Savage Seas
I was so drunk on you
that I couldn’t see
that you were only
a ship in the harbor
of endless turbulent seas
full of hungry whores
and the rage
of empty bottles discarded.
I hesitated to blot out
the jangling reality
of your hostile façade.
Torn and drowned
in rapture,
I hardly noticed
the deep bloody scars
but I remember
the hammered pain,
the acid tears
burning a hole
in my psyche,
and my frozen heart
and empty soul
as I lost my grip,
piece by piece,
pleading to walk
with you
through savage seas.
Our voyage ended
when you sailed off
without me
but I still craved,
and remembered,
the driving rain
and your vacant eyes
as they drilled craters
into my essence.
puddle-jumping
She was beautiful, but nobody saw her. In a crowd where a thousand faces cry out for attention with paint and powder and glitter and ink, there is not much space left for skin laid bare, with all the imperfections of one who does not look in the mirror, but at the time, at the faces of those without.
She was beautiful, if any mortal woman could ever be deserving of that name. For she did not glow with an inner light; her flesh, untouched, did not inspire a divine light, was not worthy of Caravaggio's unending adoration, or Renoir's solemn reflection. The crowd preferred the glowing goddesses of Gucci and Givenchy, who floated, serene, from on high, upon billboards. There, they said, you did not have to worry about the dark side of things. Fighting and unhappiness is not a trouble when your sweetheart does not talk to you.
Where she walked, she stepped on the ground. She smiled when she was happy, and frowned when she was not. She was a working girl. Men do not appreciate working girls. They like the housewives, the sweet nothings dressed in pretty skirts, and her sharp tongue did nothing to soften the blow of their bosses' disappointment when they were caught making out in the coat closet. It's her fault for not being kinder, they said, and her duty to be kindest. No one will like her and when she is too old for children she'll wish she'd been prettier, they said.
She was stubborn, though, and their words were so many raindrops on stone to her. She smiled and left, and in the sunshine, when the rain had stopped, she led her nieces out to play with her in the puddles. As they made clumsy circles in the water and laughed and shouted to each other, crying her name, she turned her face up to the sun, she smiled the most radiant smile. The children are happy, she said to herself, they are safe, it is what my sister would have wanted, and somehow, it is enough.
Not Enough
She was told that she was beautiful but nobody saw how much she didn't believe it.
She cut herself to feel something, to feel pain because the world around her was numb to all types of beauty and only regarded one. She hated being told that she wasn't beautiful enough for this, so she had to change herself. She was beautiful for this but not enough for that.
She was told this so much that she started to feel the words in more than just chest, her heart, her skin.
She wanted to rip her skin off, she was stuck on not being enough yet she was still beautiful.
She was stuck on what she was limited to but not what she dreamt of becoming.
Surface Tension
I realized my jaw had dropped to the ground as she stepped from the cab, and I made a conscious effort to close it before I started drooling. My eyes moved hungrily from the black stiletto heels to the shapely calf and the muscular thigh peeking out from the slit in her form-fitting red dress. Then I caught sight of the scars on her hand, her bare right arm, her neck, and across half of her face. I couldn't look away from the horrible sight, not even to meet her eyes as she gazed at me inquiringly. When she smiled, it came across as a twisted grimace, the scars pulling down one side of her mouth, and I felt revulsion like a skin of dirt forming over my body.
"Peter?" She held out her hand to me. I didn't take it.
"I'm Marla," she continued, arm still outstretched. I still didn't take it. Finally she dropped it to her side, marring the beauty of the tight lines of her dress. My eyes dropped to a vague spot on the ground.
"I see. Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time." There was a sadness in her voice, but no anger.
I forced myself to look at that face, though my stomach flip-flopped. "Sorry, no, it's just that Janet ... Look, sorry. I gotta go."
And I left her standing by the curb, hurrying down the street. I didn't see where she went. As I rounded the corner, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. After three rings, Janet picked up.
"Peter, shouldn't you be on a date right now?"
"You told me you were setting me up with a knockout," I accused, sensing my own face contorting in anger.
"I did. Janet's got two doctorates, one in biochemistry and one in linguistics; she's funny; she's insightful; and she's got a figure to die for."
"But you didn't tell me, well, you didn't say ... she's a freak!"
