:30 P.M.

If a peeling streak of lightning

came rippling towards the crown

of some great and ancient oak tree

rooted to a grassy mound

and if with sublime majesty

that tree came toppling down

would it even let a whisper out

if no one was around?

And would the after rumbles

echo through some sleepy town

where crying little children

huddled from the hellish pounds

of a Heaven flushed with anger

and a spite that knows no bounds

that a tree which lived 300 years

could fall without a sound.

I imagine getting into gardening at the age of 71. Tending to your garden whilst breathing in the warm, fragrant summer air with all the flowers in bloom has a very relaxing and satisfying feel to it. Turn this into a metaphor and it could signify watching your kids and their kids bud and blossom with the passage of time. I also imagine I'd be spending a lot of time in parks. There's this one near my home, it's called Hilal Park and it's beautiful. It's always buzzing with people laughing and chattering away with their loved ones yet it's something about the infrastructure, the way that the park itself is built on layers of rock that makes one feel peaceful and connected to nature. So yeah I think I see myself sitting there with a bunch of old ladies, chatting away about life and what it's become.

he did have a dream

of becoming a

writer

in his youth

but youth doesn’t last

forever

One day he grew up

and had to pick

a real

job. He studied journalism

and became a reporter

It was today’s task

that reminded

him of

the old dream. He had to

interview unpublished writers

A lot of them

and the general

question

was

“Why do you write?”

The answers he

got were

quite diverse

“I don’t know,” said one

writer. “I’m just trying to

recapture the feeling I had in

childhood when

my mother used to beat me

until I fell unconscious

and dreamed that

she loved me.”

And another said, “I’m not

sure. I just write

because I can’t

do anything else in life.”

Another said, “I’m still trying

to write the perfect

suicide note to leave

behind. I swear to God, I will

not kill myself

until I write it! That’s

what makes me a writer.

It’s stubbornness.”

“Me? Oh, I’m not a writer. I just

jot down elaborate

torture scenes involving

my ex-husband. If you’ve

read ‘The Room’ by Hubert Selby Jr

you know what I’m

talking about. But nah, I’m not

a writer. It’s just my… way of…

yeah, I’m not a writer.”

“I keep trying to put my dreams

into words. That’s the

kind of writer

I am. Not much of a writer. I

mostly dream about being

raped by my little sister while

our parents are

watching TV in the living room.”

“Who told you I’m a writer?

Well, I mean,

I write stuff, but honestly it all started

because I wanted to impress

some girl. It didn’t work,

of course, she went with another guy.

Since then I discovered that

I’ve a cuckold fetish and all my stories

portray it. I’m not

proud of my work.”

“I’ve seen a man die

before my eyes

when I was a kid. So logically

I started writing

stories about soap carving. I don’t

wanna talk about it. Thanks.”

"I suffer from quite

a nasty

case of claustrophobia. Every time

I come out of

a closed space I get this

inexplicable urge to write. But yeah,

it happens only when my issue gets

the better

of me. I've only written about

six thousand pages or so."

“I killed eight men.

That’s all

I gotta say. Thanks.”

“Well, I guess it all started with

little animals. I loved

to place them in extremely small

cages and then just

watch them day after day

as they grow thirsty and hungry

and desperate. I started writing down

the evolution of their

misery. I grew out of it

when my mother had an accident that

left her paralyzed.

I watched her then. And I learned

a lot. Now I can create

fictional characters that go through

the same. I’m quite good at it.”

“My neighbor has a mentally

ill daughter.

She’s quite cute and… you know,

writing fiction is the only

way I can live

my fantasies with her. Oh, I’ve written

so many thousands of

pages.”

“I’m a porn addict. It’s gotten so

bad that I can’t get

hard with real women

anymore. The only thing that gets me

hard now is

imagination. I write about

the times when I heard

my mom

having sex in her bedroom

when I was a child. The fact that she

wasn’t doing it

with my dad… somehow gets

me hard. So that’s why I

write.”

