Imp
A little bit
closer now
hands clasped
frozen
fate
fixed
forward
to ward death
bent to anchor
this new muse
not yet ripened
by age
just a little pin
prick on
a pulsating vein
a mimicking God
flaunting suicide
someone somewhere
thrown blind
into the
deep black abyss
expanding the spores
of pain
these
remaining days
filled with
abstract radio waves
and long dead
pixels of
ghosts
these remaining days
standing fearless
on the heels
of the
devils
hooves
Prosers:
(finish this with one stanza in the comments)
White Wall
I purchased some
thumb tacks today
to hang
my fractions
of time
Attached by
thick red
string
and blood
soaked
cadmium
Inspired by
true crime
and Goya
Raygun
snapshots of
this life
deconstructed
and dismantled
until the victims
all look the same
a collage of
emotional
Man Ray
a psychological
mural of
Monet
Toxic Soup
In the murky depths of our modern existence lies a cauldron of toxicity, simmering with the noxious vapors of deceit, greed, and disillusionment. The air is thick with the acrid stench of political discord, where truth is a casualty and integrity a relic of a bygone era. Society churns in the turbulent waters of technological advancement, drowning in a deluge of information, yet starving for genuine connection. In this suffocating atmosphere, human empathy wanes, replaced by a callous indifference, leaving souls adrift in a sea of isolation. This is the toxic soup we’ve brewed, a bitter concoction of our own making, where the once-clear waters of morality have become clouded by the sediment of our collective discomfort and relentless pursuit of greed for survival.
In the face of such a tempest, one can only hold fast to the fragile hope that amidst the chaos, a glimmer of redemption may yet emerge. And as the pendulum of power swings with reckless abandon, one cannot help but wonder: who will emerge victorious in the political arena, Only time will tell, as the electorate braces itself for another round of the age-old dance between hope and disillusionment.
I do not wish for seconds.
Resignation from the Absurdly Literary Position
Dear Dick,
I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.
Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.
I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.
I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.
I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.
Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).
Yours literarily,
Mamba
Black Eyed Man
from the dream
you awoke
and spoke of us
naked under
a tree
made of
fire
you said we
had died
and found
each other
there
on the edge
of time
bleeding
and fucking
under a tree
made of
fire
and now
after years
beyond
your passing
I imagine
you there
waiting
patiently
for me
to arrive
the black
eyed man
who held
my empty
pale soul
beyond
the storms
of internal
rage
beyond the
demons
of dark
winds
naked
and waiting
under a tree
made of
fire
Spanish Moss
I watch her pulse
beat slow
on the white sands
of Biloxi
my fragile child
my brilliant one
her stoic gaze
her soft breath
shifting the tide
of raging seas
her grace
forever bound
to blood
by horizon
my fragile child
my kind one
I watch her
grip tight
the manes
of dark horses
as she holds the
shore close
to her hips
hiding pain
behind eyes of
apple green
finding the will
to fight atrocities
and knowing
neither fish nor
flesh can separate
the Spanish moss
from solid tree
Tipsy psychosis
I was six glasses in before I began to see shadows in the fog. These watchers would roam narrow alleyways to ensure a swift army of dark forces outweighed the light in a delicate balance of my demise. They were tall and lean with sinister intent, slithering and sulking through the subways of my subconscious. San Francisco city streets were the heaviest, their weight could be felt in the air, the stench of them. A brutality that fed on the pain of broken dreams.
Every city has a pulse, an army, an avenue of the dead. The watchers had arrived six glasses in, and the war I knew, was about to begin.
Narcissistic Void
As you fumble through your supply, desperately seeking a soul to carry the burden of your pain and poor choices, I will be flying through desert aqueducts to lay eye on the dark carnage. Dressed in metallic armor, embossed with blue jewels, slaying the phantasms that rise from the ashes of your lie.
And when I land the void will shake from my piety, causing your spirit to fracture into a trillion shards of light and the heavens will echo your name no more.