"Her house burned down when she was ten, and she barely got out alive. She's fought every day against prejudice, and she's made a great life for herself. But you know what? You don't deserve to know this. I had no idea you were so shallow. I am so disappointed in you." And the phone went dead.
Janet was my closest woman "friend," and her words felt like a fire against my own skin. A guy had to have some standards, right? Then why was I standing in the middle of the block with a feeling of guilt so heavy in my chest I didn't think I'd ever move again?
The Dragon of Wurdnya
The realm of Wurdnya had a unique currency: books.
Wurdnyan lawmakers of the previous age had declared information supreme, books the supreme conduit of information, and henceforth books the sole means of transaction. The Wurdnyans' whole education system and societal structure was founded upon books. War, starvation, disease, and other such forms of terror did not exist within this realm. Hence, a significant amount of Wurdnyan time and energy revolved around the mind, imagination, words, information - books.
But recently, a great fear manifested.
Rumors echoed of a dragon not only secretly responsible for controlling the Wurdnyan bookkeepers, but also for taking some sinisterly precise percentage of these books, including all their respective copies, and hoarding them as collateral.
The rumors kept echoing until one day, at last, the dragon revealed himself -
and everything changed.
Mother
She cries herself to sleep at night,
Her cardboard box tucked out of sight,
A house of sorts it keeps her dry,
And out of sight from passers by,
By day the chill wind blows again,
Yet still she asks the question 'When?'
But every night she falls asleep,
With tears rolling down her cheek,
And far away upon a hill,
Her infant daughter sleeps so still,
Born asleep and never cried,
So from the world her mother hides,
Again the faces turn away,
Another cardboard house today,
Another vagrant to avoid,
Another heart that's been destroyed,
A cup of soup, a slice of bread,
Then off she goes to make her bed,
She sleeps this night under the skies,
As best she can, despite her cries,
And far away upon a hill,
Her daughter lies so cold and still,
Born asleep, yet still so loved,
And fostered by the Lord above,
88 & Change
Dear younger Brian,
Your wasting your time being nice. Consider stealing someone's identity and move to a non extradition country where people don't use computers very much. I know you have principles but frankly it never gets much better. You have good moments and lousy moments and you probably want some tips to navigate rough waters.
Fiber, for the love of pete kid eat some fiber before it becomes mandatory.
Invest in meat before 2023 because the vegans force that stuff to become an underground black market situation and you'll clean up selling hotdogs to angry non-smokers.
I'd say move to another country but after 2020 they are all basically France.
Buy a shotgun.
Buy a few shotguns, because you lose the first shotgun in a game of high stakes bolgna poker.
Don't call your grandson a wuss, he ends up paying for your nursing home and the orderlies here have cold hands.
Make friends with that crazy neighbor up the road who makes furniture out of old pallet wood. He ends up doing pretty well once they legalize weed.
Toss out your inventions notebook and start drawing up plans for an enormous inflatable woman, because that catches on for some reason in 2038. Make sure she's wearing a burka and can apologize to passers by.
Lottery numbers July 12th (I think) 12,22,32,44,14, and 6. If those don't win the mega then move to Mexico because they're about to have a revolution and the next silicon valley pops up in Guadalajara shortly after.
Future gadgets to watch out for...
After drones become mainstream the crotch-wiring age begins, apparently to get tax breaks you have to let the government watch you do pretty much everything until 2041 when they realize we're all pretty boring.
I'll end this here, President Bieber was just shot. Third time this week!
Stay warm!
~ Brian
Open the letter, dumbass.
I love how much of a bitch you are right now.
Something you need to know immediately: you’re not special. Stop thinking you’re above everyone, you pretentious shit. Being different is great, but you’re trying too hard.
I know you like making life hard, and you say you enjoy stress, but those things come out of your mouth because you were spoon fed since birth. Wait a few more years, shits about to get real. You’ll be addicted to crying (the part where you quietly sniffle towards the end is your favorite), suicide becomes an option ( your 2nd attempt is the funniest), but when you come across the secret to living a decent life, you’ll be fine.
A few things:
Stop buying lottery tickets; you have a better chance of dying choking on your breakfast.
You’re in a relationship, right? She cheats on you, bud.
Stop being so nosy. Peoples lives are boring, just like yours.
Apologize for the shit you’ve done, even if you don’t want to. Stop your addictions now, even if you don’t think its possible. And tell your dad you love him before he’s gone, even if you don’t understand it.
Live longer than me, punk.