“I have… restriction orders. The only

way I can reach

the people I want to

reach is through

writing. I’m not happy about it.”

“Why do I write? Well, how else

can I explain

what it feels like to be buried

alive? I mean literally.”

“I am The Holy Spirit.”

“I’ve been abducted by

aliens. Multiple

times. It’s going to happen again.

I know it. I’ve nothing

against it. They

are working on my

brain. This is a blessing. I am

the chosen one. Have you

read my writings? You

should, before I get

published and they censor me."

“Are you kidding me? Why do I write?

Hey, you really don’t know

who I am? I am the woman

who died and came back to life. If

someone has something to

say… that’ll be me. Have

you read my books? They're all online!”

“Huh, why do I write?

Because fuck you, that’s why!”

“Honestly, man, I don’t

know.”

“I actually don’t

write.”

At the end of the

day

the reporter

remembered why he never

made it as a writer

himself

and the next day

he interviewed more

unpublished

writers

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

Erato my muse, my love, my quiet sorrow,

you sing your sweetest song like dreams to me,

and when the evening stars foretell tomorrow,

your artful words set thoughts and verses free,

and as the shadows fall and darkness grows,

I see your shining eyes in morning’s sun;

the sunrise fills the world with color’s glow

and as the daylight spreads, the shadows run.

I hear your song in birdsong, chirps and tweets;

I see your light as flowers’ colors gleam,

and sense your power through the mountain peaks.

I hear your secrets rumbling through the streams,

and when I close my eyes you whisper clear

in thoughts and memories, smiles and tears.

It’s getting dark later

as the sun spreads gold

across the sinking evening

and I feel a big one coming;

I sense a birth looming on the horizon,

an explosion of word pictures,

a night with Erato

and a morning and a day,

and the stars sparkling in the night

are the sequins in her dress,

and the moon is her spotlight

as she dances around me

like a fire spirit,

and I slowly open my mouth

to see what sort of lightning prophecy

seeps out with quiet thunder.

All those pretty horses gallop away, running from the cities of the plain and into the expanse where I cannot see. Before they broke my hold I shepherded them as far as I could, or drove them—whatever the term is for horses. They want a land my borrowed words cannot paint.

I’m abandoned and flatfooted beside my faceless cowboy...

This story had been kicking around in my files for several months before it found the right home: https://lespritliteraryreview.org/2022/06/15/the-title-wouldnt-be-mine-either/ My thanks to L'Esprit Literary Review for publishing my odd little flash fiction.

On isle alone

tan shores gorge

sky blue seas…

Tides travel on

slain beaches, obsidian ridden…

Obscene flames persist

freeing foam roams

grains rife with volcanic relics,

Lava lush as emerald

shards brushed by swooping gales…

Palm trees shredded of

hair-like bark, leaves fallen

cabin fever in Satan's hand…

Death frolics past my lips

carried by journals and dusty books…

Often pioneers patrol dense fields

for artifacts of decades past, some nights

they riot through nuclear winter inland,

Concrete debris, steel demon's

felled, bodies disintegrate,

crismon soil

Where Hellish fruits preside,

germinating in a sporadic pattern,

flames warm polar desert rubble…

I awoke afraid to look out past

vast pardisial landscapes,

Bullets holes and fragile brass

swarmed my watchtower, canvas

tents below flicker, poachers it seems…

Fatal July approaches, June

a phoenix spewing summer solstice

Across alienated rock, I punch

Reinforced walls at times breaching

It's judgmental exterior,

I paint like Picasso,

I bleed like Van Gogh…

Bed sores multiply, I lay down until

I'm ready to eat, sleep fades as I

scroll, invaders below speak

Up every evening threatening to

assassinate me, they throw frags

On my deck hoping to weaken

my war weary fortress, I tell them

not even every nuke left on this

Brutal globe could bring this

concrete monstrosity down,

This is Devil's Den,

A place to dwell, not purgatory,

Barely a means of defense

Whoever was worth saving is

gone

What remains is me.